On the fifth morning after Chen Ming's refusal of Li Yuan's offer, the air smelled of rich soil and leaves wet with dew. The sun was just beginning to rise, its light still soft and golden, not yet carrying the stinging heat of midday.
Chen Ming was already in his garden when Li Yuan arrived—not kneeling among the plants as he usually did, but standing with his bamboo staff planted in the ground, his head tilted slightly as if listening to something others couldn't hear.
There was a strange stillness in that posture—not an empty stillness, but a full one, like the space between two breaths, like the pause before music begins.
Li Yuan stopped a few steps away from him, not wanting to disturb whatever moment Chen Ming was experiencing.
After a few seconds that felt like a compressed eternity, Chen Ming spoke in a voice that carried a strange gentleness—not sadness, but a kind of calm acknowledgment.
"They are ripe," he said, his hand moving toward the rows of vegetables with a gesture that was almost a blessing. "I can feel it. Not with my eyes—I have never been able to see them—but in... in here."
He touched his chest with a trembling hand, right over his heart.
"Like how you know the season has changed not from a calendar but from the way the wind blows. Like how you know someone you love is happy not from their words but from the vibration of their presence."
He stopped, his breath coming out slowly.
"These vegetables are ripe. And I... I also feel that same ripeness. Not the beautiful ripeness of a summer fruit, but a ripeness that means... means it's time to be harvested. Time to be completed."
Li Yuan felt the weight of those words with a painful clarity. This was not a forced metaphor. This was an acknowledgment—the clearest acknowledgment Chen Ming had given since his health began to decline.
"I want to harvest them," Chen Ming said in a tone that held a quiet resolve. "I want to feel them in my hands one last time. I want to... I want to finish what I started."
"I will help you," Li Yuan said gently.
Chen Ming smiled—a weak but grateful smile.
"Thank you. But... I want to lead. I want my hands to be the first to touch them. You can carry the basket. You can support me if I falter. But this harvest... this is mine."
There was something in the way he said "mine" that carried more weight than just ownership. It was a claim to a final act, to a closing ritual, to a way of saying goodbye to something that had become an integral part of his life.
Li Yuan nodded with a deep understanding, taking the woven bamboo basket that Chen Ming usually used and following the man to the first row of vegetables.
Chen Ming moved slowly—not just because his body was weak, but because he moved with a profound intentionality, as if every movement were a prayer, every touch a thank you.
He knelt with difficulty in front of the first cabbage plant, his bamboo staff placed carefully by his side. His hands—thin and trembling—reached for the outer leaves with a gentleness that held reverence.
"This is the first one I planted this season," he said in a voice that was almost a whisper, his fingers tracing the ruffled edges of the leaves. "I remember that day. It was still cold. The soil was still hard from winter. But I knew... I knew that if I planted them with care, they would grow."
He found the base of the plant with a practiced touch, his fingers digging into the soil around the roots with movements that were impossibly gentle, almost affectionate.
"And they grew," he continued, his voice carrying a simple wonder. "They grew even though I couldn't see them. They grew because... because the soil was kind, because the water came, because the sun shone."
With a careful motion, he lifted the cabbage plant from the soil, its roots coming out with a soft sound like a held breath. He weighed it in his hands, his fingers touching the dense, round cabbage head.
"Perfect," he whispered in a tone that carried a profound satisfaction. "Truly perfect."
He placed it in the basket that Li Yuan held with a tenderness usually reserved for precious items—fragile porcelain or an invaluable family heirloom.
And then he moved to the next plant.
The process took hours—not because there were so many plants, but because Chen Ming harvested at an excruciatingly slow pace, with an almost ritualistic attention to each plant.
He didn't just pick. He... communicated.
His fingers touched each leaf as if reading a book written in the language of touch. He spoke to them—not with coherent words, but with soft murmurs, with whispers that sounded like lullabies, with thank yous uttered in a tone too low to be heard but real enough to be felt.
"Thank you for growing," he whispered to a bok choy plant, his fingers tracing its crisp stalk. "Thank you for giving life even though I wasn't perfect at tending to you."
"You are better than I expected," he said to a carrot he pulled from the ground carefully, soil still clinging to its bright orange root. "You grew deeper than I thought. You sought nourishment with a beautiful persistence."
"Forgive me if I forgot to water you sometimes," he said to a spinach plant, his voice slightly breaking. "Forgive me if my attention wasn't always enough. But you still grew. You still gave. And I... I am so grateful."
