The clouds began to gather early that morning—not like the gentle rain of a few days ago but with an ominous density, with a dark color that promised something more intense.
Li Yuan felt the change in air pressure, in the way the wind blew with increasing strength. Even without Wenjing active, an instinct born from thousands of years of observation told him: a storm was coming.
Chen Ming felt it too—perhaps with a more acute sensitivity because he relied entirely on non-visual cues.
"A storm is approaching," he said as he stood up from his position in the vegetable plot, where he had spent the morning checking the plants with extra care. "I can feel it in the air. The smell is different. The pressure has changed."
He didn't move to seek shelter. He just stood, his face turned slightly toward the sky he could not see, with a thoughtful expression.
"Are you going back to your hut?" he asked Li Yuan.
Li Yuan considered it. The body of a consciousness didn't need protection from the elements. Rain would not harm it. Thunder would not frighten it. But…
"No," he said. "If you will remain outside, I will stay with you. If that's okay."
Chen Ming smiled warmly.
"I won't remain outside by choice. But I want to… I want to go to the tree. To sit there, to feel the storm. I don't know why. It just… feels right."
"Then we will go together," Li Yuan said with simplicity.
They walked to the old tree—Chen Ming with his stick tapping the ground in a familiar rhythm, Li Yuan at his side with a steady presence.
When they arrived and sat with their backs leaning against the massive trunk, the first drops began to fall.
Not gentle like the previous rain. But heavy. Hard. Hitting the ground and leaves with an audible force.
And then—a flash of brilliant lightning that illuminated the sky for a split second, followed a few seconds later by a deep rumble of thunder that rolled through the valley like the growl of something ancient and powerful.
Chen Ming did not flinch. He just… listened, his head slightly tilted, his expression calm.
The rain intensified rapidly. Within minutes, they were soaked—not just damp but drenched, with water running from their hair, soaking through their clothes, dripping from their chins and fingertips.
The wind picked up, not a gentle breeze but a gust that shook the branches of the tree above them, carrying a spray of rain with a force that almost stung the skin.
Lightning flashed again—closer now, with the thunder coming almost immediately after, with a boom that Li Yuan felt in his chest.
This was not a shower. This was a storm. A real, powerful storm that demonstrated the force of nature without restraint.
And in the midst of it all, Chen Ming sat with an almost unnatural calmness.
Li Yuan observed him with fascination—how he didn't tense, wasn't frightened, just… present. Accepting what was happening with an equanimity born from something deeper than mere resignation.
Minutes passed. The rain continued with an intensity that did not diminish. Lightning flashed with regular frequency. Thunder shook the ground.
And then, in a brief pause between the thunder rolls, Chen Ming spoke.
His voice was not loud—he didn't need to shout to be heard because he wasn't competing with the elements but working with their rhythm.
"I used to be angry at the sky," he said with a quietness that somehow carried despite the sound of the rain.
Li Yuan did not respond, just listened—sensing that this was a moment for Chen Ming to speak, to share something important.
"When I was young—maybe five or six years old—I asked my mother why I couldn't see. Why everyone else could see the sun and the flowers and faces but I only had darkness."
Lightning flashed, illuminating the profile of Chen Ming's face for a brief moment—a peaceful expression despite the painful memory.
"My mother said that the sky had a plan that I didn't understand. That sometimes things happen without a reason that we can see but that doesn't mean they don't have a purpose."
Thunder rolled, and Chen Ming waited for it to pass before continuing.
"But I didn't accept that. I was angry. I was angry at the sky, at the world, at whatever force had decided that I had to be born without vision."
"I remember… I remember standing outside in a storm—a storm like this—and I screamed at the sky. I cursed. I demanded to know why I had to suffer in a way that others did not."
He paused, his hand reaching out to touch the ground that was now muddy from the rain.
"And the sky… the sky did not respond. The thunder continued. The rain continued. The world didn't care about my anger, about my sense of injustice."
"That's when I realized: the sky doesn't care about my anger. The storm will not stop because I demand it. The darkness will not become light because I wish for it."
"So I learned not to be angry."
Li Yuan absorbed these words in silence, with the rain continuing to pour, with the wind continuing to blow.
After a moment, he spoke—a simple question that carried weight.
"When did you stop being angry?"
Chen Ming didn't answer immediately. He tilted his head back, allowing the rain to hit his face directly, to run through his hair, to soak his scraggly beard.
"When I realized," he finally said with a voice that carried a profound certainty, "that this life is beautiful enough to remember without having to be seen."
The words hung in the air with an almost physical weight.
Li Yuan felt something shift in his understanding—subtle but profound, like a final piece of a puzzle clicking into place.
Beautiful enough to remember without having to be seen.
It wasn't that Chen Ming didn't wish for vision. It wasn't that he pretended that blindness was a blessing in disguise.
But that he had found beauty—real, genuine beauty—in the experiences he had. In touch. In sound. In smell. In taste. In connection with people.
That he had learned to appreciate life not despite his limitations but with, in, and through them.
That beauty didn't require vision to be experienced. It only required… openness. A willingness to find it in a form different from what was expected.
"How…" Li Yuan started, then paused, searching for the right word. "How did you arrive at that realization?"
Chen Ming smiled—a soft expression, tinged with memory.
"Slowly," he admitted with honesty. "There was no single moment. Just… an accumulation of small experiences."
