The morning arrived with the same gentleness as every morning before. Sunlight filtered through the leaves of old trees, birds sang in a familiar rhythm, and dew still clung to the tips of grass blades like tiny jewels waiting to fall.
Chen Ming was already in his vegetable garden when the new day began to peel back the night's darkness, as was his custom. He knelt among the rows of plants in a posture that had become part of the valley's landscape itself—his back slightly bowed, his hands moving with trained gentleness, his head tilted as if listening to something that regular ears couldn't hear.
But something was different this morning.
Chen Ming didn't immediately stand when he heard Li Yuan's footsteps approaching. He remained kneeling, his hands paused over a cabbage leaf he was inspecting. His breath, usually calm and steady, sounded a little heavier, a little more deliberate, as if each gasp of air required an effort it never had before.
"Uncle Chen," Li Yuan greeted him with a tone that carried the morning's warmth, crouching beside him with a movement that didn't disturb the garden's silence.
Chen Ming raised his head with a familiar smile—warm, sincere, and free of burden—yet there was something behind that smile. Not sadness. Not pain. Just... weariness. A subtle weariness, like a thin fog that isn't immediately visible but slowly changes the color of the sky.
"Li Yuan," he replied in a voice that remained calm but carried a rougher texture, like a fabric that had been washed too many times. "You've come earlier today."
"I wanted to help with the watering," Li Yuan said, picking up the wooden bucket that Chen Ming usually carried from the well.
Chen Ming didn't refuse as he usually would. He simply nodded gratefully, his hands returning to the cabbage leaf, his fingers touching it with the same gentleness but at a slightly slower pace.
Li Yuan observed in silence as he walked to the well. His own movements were light, almost soundless, but his mind was full of sharp attention. He had spent nearly a month with Chen Ming—long enough to recognize the man's breathing rhythm, the way he walked with his bamboo staff, the way he touched his plants in the same order every morning.
And today, that rhythm was slightly... broken.
Like music played by a tired musician—the notes were still correct, but there were small pauses between them, a delay that was almost imperceptible but noticeable to those who were truly listening.
When Li Yuan returned with a full bucket of water, Chen Ming was already standing—or trying to stand. He used his bamboo staff as a prop, his wrinkled hand gripping the wood with more force than usual, his knees trembling slightly before his body finally straightened.
"My knees are a little stiff this morning," he said in a light tone, as if explaining something unimportant. "The weather might be changing. My joints always know before the sky does."
Li Yuan didn't answer immediately. He poured water into the small trenches between the plants with careful movements, letting the water flow to the roots in an unhurried rhythm. His hands moved with a precision born from a deep understanding of water—how it flows, how it absorbs, how it gives life without forcing itself.
"Did you sleep well last night?" Li Yuan finally asked, with a tone that was caring but not overly concerned.
Chen Ming smiled again—the same warm smile but with a deeper shadow.
"Enough," he replied. "I dreamed about my mother. About how she used to plant these same vegetables in this same garden when I was a child. It was a good dream. A peaceful one."
He stopped, his breath held for a moment before he continued.
"It's strange how that dream came now, after all these years. As if... as if there was something I was meant to remember."
Li Yuan felt something shift in the air—subtle, almost imperceptible, like a leaf falling from a tree with no wind. He couldn't name the feeling, but he could sense it with an unnerving clarity.
They worked together in silence for the next hour. Chen Ming moved from plant to plant with the same diligence, but each movement seemed a little heavier, as if gravity had increased just for him. He stopped more often to catch his breath, his hands occasionally seeking support—the edge of a wooden box, a small tree trunk, a low fence—anything to stabilize a body that no longer seemed completely loyal to his will.
When the sun rose higher and the morning's warmth turned into the heat of midday, Chen Ming sat under the old tree, his breath more ragged than usual.
Li Yuan sat beside him, bringing a cup of cool water he had fetched from the well.
"Drink," he said gently, handing the cup to Chen Ming's hands.
Chen Ming accepted it with sincere gratitude, his fingers trembling slightly as they held the wooden cup. He drank in small sips, his head tilted back slightly, his throat moving with difficulty.
When he finished, he handed the cup back and let out a long sigh—a sigh that sounded like the wind blowing through dry leaves.
"Li Yuan," he said after a long silence, his voice quieter now, wiser. "Thank you."
"For what?" Li Yuan asked, although he already knew the answer.
"For not asking," Chen Ming replied with a simplicity that held a deep truth. "For not worrying out loud. For just... being here."
