Chen Ming wakes with the dawn. He doesn't see the light, but his body has grown accustomed to the natural rhythm of the world over his fifty-three years of life. The air changes its texture as the sun rises. The birds' calls shift in pitch. Even the temperature of the ground beneath his bare feet feels different between pre-dawn and morning. He doesn't need eyes to know that the day has begun.
He sits on the edge of his simple bed, which is little more than a thin layer of straw covered with a cloth. He returns to the same ritual he has performed every morning for more than five decades: breathing, listening, and allowing his mind to settle before his body begins to move.
This day will be like yesterday, he thinks, with an acceptance that isn't bitter or resigned, but simply present. I'll water the vegetables. I'll sit under the tree. Maybe someone will pass by and give me leftover bread. Maybe the children will come to taunt me. Maybe the world will be silent.
All of that is fine.
But then he remembers: yesterday, there was a change. A stranger. Li Yuan. Chen Ming feels something he rarely feels: genuine curiosity.
He stands, his movements slow and careful because a world without vision is a world where every movement is calculated. He begins his morning routine: washing his face with water from a bucket he filled the night before, eating leftover bread from two days ago—it's hard, but still edible—and carefully adjusting the cloth that covers his eyes, ensuring it doesn't slip or become uncomfortable.
He then steps out of his small house, which is more of a shack with patched walls and a roof that leaks in a heavy rain. He begins walking to the small plot where he grows his vegetables. The path is familiar. He knows every stone, every exposed root, every subtle turn. His bare feet feel the texture of the soil, and he adjusts his steps with an automatic precision born of years of practice.
Twenty steps from the door to the gate. Thirty-five steps from the gate to the plot. Turn left at the large stone. Be careful of the low branch from the peach tree.
He doesn't think about navigation. His body knows. He just... is.
When he arrives at the plot, he kneels and feels the ground with his hands. It is slightly dry. The vegetables need water. He stands and walks to the well, fifty steps east, then twelve steps north. He lowers the bucket with a rope whose texture and weight he knows well. He hears the sound of the bucket hitting the water, a pause, and then the effort of pulling it up.
It's a simple task, one he has done thousands of times. But today, as he pulls the rope, he hears something: footsteps. Not the familiar steps of the occasional villagers or the children who come to bother him. These footsteps are different. Quiet. Even. Neither hurried nor hesitant.
"Li Yuan?" Chen Ming calls, not turning, as he doesn't need to turn to know the direction of the sound.
"Yes," the voice responds. It's a calm voice that carries the quality of someone comfortable with silence. "I didn't mean to intrude. I was just... curious. I wanted to see how you start your day."
Chen Ming smiles subtly. "There's nothing interesting to see," he says, continuing to pull the rope. "Just the same routine. Water, vegetables, sit. Repeat."
"Sometimes the most interesting routines are the simple ones," Li Yuan says, and there's something in his tone that makes Chen Ming pause. It isn't pity or condescension, but genuine interest, as if he truly believes Chen Ming's simple routine is worthy of attention.
Strange, Chen Ming thinks. Most people don't care what a blind man does with his day. They see the disability, not the person.
The bucket reaches the top, and Chen Ming lifts it with a familiar effort. The water sloshes slightly, but he steadies the container with practiced ease.
"May I carry it?" Li Yuan offers.
Chen Ming hesitates, not out of pride, but because he isn't used to help being offered without him asking for it, or without obvious pity.
"If you wish," he says finally. "The plot is to the west, thirty meters."
He hears Li Yuan take the bucket, a smooth, unawkward movement, and then the footsteps begin walking. Chen Ming follows, using the sound of the footsteps as his guide.
At the plot, Chen Ming kneels and begins the task of watering. He feels with his hands to locate each plant, assess how much water is needed, and pour it carefully to avoid waste or overwhelming the roots. His movements are practiced and efficient, even though he cannot see.
