The fifth morning in the valley began with a sky full of thick clouds. Chen Ming felt the change in the air before the first drop fell: the rising humidity, the shifting pressure, the scent of the soil anticipating rain. His body, synchronized with nature's rhythms for fifty-three years, didn't need eyes to know that rain was coming.
He sat on the edge of his bed, listening to the wind start to pick up, carrying the promise of water from the sky.
"It will rain today," he murmured to himself, not in a tone of complaint but as a simple statement of fact. "The vegetables will be happy. I... will get wet." He smiled faintly at the thought.
Most people would stay inside when it rained, waiting for the storm to pass, seeking shelter and warmth. But Chen Ming was never afraid of the rain. Rain didn't care if he was blind or not. It fell on everyone with perfect fairness.
He rose, reached for the bamboo staff Li Yuan had made him—which now felt like an extension of his own arm after two days of use—and walked outside.
The first drops fell as he arrived under the old tree. They were light at first, a soft touch on his skin, a gentle sound on the leaves. Chen Ming sat with his back leaning against the trunk, the staff placed beside him, and he tilted his head up slightly—not to see, but to feel the rain on his face. It was cool, clean, and carried a different scent from the dry dust and soil.
He heard the familiar footsteps of Li Yuan approaching. He seemed to be neither early nor late, always arriving with a timing that felt natural.
"You're not taking shelter?" Li Yuan's voice asked in a neutral tone, not of judgment but of simple curiosity.
"Why should I?" Chen Ming replied with simplicity. "The rain doesn't hurt. It's just... water returning to its origin."
He sensed Li Yuan sit down nearby, not so close as to be invasive, not so far as to be separate. They sat in silence as the rain slowly increased from a drizzle to a steady downpour. Water dripped from the leaves. The soil began to soak it up with a soft sound. The stream in the distance increased in volume.
Then, Chen Ming spoke, not because he felt the need to fill the silence, but because a thought came to him and felt right to express.
"When I was a child," he began in a calm voice, "my mother always said that rain was the sky's way of crying. She said every drop was a tear for a world that was too harsh." He paused for a moment, feeling the rain in his open hands. "But I never felt sadness in the rain. I felt... generosity. It's the sky giving without being asked, without expecting anything in return."
"You see the world with different eyes," Li Yuan said softly.
Chen Ming laughed, a low sound that wasn't mocking but held a gentle irony. "I don't see the world at all," he corrected. "I feel it. And maybe that makes a difference in how I understand it."
The rain grew heavier. Their clothes began to get soaked, sticking to their skin. But neither of them moved to seek shelter.
"People often pity me," Chen Ming continued in a voice that was honest but not bitter. "They say, 'Poor Chen Ming, he can't see the sunrise. He can't see the faces of those he loves. He can't see the beauty of the world.'" He turned his head slightly toward where he felt Li Yuan's presence. "But I've never felt like I was missing something I never had. I was born in darkness. This darkness is my world. And in this darkness, I've found things that others might never notice."
"Like what?" Li Yuan asked with sincere curiosity.
Chen Ming thought for a moment, listening to the rain, feeling the texture of the moment.
"Like the fact that every person has a different footstep," he answered. "Auntie Zhou walks with a heavy heel, as if she's carrying an invisible burden. Children run with light, erratic steps, full of energy not yet constrained by the world."
"And you," he added with a faint smile, "you walk like someone who isn't in a hurry to get anywhere but also knows exactly where he's going. Every step has the same weight. Nothing is wasted."
Li Yuan was silent for a long time. Chen Ming couldn't see his expression or read whether his words were offensive or welcomed. But he felt something in the silence—a quality different from ordinary quiet. It was like someone was processing something unexpected.
"You're right," Li Yuan finally said in a voice that held the weight of an admission. "I do know where I'm going. Though sometimes I don't know why."
"Purpose and reason are two different things," Chen Ming offered with unforced wisdom. "Sometimes we just need to walk, and the meaning will come later. Or maybe it won't come at all. And that's okay, too."
The rain continued for another hour before finally subsiding into a gentle drizzle. Chen Ming and Li Yuan were still sitting under the tree, their clothes soaked through, water dripping from their hair and chins. But neither of them complained or spoke of discomfort. They just… were. Present in the simple moment of sitting in the rain, of feeling a world cleansed by water.
When the rain finally stopped, Chen Ming stood up—a slow movement due to the stiffness from sitting too long in the same position. He reached for his staff and tapped it on the ground, feeling the changed consistency. The soil was now softer, slicker, requiring extra caution.
