That evening,in the center of the village,the earth became the first page.
Not paper.Not a board.Just soil—the very ground they stepped on every day,which never protested anyone.
Li Yuan picked up a small twig.He wrote a single name:"Yuan."
"This is my name," he said softly,"but this land has never seen it in full."
The children followed him.With twigs, with fingers, even with stones,they wrote letter by letternames they had only just learned.
Slanted letters.Shaky letters.Letters broken in the middle.
But every one of them…was meaningful.
A little girl wrote:"Lan."
She looked at Li Yuan.
"Teacher, this is my mother's name."
An old man wrote slowly.His hands trembled.He could only write two characters before he began to cry.The letters were not for himself,but for the child who never had the chance to grow.
Li Yuan stood among them,looking at the earth slowly filling with names.Not beautiful drawings.Not works of art.
But proof that they existed.
"Before this," said Li Yuan,"the earth only knew your footsteps.""Now, it knows who you are."
Fan Tu wrote his name in big characters,then laughed at how strange it looked.Mu Yi wrote the name of his brother, long passed.He said nothing—only bowed his head.
Li Yuan stepped aside,and looked at the names one by one.
Lan. Wei. Hao. Fen. Ming. Yun.
Some wrote the names of husbands who had passed.Some wrote their mothers' names for the very first time.Some wrote without knowing the meaning,just so they could read it someday.
"A name carved in stonemay be lost to time.But the name you write in this earth—it will be planted in the heart."
The evening breeze swept across that little clearing,lifting some dust from the letters they had drawn.But none of them feared the wind.
Because they knew,those names were no longer written in dirt—but within themselves.
The sky turned to dusk.Shadows of trees stretched across the village ground.But one child still sat at the edge of the field —staring at the empty soil before him.
His name was Meng.
His small hands were dirty with earth,his eyes red, on the verge of tears.
"I can't do it," he whispered."I always mess up the last letter."
Li Yuan sat beside him.He didn't speak right away.He just looked at the little twig in the boy's hand,and the name that was almost there,but still unfinished.
Me—n—.That last letter always went wrong.
"All the other kids are done,""why do I always fail?"
Li Yuan scooped up some soil.He held it, then slowly opened his palm.
"Look at this earth," he said gently."Has the earth ever been wrong?"
The boy shook his head slowly.
"The earth didn't start perfect.""It takes in the rain, gets stepped on, dirtied.""But it always receives — and gives back."
Li Yuan took the twig and wrote the final letter beside the boy's writing.It wasn't perfect.A little crooked.Too wide.But it was enough.
"It's not about being perfect," said Li Yuan,"it's about having the courage to finish."
"That letter is yours. It doesn't need to look like anyone else's."
Meng looked at his writing.His hand trembled as he tried again.This time…still crooked.But no longer missed.
And he smiled.
"Is this right?"
Li Yuan nodded.
"It's not about right or wrong.""It's about starting to write.""And choosing to finish it."
The other children began gathering around.They patted Meng on the shoulder.Mu Yi lifted the boy onto his shoulders, shouting,
"The final letter has arrived!"
They laughed.But Li Yuan remained quiet,gazing at the earth,and whispered in his heart:
"We are all just writing one letter in life...and trying to write the next."
The morning breeze gently swept the dirt road of Ziran Village.The mist had not fully lifted,and the sun still hung low,like a child too shy to speak.
Li Yuan sat beneath the great tree,surrounded by wooden boards.Not fine ones,just pieces of an old tree that no longer stood.Mu Yi and Fan Tu had cut them the night before.
That day, the villagers would write their names.Not on soil.But on wood.To be hung in front of their homes.
One by one, they came.Their hands awkwardly held the brush.They weren't used to letters,but on their faces — there was intent.
"If I write my name wrong,does that make me someone else?"asked a middle-aged man, laughing nervously.
Li Yuan replied calmly.
"Even if you draw a crooked line on that board,as long as your intent is to say who you are,the world will understand."
The children helped dip the brushes in ink.Some letters leaned,some were too big,some too small.
But none of them wanted to erase.
"Leave it as it is," said an old woman."That's who I am."
By late afternoon,as the sun sank slowly,the boards were hanging.
Names carved with ink and courage.
Names once only spokennow stood at the doors of humble homes.Readable.Visible.Recognized.
Li Yuan walked along the village's main path.He read each name slowly.Smiling in his heart.
"They once knew no letters,""Now the letters have become part of them."
His steps stopped at the end of the road.A blank board hung on a small wall.It wasn't anyone's home.But the board was waiting.
"Who is that board for, Yuan'er?"asked Li Haoming, his father, suddenly standing beside him.
Li Yuan looked at the board.
"For those who haven't written their names yet.""Because not everyone dares to say, 'I exist.'"
His father gently patted his shoulder.
"You made them exist.""You gave them a voice."
Li Yuan said nothing.But in his eyes, the water was still.Not rippling,but deep.
That night, Ziran village looked different.Still quiet,still small,but now — names stood in the middle of the silence.
And that was enough.