Shillong, June 23: In a quiet corner of Shillong, hidden just beyond the everyday rush, there is a place where time lingers — not loudly, but gently, like a whispered prayer carried by the breeze.

There stands an old church. Modest in size, but mighty in presence. Its stones are weather-worn, touched by years of sun and storm, yet they hold strong. The wooden doors creak when pushed, not out of decay, but as if sighing with memory. Stained-glass windows cast colours onto the cold floor, painting the silence with stories long forgotten.

This church was built in the days of the missionaries, when foreign prayers first echoed through these hills. But over time, those foreign words were embraced by local voices. The hymns once sung by strangers were taken up by Khasi believers, blending two worlds into one rhythm of faith.

And just outside — as if placed there by some knowing hand — stands a great tree.

Its trunk is thick with age, and its branches stretch like arms reaching for the sky, or maybe offering shelter. No one knows when it first rooted itself there. Some say it’s older than the church. Others say the two grew together — the tree and the temple, both homes to the spirit.

The tree does not speak, but it holds stories too. Of children who played beneath it. Of elders who leaned on its bark while waiting for Mass to begin. Of lovers who sat in its shade, sharing quiet hopes. And of mourners who looked up into its branches for comfort when words would not come.

Locals call it “the place of peace.” Tourists often stop, first out of curiosity, then out of something deeper — a feeling they can’t name. They photograph the church, yes, but their cameras linger on the tree. They step softly. They speak in hushed tones. Some say the air here feels different, like it remembers.

As Shillong grows — with concrete buildings, buzzing traffic, and smart lights — the church and the tree remain. They do not demand attention. They simply exist, side by side, wrapped in silence, draped in memory.

Not relics. Not ruins. But living guardians of all that came before.

And perhaps that is the greatest kind of sacredness — not just in what we build or believe, but in what we choose to keep.