And as he works, he's aware of Li Yuan standing nearby, watching—or Chen Ming assumes he's watching, though "watching" is a concept Chen Ming can't fully relate to.
"You know exactly where each plant is," Li Yuan observes after a few minutes.
"I planted them," Chen Ming says simply. "I know the spacing. I know the pattern. And I can feel with my hands when I'm close."
"But how do you know which ones need more water?"
Chen Ming pauses, considering the question.
"The soil feels different," he explains. "When it's dry, it's more… loose. More dusty. When it's moist, it clumps a little. And the plants… they feel different, too. A healthy leaf is firm. A leaf that needs water is slightly limp."
He continues watering as he speaks. "Eyes might be faster for seeing this, but hands are good enough. They just need more time. More attention."
"More presence," Li Yuan adds, and there's something in the way he says it that makes Chen Ming feel understood in a rare way.
They remain in a comfortable silence while Chen Ming finishes watering. When he's done, he stands and wipes his hands on a worn cloth he carries.
"Thank you for helping with the bucket," he says.
"It was no trouble," Li Yuan responds. "I... if you don't mind, I would like to accompany you for a few days. Just to observe. To... learn."
Chen Ming feels surprise. Learn? What could you learn from a blind man who only waters vegetables and sits under a tree? But he doesn't voice his skepticism. He just nods.
"You're free to accompany me," he says. "But I warn you, my life is not exciting. There's no adventure. No drama. Just... existing."
"Existing," Li Yuan repeats, as if savoring the word, "is perhaps the most important thing to learn."
They walk back to the village, or what could be called a village, though it's more of a cluster of scattered homes. Chen Ming knows the route with perfect familiarity. Li Yuan follows, his footsteps remaining even and calm.
When they pass Auntie Zhou's house—an old widow who occasionally gives Chen Ming food—they hear a voice.
"Chen Ming!" the voice calls out. It's cracked with age but warm.
Chen Ming stops and turns in the direction of the voice. "Auntie Zhou," he greets with respect.
"I have an extra mantou from breakfast," she says. "Would you like it?"
"Thank you," Chen Ming says with genuine gratitude. "That's very kind."
He hears shuffling, then approaching footsteps, then the sensation of something being pressed into his hand: a steamed bun, still slightly warm.
"You need to eat more," Auntie Zhou scolds with affection. "You're too thin."
Chen Ming smiles. "I eat enough. Thank you, Auntie."
There's a pause, and then Auntie Zhou, who apparently notices Li Yuan for the first time, speaks with a curious but wary tone. "Who is this?"
"Li Yuan," Chen Ming introduces. "A traveler stopping in the valley for a while."
"Hmm," Auntie Zhou makes a noncommittal sound. "Well, take care, Chen Ming. And you," she says, addressing Li Yuan, "don't bother him too much. He has enough troubles without nosy strangers."
"I will be respectful," Li Yuan assures her in a sincere tone.
Auntie Zhou makes another sound—satisfied or skeptical, Chen Ming isn't sure—then shuffling that indicates she is returning to her house.
Chen Ming and Li Yuan continue walking.
"She's protective," Li Yuan observes.
"She's one of the few who treats me like a person, not a burden or an object of pity," Chen Ming says with blunt honesty. "I'm grateful for that."
They arrive at the old tree, a familiar spot where Chen Ming spends most afternoons. Chen Ming sits with his back leaning against the trunk, a comfortable position he has occupied countless times. Li Yuan, after a moment of hesitation, sits nearby, a few meters away.
And they sit in silence.
Birds are singing. A stream flows in the distance. The wind rustles the leaves. Minutes pass, then more minutes. Chen Ming is comfortable with silence. He has spent his life in silence—or at least, in a world where visual noise doesn't exist, where only sound, texture, and presence matter.
But he's curious if Li Yuan is comfortable. Most people aren't comfortable with prolonged silence. They feel obligated to fill it with conversation. But Li Yuan doesn't speak. He just... sits. Present. Still.
