That evening, Li Yuan followed Chen Ming back to his house—not going inside, but standing outside and observing the ritual that had become part of the blind man's daily life.
Chen Ming walked to the small well beside the house—fifteen steps from the door, just as he had memorized it over the decades. He lowered the bucket with a practiced motion, listening for the sound of the water hitting the surface, then pulling it back up with steady effort.
"Are you still there, Li Yuan?" Chen Ming asked without turning his head.
"Yes," Li Yuan replied. "I… just wanted to see how you manage your days. The things I might take for granted."
Chen Ming smiled faintly as he carried the bucket inside.
"Come in," he invited. "There's nothing special to see, but you're welcome."
Li Yuan stepped over the low threshold.
The interior of Chen Ming's house was incredibly simple—even more so than Li Yuan's own hut. It was a single room with a straw mat in the corner, a small table with two clay bowls, a simple stone stove, and a few jars containing grains and dried vegetables.
There were no decorations. Nothing unnecessary. Everything had a purpose, and everything was arranged with a precision born from the need to find things without seeing.
Chen Ming poured water into a large wooden basin, then grabbed a cloth hanging on a nail.
"This is my favorite part of the day," he said, beginning to wash his face and hands with methodical movements. "Cold water from the well. Washing away the dust and sweat. It makes the body feel… refreshed."
He dampened the cloth again and cleaned his arms, neck, and ears—each part with the same attention.
"I bathe properly in the stream every few days," he explained as he continued. "But for daily life, this is enough. It saves water, and it saves time."
Li Yuan observed with quiet fascination. Every movement was efficient, practiced. Nothing was wasted.
When he was finished, Chen Ming hung the cloth to dry and moved to the stove.
"For dinner," he said, feeling the jars with his hands, identifying the contents by texture and weight, "it's usually a simple porridge. Rice with vegetables I've grown. Sometimes Mother Zhou brings eggs or meat, but that's rare."
He took a measure of rice—using his hand as a consistent cup—and poured it into a small pot. Then he added water from the bucket, measuring by feeling the weight.
"How do you know the right ratio?" Li Yuan asked with genuine curiosity.
"Practice," Chen Ming answered simply. "Thousands of times making the same porridge. My hands know how much rice to take, how much water. My mouth knows the right consistency when it's finished."
He lit a fire in the stove—a process that required patience because he needed to feel the heat to know when the tinder caught, and listen for the crackle that indicated the flame was stable.
While the porridge cooked, Chen Ming sat on the floor with his back leaning against the wall.
"For income," he said without Li Yuan asking, as if he sensed the unspoken curiosity, "I don't have much. I trade the vegetables I grow with neighbors for seeds or cloth. Old Man Wu sometimes gives me coins as… compensation for what his children did. I don't ask, but he insists."
"Is that enough?" Li Yuan asked.
"It's enough for what I need," Chen Ming replied with genuine contentment. "I don't need much. This house is free—no one wants it because it's too old, too broken down. But for me, it's perfect. Simple food. The clothes I have are years old, patched many times but still functional."
He paused, listening for the bubbling of the pot.
"Sometimes I wonder what people with a lot of money do with it all. Does more make them happier? I don't know. But I do know that I am… content. And that feels like wealth itself."
When the porridge was done, Chen Ming poured it into two bowls—one for himself, one for Li Yuan, which he offered without ceremony.
"Eat," he said simply.
They ate in silence—the porridge was plain but warm and filling. Li Yuan didn't need to eat in a biological sense, but he participated in the ritual, in the sharing of a simple meal.
After they finished, Chen Ming cleaned the bowls with the remaining water from the bucket, using fine sand as a scrubbing agent, then rinsing them with care to conserve water.
"Before I sleep," he said, completing his routine, "I usually sit for a little while. Just… sit. Listen to the night. Sometimes I pray—not to a specific god, just… gratitude to the world that I am still here, still breathing, still have enough to survive."
He gestured to the outside. "Tonight… what is the sky like? Are there stars?"
Li Yuan walked to the door and looked up. The sky was dark, covered with thick clouds.
"There are no stars tonight," he reported. "Clouds cover everything."
"Ah," Chen Ming said with a thoughtful tone. "A starless night. I have never seen stars, but people always tell me about them. Small lights in the darkness, they say. Beautiful."
He walked outside, with Li Yuan following, and they sat on the ground in front of the house.
"Do you mind if we sit for a while?" Chen Ming asked. "Before you return to your hut?"
"I don't mind," Li Yuan answered, sitting beside him.
They sat in silence for a long time—a comfortable silence that didn't need to be filled.
And then, with a voice softer than usual, Chen Ming began to speak.
"I don't often talk about the past," he started with a rare hesitation. "There's no point, usually. The past is the past. But tonight… somehow it feels right."
He felt the earth under his hands, grounding himself.
"My mother died when I was seven. A sickness—I don't know its name. I only know that she grew weak, and weaker, until one day she didn't wake up again."
His voice was steady but carried the weight of a painful memory, even though decades had passed.
"I don't remember her face. I never could see faces. But I remember… I remember the touch of her hands. Gentle but firm when she guided me. Warm when she held mine on cold nights."
"I remember her voice. The way she sang—not with skill but with love. Simple songs to put me to sleep, to keep me from being afraid when thunder came."
"I remember her smell. Like smoke from the stove and the herbs she used to cook. A smell that let me know I was home, that I was safe."
Chen Ming paused, his breathing slightly uneven with suppressed emotion.
"My father lasted longer. Three years after my mother. He tried to raise me himself, to teach me how to survive as a blind boy in a world that wasn't designed for me."