Li Yuan felt something tighten in his chest—not pain, but... recognition. A recognition that something was happening, something that couldn't be stopped, something that could only be witnessed with respect and presence.
"I am old," Chen Ming said again, in the same light tone as before, but this time with a little more awareness behind it. "This is a normal thing. The body gets tired. It's natural."
He stopped, his hand reaching for the ground beside him, his fingers touching the grass with a familiar gentleness.
"But there's a difference between the tiredness that comes after work and the tiredness that... that comes from within. From the bones. From a deeper place."
Li Yuan didn't reply. He just sat, his presence like an anchor—steady, non-judgmental, not trying to fix or change anything, just... being there.
The wind blew gently, carrying the scent of damp earth and green leaves. The birds were still singing, life was still moving, the world was still spinning in the same rhythm.
But under that old tree, in the silence between two people sitting side by side, there was an unspoken acknowledgment—an acknowledgment that time, like water, never stops flowing, and that all living things will eventually return to the earth that bore them.
That afternoon, as the sun began to set and the shadows grew longer, Chen Ming coughed.
It wasn't a small cough that could be ignored. It was a deep cough that came from his chest, shaking his body and interrupting his breath.
He covered his mouth with his hand, his body bent forward, and for a few seconds that felt like an eternity, he couldn't breathe properly.
Li Yuan moved instinctively, his hand reaching for Chen Ming's back, not touching but ready to support if needed.
When the coughing finally subsided, Chen Ming straightened his body with difficulty, his breathing shallow and irregular. He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand and smiled—a tired but still warm smile.
"Just dust," he said in a tone that tried to be light but didn't quite succeed. "Or maybe pollen. This season always makes my throat tickle."
Li Yuan saw his hand—the hand Chen Ming had used to cover his mouth—and he saw a very faint, almost imperceptible trace, something darker than dust or pollen.
But he didn't say anything.
Because Chen Ming already knew.
And saying what was already known wouldn't change anything. It would only add a burden to a moment already heavy with unspoken acknowledgment.
"Let's go back to your hut," Li Yuan said gently. "The day is almost over."
Chen Ming nodded with sincere gratitude, using his bamboo staff to stand with Li Yuan's subtle help—a hand that supported without taking over, a presence that helped without condescending.
They walked slowly through the valley that was beginning to be covered by the twilight. Chen Ming's steps were shorter than usual, his staff tapping the ground with a less steady rhythm, his breath audible in the pauses between steps.
When they arrived at the small hut that had been Chen Ming's home for decades, the man stopped in front of the door and turned toward where he sensed Li Yuan's presence.
"Li Yuan," he said in a voice that was almost a whisper, but carried a perfect clarity. "I know you see more than I say."
Li Yuan remained silent.
"And I appreciate that," Chen Ming continued with a smile that brought peace. "I appreciate that you don't force me to admit what I'm not yet ready to say out loud. That you just... accompany me."
He stopped, his hand seeking the door frame, his fingers touching the worn wood with a familiar gentleness.
"I'm not afraid," he said with a simplicity that held a profound truth. "I'm just... tired. And sometimes, tired is the body's way of saying it has done enough."
Li Yuan felt something move inside him—something he couldn't name but could feel with a painful clarity. This wasn't sadness. Not denial. Just... recognition.
A recognition that some things cannot be fixed.
That some processes can only be witnessed.
That sometimes, the deepest love is not about trying to save, but about accompanying with a respectful presence.
"I will come tomorrow," Li Yuan said gently.
"I know," Chen Ming replied with a smile. "And I will be glad to see you again."
The word "see"—a word that was never literal for Chen Ming but always carried a deeper meaning—hung in the air with gentleness.
And in that gentleness, in the unspoken but fully understood acknowledgment, something changed.
Not dramatically.
Not with violence or shock.
Just with the softness that comes when life begins to loosen its grip, when the body begins to remember that it once came from the earth and will eventually return there.
Li Yuan walked back to his own hut—the small hut he had used for the past month—with slow steps.
And for the first time since he arrived in this valley, he allowed himself to feel a burden that came not from spiritual power or responsibility, but from something much simpler and much heavier.
The burden of knowing that someone you cherish is slowly leaving you, and there is nothing you can do but honor the process with a loving presence.
Night fell with a deep silence.
And in that silence, time continued to flow—like water, like breath, like all things that live and eventually return to their source.
As always.
Unceasingly.
Without asking permission.
Just with the gentleness that comes when something beautiful begins to say goodbye.