"The taste of the first strawberry I grew myself. The feeling of the sun after a long winter. The sound of my mother's laugh before she got sick. The smell of rain on dry ground."
"All the little things that people with vision might not notice because they are distracted by the visual. But for me, they were… all I had. So I paid attention in a way that maybe others don't."
"And gradually, I realized: this is enough. This is more than enough. This is beautiful in its own way."
Lightning flashed again—brilliant, blinding for Li Yuan but invisible to Chen Ming. Thunder followed with a boom that shook the branches.
"It doesn't mean I don't sometimes wish to see," Chen Ming continued with a rare vulnerability. "Sometimes I wonder what colors are. What it means to see the face of someone you love. What a sunset looks like."
"But wishing doesn't change reality. So I choose not to dwell on what I don't have. I choose to appreciate what I do have."
"And what I have… is life. Is consciousness. Is the capacity to feel and hear and taste and connect."
"That is a miracle in itself. And I will not waste that miracle by being bitter about the form it takes."
The rain began to ease slightly—not stopping but diminishing from a deluge into a steady pour.
The wind calmed a little, from violent gusts to a strong breeze.
The storm wasn't over but it had passed its peak, beginning to transition toward resolution.
And in that transition, Li Yuan felt something within himself shift as well.
I have pursued cultivation for sixteen thousand years, he thought with sober clarity. I have sought to understand the Dao, to transcend limitations, to achieve power and wisdom.
But Chen Ming—with none of the tools or techniques or advantages I have—has achieved something I still struggle with.
He has achieved peace. Not a peace that comes from eliminating difficulty but a peace that comes from accepting difficulty and finding beauty despite—or maybe because of—it.
That is a wisdom that cannot be learned from a book. That cannot be achieved through a meditation technique or spiritual practice.
That is a wisdom that only comes from living. From suffering and choosing not to be defined by that suffering. From limitation and choosing to find freedom in acceptance.
Thunder rumbled again—distant now, the storm moving away from the valley, leaving only steady rain and a gentle wind.
"Thank you," Li Yuan said with a simplicity that carried a depth of feeling he could not fully express.
"For what?" Chen Ming asked with genuine puzzlement.
"For sharing," Li Yuan responded. "For trusting me with… with your journey. With how you arrived at the peace you now have."
Chen Ming waved a hand in a gesture that dismissed the significance with his characteristic modesty.
"I was just talking. Sharing thoughts. Nothing profound."
"But there is," Li Yuan insisted with gentleness. "There is something profound in choosing not to be bitter. In finding beauty without vision. In accepting what cannot be changed and thriving despite it."
Chen Ming did not respond with words. He just nodded with a simple acknowledgment, with an acceptance of the appreciation without false modesty but also without excessive pride.
They continued to sit as the rain gradually eased, as the storm passed, as the sky—invisible to Chen Ming but visible to Li Yuan—began to lighten slightly even though it was still heavy with clouds.
And in that sitting, in that shared moment of a violent storm and a gentle conversation, the connection between them deepened in a way that did not need words to solidify.
Chen Ming had shared something precious—not just a story but a personal truth, a rare vulnerability, a wisdom that was hard-won through decades of living with a profound limitation.
And Li Yuan had received it with the respect it deserved, with an understanding that was not just intellectual but emotional, with a recognition that he was witnessing something valuable beyond measure.
Finally, when the rain reduced to a light drizzle, Chen Ming stood with the help of his stick, with stiff movements from the prolonged sitting in the wet conditions.
"I need to go back," he said in a practical tone. "Need to change into dry clothes, or I'll catch a cold. And at my age, a cold can become serious."
The mention of his age and vulnerability was casual but carried a subtle reminder: Chen Ming was mortal, was aging, was subject to the frailty of the flesh that Li Yuan—in his body of consciousness—did not experience.
"I will walk with you," Li Yuan offered.
"No need," Chen Ming said with gentleness. "I know the way. But thank you for the offer. And thank you for sitting with me in the storm."
"Thank you for sharing what you shared," Li Yuan responded.
Chen Ming nodded and began walking, his stick tapping the now-muddy ground, his posture slightly hunched from the cold and wet but with undiminished dignity.
Li Yuan watched him go, with the awareness that the words spoken today would echo.
This life is beautiful enough to remember without having to be seen.
A simple statement that carried the weight of an entire lifetime of experience, of struggle, of eventual acceptance and peace.
A statement that, Li Yuan somehow sensed, would return. It would echo in future moments, in different contexts, in a time when its meaning would carry even more weight.
But for now, for this moment, the words just settled into his consciousness with a gentleness, with a sense of having received a precious gift—the gift of genuine wisdom, of lived truth, of an example of how to find beauty and peace in the most challenging of circumstances.
The storm passed.
The rain eased.
And life continued with a familiar rhythm but one that was slightly altered by a new understanding, by a deepened connection, by a wisdom shared in a moment of mutual vulnerability.
As always.
The day passed.
Understanding deepened.
And in that deepening, the preparation for the eventual goodbye—although neither acknowledged it explicitly—began with an almost imperceptible gentleness.
Like a storm that passes, leaving the world changed in subtle but real ways.
Like the rain that soaks the ground, providing nourishment that will sustain future growth.
Like the words that were spoken that will echo when they are needed most.
This life is beautiful enough to remember without having to be seen.
A simple truth.
Profound in its simplicity.
And one that will, in time, become a legacy.