Li Yuan listened in silence, his heart trembling with something he couldn't name—something between reverence and sorrow, something between admiration and gentle pain.
This was more than just harvesting vegetables. This was a farewell. This was Chen Ming's way of saying goodbye—not just to the plants, but to the act of tending, to the routine that had given him purpose, to the connection with life that grew under his hands that couldn't see but could always feel.
When the sun was high and the heat began to sting, Chen Ming finally stood—or tried to stand. His body swayed, his knees trembled, and for a moment Li Yuan thought he would fall.
But Chen Ming found his balance with the help of his bamboo staff, his breathing heavy but his rhythm steady.
"It is done," he said with a deep satisfaction, his voice carrying a clear exhaustion but also an undeniable peace. "Everything has been harvested. Everything has been... completed."
He turned toward Li Yuan, his face—though pale and sweaty—held a smile filled with something hard to describe. Not happiness, but... contentment. A sense of finality.
"Li Yuan," he said in a voice that was almost a whisper but carried perfect clarity. "I want you to accept this."
He held out his hand, and in his wrinkled palm lay a few seeds—cabbage seeds, carrot seeds, spinach seeds, which he had collected from last season's plants.
"These are for the next season," he said gently. "I won't... I won't be here to plant them. But someone must. Life must go on. This garden must not be empty."
Li Yuan felt something break inside his chest—not with violence, but with a painful gentleness, like ice melting in the spring.
"Chen Ming—" he started, but Chen Ming raised a hand with a gentle but firm gesture.
"Don't," he said gently. "Don't say what we both know. Just... accept these seeds. Promise me that you will plant them. Or if you must leave, give them to someone who will tend to them."
"This garden... this garden is more than just food. It is a reminder that life continues. That from the same soil that receives what is finished, new things will grow."
"That is important. That... that is the legacy I want to leave."
Li Yuan accepted the seeds with both hands, his fingers closing gently around the tiny seeds that felt almost weightless but carried an immense weight.
"I promise," he said in a voice choked with emotions he couldn't fully contain. "I will make sure they are planted. I will make sure life continues to grow here."
Chen Ming nodded with a deep satisfaction, his hand seeking Li Yuan's shoulder and finding it, his fingers pressing with a gentleness that carried all the gratitude that couldn't be spoken in words.
"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you for coming to this valley. Thank you for accompanying me. Thank you for... for making these last days not lonely."
He stopped, his breath trembling.
"You don't know how precious that is. Not to be alone at the end."
Li Yuan couldn't answer. He just stood there, seeds in one hand, a basket full of vegetables in the other, and felt the weight of this moment with a painful clarity.
This was preparation. This was Chen Ming's way of arranging the last things, making sure that when he left, he left behind something meaningful, something that would continue to live on even when he was no longer there.
That afternoon, after the vegetables had been shared with Auntie Zhou and Mr. Wu and the other neighbors—after everyone had received their share with gratitude mixed with an unspoken sadness—Chen Ming sat under the old tree with a weariness so profound he could barely lift his head.
Li Yuan sat beside him, a steady and non-judgmental presence.
"I'm glad I did it," Chen Ming said in a very soft voice, almost inaudible. "I'm glad I harvested them. I'm glad I could... could finish one last thing with my own hands."
"Just like myself," he continued in a tone that held a calm acknowledgment. "Like those vegetables. I, too, am ripe. I, too, am ready to be... to be completed."
"And it's not scary. It's just... natural."
Li Yuan did not reply with words. He just sat there, his presence like a silent witness, like the soil that receives all that falls to it without judgment, without refusal, only with perfect acceptance.
The sun set with a golden and red light, painting the sky with the colors of farewell.
And under that old tree, a man who had lived his life with simple dignity sat with a peace that could not be bought or forced, but only achieved through a deep acceptance of what is.
Like vegetables that ripen in their time.
Like a life that has been well completed.
Like an end that is not a tragedy, but a natural and beautiful conclusion in its own way.
As always.
Without drama.
Just with the gentleness that comes when something that has grown well is finally ready to be harvested, to be given back, to be completed with reverence and deep gratitude.
And in that completion, there was an inexplicable beauty—the beauty of a cycle made whole, of a life lived with good intention, of an end accepted with open eyes and a peaceful heart.