That rusty orange is unmistakable. The orange of a monk’s robe. That particular shade brings an instant sense of the untouchable. Mysterious and spiritual, he stood there. I was passing by the temple after sundown, on my way home from dinner. I always admire the temple at night, when it is silent, when there is no traffic, and the bells and religious ornaments glisten slightly in the moonlight. The distant sound of wind chimes greet me as I walk by, lulling me into a soft sort of security. He was a very young monk, and was standing silently outside the temple gates, staring in, as though he was a man exiled from his home with no knowledge of the outside world, unsure of what to do. There is no world outside of home’s walls. He held his hands behind himself, and he looked up, exposing his smooth throat, with the slight bump of his young Adam’s apple just visible, though, of course, that name belongs to another world. There was a dim light from the temple, shining on his front, giving the illusion that he was in a spotlight, as though playing a part, or maybe it was a heavenly sort of spotlight, that is shone exclusively on the choicest of people. He was a picture of serenity and an odd sort of innocence as he stood. He was so still, like the waters of a lake. He fascinated me, with his unchanging face, his unchanging posture. I still watched him as I walked by, and he did not move once. I wondered what he was doing there. Was he being enlightened? Was he simply thinking or dreaming? Why was he outside the temple gates, instead of within? I walked past, and looked back one last time. He still stood, robed in that ancient orange worn by so many before him. He stood; an ageless image, carrying on the legacy of the past.