Unusual, Chen Ming thinks. Most people who accompany me feel awkward after a few minutes. They don't know what to do with a blind man who just sits. But Li Yuan… he doesn't seem awkward. He doesn't seem bored. He just… is.
After a long while, maybe an hour, Chen Ming can't track with precision, he hears the sound of multiple footsteps. Children. He recognizes the pattern immediately. He tenses slightly, not with fear but with a weariness born of experience. The footsteps approach, then stop a few meters away.
"Look! The blind uncle is sitting again!" a young child's voice says. A boy, perhaps eight or nine years old.
Laughter from the others. Three or four children, Chen Ming estimates from the sound.
"He can't see us!" another child says in a mocking tone.
"I can hear you," Chen Ming says with practiced calmness. "You don't need to be quiet."
More laughter. Then the sound of something—a stone, maybe—being thrown. It hits the ground near Chen Ming, kicking up a little dirt. Chen Ming doesn't react. He learned long ago that reacting only encourages them. Another stone is thrown. This one hits closer.
"Why don't you move?" a child taunts. "Are you afraid you'll fall?"
Chen Ming remains still, his breathing steady. They are children. They don't understand. They see disability as something to mock because they haven't learned compassion.
But then, a different voice. Not a harsh voice, but one that carries weight.
"Is that how you treat someone who can't defend himself?"
It's Li Yuan, speaking for the first time since the children arrived. A sudden, uncertain silence falls over the children.
"He's just the blind uncle," one says, but with less conviction.
"He is a person," Li Yuan says with a calmness similar to Chen Ming's but carrying a subtle authority. "And you are children who should know better."
A pause. Then footsteps—the children are retreating, mumbling half-hearted apologies or excuses.
When they are gone, Chen Ming speaks. "You didn't need to defend me," he says gently. "They're just children. They'll grow out of it."
"Perhaps," Li Yuan says. "But perhaps they will grow faster if someone reminds them that cruelty—even small cruelty—has consequences."
Chen Ming feels something in his chest, an unfamiliar warmth that isn't unwelcome. When was the last time someone stood up for me? When was the last time someone treated the mockery of children as something that wasn't acceptable? He can't remember.
"Thank you," he says simply.
"There's no need for thanks," Li Yuan responds. "It's just... rightness."
They return to silence.
And Chen Ming feels, for the first time in a long time, that he is not alone in a way that's more than just a physical presence. He has a companion who understands, who doesn't pity but respects. That is a rare and valuable gift, one he didn't expect when a stranger with quiet steps arrived yesterday.
Afternoon transitions into evening with a gradual dimming of warmth in the air. Chen Ming stands, a movement that signals the end of the day, that he is returning home.
"I will see you tomorrow?" he asks, phrasing it as a question even though he somehow senses the answer.
"Yes," Li Yuan says. "If you don't mind."
"I don't mind," Chen Ming says with honesty.
They part with a simple farewell—not elaborate or formal, just an acknowledgment of a connection beginning to form. Chen Ming walks back to his house along the familiar path, his feet knowing every step. As he walks, he thinks about the day: about the stranger who watched him water vegetables with genuine attention, who sat in silence without discomfort, and who defended him from the taunting children.
Who is Li Yuan, really? he wonders. There's something about him that's different. Not in a supernatural or mystical way, but in how he is present, in how he listens, in how he treats me as if I matter.
Maybe I'll learn in the coming days. Or maybe not. Either way, he's welcome to accompany me. This world is lonely enough. A genuine companion is a rare gift.
Chen Ming arrives at his house, goes inside, and prepares for the night with the same routine as every night. But something is different now. There's a subtle sense of anticipation for tomorrow, a sense that maybe, just maybe, the coming months will be less lonely than the ones that have passed.
And in the absolute darkness of a world without sight, Chen Ming smiles. A small expression, but a genuine one. The first day with Li Yuan is complete. Thirty-nine days remain. And a journey neither of them fully understands has truly begun.