"I need to check the vegetables," he said. "Sometimes a heavy rain can damage younger plants."
"May I come with you?" Li Yuan asked.
"Of course," Chen Ming replied in a welcoming tone.
They walked together to the vegetable plot. Chen Ming led the way, his staff tapping the wet ground, and Li Yuan followed, adjusting his pace to match Chen Ming's rhythm. When they arrived, Chen Ming knelt and began to check with his hands. He felt the soil, assessing how much water had been absorbed. He touched the leaves, checking for damage from overly hard drops. He gently touched the stalks, making sure none were broken or bent.
As he worked, he spoke, not to Li Yuan specifically but to the world in general—to the plants, to the soil.
"You're fine," he murmured in a tone that was almost like comforting a child. "The rain didn't harm you. It nourished you. You'll grow stronger now."
Li Yuan listened with full attention, not just to the words but to the quality of the interaction. To the way Chen Ming spoke to the plants, not because he thought they could hear him in a literal sense, but because the act of speaking itself was a form of attention, a form of care.
This is a person who understands connection, Li Yuan realized with a deep clarity. Someone who understands that all things—human, plant, soil, rain—are part of a single, interconnected web. And he lives that understanding not through complex philosophy but through simple, daily actions.
When Chen Ming finished checking, he stood and nodded with satisfaction. "Everything is good," he reported. "The rain came at the right time. Not too hard, not too soft. Just... enough."
They walked back to the old tree, and even though the sun hadn't come out from behind the clouds, the air felt fresher and cleaner. Chen Ming sat back down, his back against the wet but sturdy trunk.
"Thank you," he said abruptly.
Li Yuan, who had just sat down, paused. "For what?"
"For not trying to convince me to take shelter," Chen Ming answered with simplicity. "For not treating me as if I'm fragile. For just... sitting with me in the rain."
He paused, then continued in a softer tone. "Most people think that because I'm blind, I need constant protection. They don't understand that I've already learned to live in my own way. And sometimes… sometimes what I need isn't someone who protects me, but someone who is simply present."
"I understand," Li Yuan said with the same simplicity. And he truly understood. Because in his sixteen thousand years of life, he had learned that sometimes the most meaningful presence is the one that doesn't try to change, to fix, or to save. Sometimes the most meaningful presence is the one that simply… is.
That evening, as Chen Ming prepared to return home, he paused for a moment under the tree.
"You know," he said in a reflective tone, "I often think... maybe this blindness isn't a punishment from the sky. Maybe it's just the sky's way of teaching me to see without eyes."
He didn't wait for a response. He just smiled gently and began walking, his staff tapping the ground with a steady rhythm.
Li Yuan remained sitting, pondering those words.
Seeing without eyes.
It wasn't a metaphor or an abstract philosophy but a living reality—the way Chen Ming navigated the world, understood people, and connected with the life around him.
And maybe, just maybe, that was what Li Yuan needed to learn. Not a new technique or a deeper Comprehension in the sense of cultivation, but a way to see the world without relying on what is visible. A way to understand without analysis. A way to connect without the interface of visual perception.
The rain had stopped, but the ground was still wet, and the air still carried the scent of moisture. Li Yuan—a pure soul with sixteen thousand years of experience, with a complexity of Daojing beyond the understanding of most beings—sat under the old tree and felt something he rarely felt: genuine humility.
Not because he was less powerful or less wise than others, but because he realized that a person who had lived in darkness his entire life, who had never seen a sunrise or a loved one's face, could teach him something fundamental about the Dao that he himself was still struggling to fully grasp.
That sometimes the true light doesn't come from the eyes. It comes from an understanding that doesn't need to see. From a connection that doesn't require sight. From a presence deep enough to feel the rain not just as falling water but as the generosity of the sky returning to its origin.
The fifth day was over. And the lesson, taught not with words but with a life lived, continued.
In the rain and in the quiet.
In the staff tapping the ground and in a presence that didn't try to change things.
In a simplicity that held a profound depth.
As always.
Without end.
And in every drop of rain that fell, in every touch on a plant, in every step taken with a bamboo staff, Chen Ming taught without teaching, living without sight but with a clearer vision than most who can see. And Li Yuan—with all his power and understanding—was learning to listen. Not with Wenjing, but with an open heart. With a willingness to be a student of someone who never thought of himself as a teacher.
Like water returning to its origin.
Like rain falling with generosity.
Like the Dao teaching through life itself.