"He was the one who taught me to use a stick. He was the one who taught me to count steps, to memorize landmarks. He was the one who taught me to grow vegetables, to feel the soil, to know when a plant needed water."
"His voice… was deep. Steady. I never heard him panic, never heard him angry. Just… patient. Always patient."
"When he died—I was ten years old—I didn't know what to do. The neighbors… they helped. But in the end, I had to learn to survive on my own."
Li Yuan listened with complete attention, not interrupting, just… present.
"The first few years after my father died were… difficult," Chen Ming continued with blunt honesty. "I was hungry a lot. I was scared a lot. I didn't know if I would survive to the next season."
"But I… I learned. I learned that people, though they can be cruel, can also be kind. That if I didn't burden them too much, they would help occasionally."
"I learned that the vegetables I grew were reliable. That the earth didn't care whether I was blind. It only cared whether I gave it attention, water, and care."
"I learned that loneliness is… a part of life. That not everyone will have a companion, have a family. That sometimes you are just… alone. And that's not a tragedy. It's just… reality."
He turned his head slightly in the direction where he sensed Li Yuan.
"I'm not talking about this to make you feel sorry. I'm talking about it because… because you are here. Because in these weeks, I haven't felt alone in the way that I usually do."
"And I wanted you to know that… that it means something. That your companionship, your presence—even without many words, even without grand gestures—makes a difference."
Li Yuan felt something tighten in his chest—an emotion he couldn't fully identify but that was profound in its weight.
"Thank you," he said simply, "for sharing this. For trusting me with such precious memories."
Chen Ming smiled gently.
"You don't treat them like entertainment or like a tragedy. You just… listen. That is rare. And that is valuable."
They continued to sit in the darkness—a starless night, with only the sound of the wind, a distant creature, and their own breathing.
And Li Yuan felt the depth of the loneliness that Chen Ming carried—not a loud, complaining, or attention-demanding loneliness.
But a quiet, accepted loneliness, one that was lived with grace because there was no alternative.
The loneliness of someone who had lost family at a young age, who had survived decades alone, who had learned to find contentment in solitude because waiting for companionship that might never come was a path to despair.
And now I am here, Li Yuan thought with profound clarity. For how long, I don't know. But for now, for this moment, he is not alone. And that… that is something I can give. Something simple but meaningful.
Finally, after an immeasurable amount of time, Chen Ming stood up with a stiffness that betrayed the hours of sitting.
"I need to sleep," he said with honest tiredness. "Tomorrow will come with the sunrise, as always."
"Good night, Li Yuan. Thank you for sitting with me."
"Good night, Chen Ming," Li Yuan responded, standing as well.
Chen Ming went inside the house, and Li Yuan heard the sound of him settling onto the mat, of the cloth adjusting, of his breathing gradually slowing to the rhythm of sleep.
Li Yuan walked back to his own hut with a mind full of what he had heard, of the vulnerability that Chen Ming had shared, of the trust that was implied in the sharing.
He entered the hut and sat on the straw mat.
The body of a consciousness didn't need to sleep, but he often spent the night in a state of light meditation, of reflection, of processing the day's experiences.
Tonight, he reflected on the ritual he had witnessed.
On the simplicity of Chen Ming's evening—washing with care, cooking with precision, eating with contentment, cleaning with thoroughness. Every action was deliberate, meaningful, part of a rhythm that sustained life.
Nothing is wasted. Nothing is taken for granted. Every resource—water, food, time—is used with care.
That is a form of respect. Respect for what is given, for what is available, for life itself.
And he reflected on the story Chen Ming had shared.
On the loss of parents at a young age. On the struggle to survive alone. On the loneliness that had been carried for decades.
He has lived fifty-three years, and most of that alone. Without family, without close friends, without a partner.
But he is not bitter. He is not resentful. He just… accepts. And in that acceptance, he finds peace.
That is a strength I am still learning. The strength to accept what cannot be changed, to find contentment in circumstances that are not ideal, to live with grace despite solitude.
Li Yuan lay down on his mat with the awareness that this arc—his time with Chen Ming—was temporary.
Chen Ming was mortal. He was aging. He wouldn't be here forever.
And when he was gone, the loneliness he had carried for a lifetime would… end. But also, the presence he had offered, the wisdom he had embodied, the gentleness he had demonstrated—all of that would be a memory.
I must honor this, Li Yuan thought with seriousness. Honor the time I have with him. Honor the lessons he teaches without intending to teach. Honor the humanity he demonstrates by simply… being.
Outside, the starless night continued.
The clouds were thick, the darkness complete.
But within that darkness, two people had shared a moment of genuine connection, of rare vulnerability, of a companionship that was simple but profound in its meaning.
And that—Li Yuan realized with clarity—was a gift that could not be measured by power or achievement or any metric that cultivation usually values.
The gift of being seen. Of being heard. Of being present for another in a moment of vulnerability.
The gift of companionship that asks for nothing except presence.
The gift of shared humanity in the face of inevitable solitude.
The night passed.
Dawn would come.
And with the dawn, the routine would continue.
But something had shifted.
An understanding had deepened.
A connection had strengthened.
And in the remaining time they had together—however long that might be—it would carry the weight of the shared vulnerability, the given trust, the loneliness that, for a moment, became slightly less heavy because of the presence of a genuine companion.
As always.
Without an end until there is an end.
But for now, for tonight, for this moment—there was presence.
There was connection.
There was meaning in the simplicity of sitting together on a starless night.
And that was enough.