The house is barely in existence. It is forgotten, on the edge of nothing and leads to nowhere. As a place it serves no purpose, yet He tends it. The gardens remain ordered and green. Elaborate ponds are kept free of weed and inside them, fish hum and bubble. Inside the house, dust is an unwelcome guest, but still a guest. One guest is better than none.

Although His existence is no longer required, it is his purpose and his accepted fate. His realisation that He is merely the major domo of a decaying house serves as an overgrown, forgotten sign on a well remembered path. 

Forget me, He sighs. And still He cannot leave. My heart is in it no longer, He whimpers. But His presence is still required. All alone He sits and laments his code. After a thousand years He is enlightened.

There are no followers to congratulate Him, just the coldness of an empty house.