The next morning came with a thin mist that hung in the valley like a visible breath—soft, temporary, bringing a dampness that touched the skin with an almost-like touch.
Chen Ming was still under the tree.
Li Yuan didn't know if the man had moved at all since yesterday, whether he had slept or simply sat in a silence so profound that the difference between sleeping and waking became irrelevant.
When Li Yuan approached, Chen Ming raised his head with a very slow motion, as if even that simple act required negotiation with a body that had almost completely stopped listening. His smile came—weak, almost transparent, like light filtered through a thin cloth.
"Li Yuan," he greeted in a voice that sounded like the wind through dry grass—soft, fragile, but still carrying a presence. "I dreamed last night. Or maybe it wasn't a dream. Maybe it was... a memory that came to visit."
Li Yuan sat beside him with a movement that had become a ritual—unhurried, not awkward, just with a gentleness that respected space and time.
"Tell me," he said in a tone that held an invitation but not a push, allowing Chen Ming to choose whether to share or remain silent.
Chen Ming nodded slowly, his hand seeking the ground beside him, his fingers touching the grass with a familiar gentleness—a movement he had performed thousands of times, a movement that had become his own body language for connection with the earth.
"I dreamed about my childhood," he said in a voice that carried the warmth of memory, though thin with weariness. "I was... maybe seven or eight years old. Still very young. Still trying to understand the world without sight."
He stopped, his breath coming out with a subtle tremor.
"My mother was teaching me how to navigate the village. She held my hand and guided me through the paths, explaining every turn, every stone, every protruding tree root. Her voice... her voice was so patient. So gentle. There was no frustration, no sadness that I couldn't see. Just... acceptance."
Chen Ming smiled—a smile that brought light from within even though his body was so weak.
"I asked her, 'Mother, will I always be like this? Will I always need help?' And she stopped, she knelt in front of me—I remember feeling her hands on my shoulders—and she said something I have never forgotten."
He stopped, his eyes—which had never seen but always carried a strange depth—moved as if he were looking at something far away, something that could only be seen with the eyes of memory.
"She said, 'Chen Ming, you don't need to see the world to be a part of it. You don't need eyes to have worth. This world is wide enough for all ways of living, for all ways of being. And you... you will find your own way. Maybe not like others. But that doesn't make it any less valuable.'"
Tears—which Chen Ming rarely shed, which he saved with the carefulness of a person who knows that water is precious—began to flow slowly down his wrinkled cheeks, leaving wet trails that glistened in the morning light.
"She was right," he whispered in a voice that broke with emotions he couldn't fully contain. "She was right. I found my way. Not the path I chose, but the path I... I learned to walk with dignity."
Li Yuan felt something move inside his chest—something he couldn't name but could feel with a painful clarity. This wasn't simple sadness. This was something more complex—a mix of reverence, gratitude, and a recognition that he was witnessing something very rare: a person who had achieved a true peace with a life that was never easy but was lived with an integrity that never wavered.
"Your mother would be proud," Li Yuan said with a gentleness that carried certainty.
Chen Ming nodded slowly, his hand wiping away the tears with an almost shy motion, as if crying were a weakness even though no one would have judged him for it.
"I hope so," he said. "I hope... I hope she knows that I tried. That I didn't give up. That I found beauty even though I couldn't see it."
He stopped, his breath trembling.
"I also dreamed about the dreams that never came true," he continued in a tone that held a quiet acknowledgment. "When I was young, I wanted to... I wanted to travel. I wanted to 'see' the world—not with eyes, but with touch, with sound, with experience."
"I wanted to walk through mountains and hear the echo of my footsteps in the valley. I wanted to stand at the edge of the sea and feel the waves on my feet. I wanted to... I wanted to know what it felt like to be in different places, to meet different people, to experience a life wider than this little valley."
The silence that fell after those words was heavy—not with bitter regret, but with an honest acknowledgment of the path not taken, of the possibilities that did not come to pass.
"But I never went," Chen Ming said with a simplicity that carried acceptance. "Not because I was too afraid. But because... because life happened. My mother got sick and needed care. Then my father. Then the garden needed attention. Then seasons changed and years passed and... and at some point I realized I was too old, too tired, too rooted here to leave."
He raised his hand with a trembling motion, touching the trunk of the tree behind him with a gentleness that carried a deep intimacy.
"And I made peace with that," he continued in a tone that held a genuine peace. "I made peace with the fact that my life was not grand or dramatic. That I did not travel or have great adventures. That the world I knew was limited to this valley, to these people, to this small garden."
"But this world is wide enough for a simple life," he said with a deep conviction. "This world—this valley, this tree, these people—is enough. It is more than enough."
Li Yuan felt the weight of those words in a way that went beyond intellectual understanding. This was not a forced justification or an empty consolation. This was a lived truth—a truth born from decades of living with a limitation and choosing to find richness within that limitation, not despite it.
"Is there anything you regret not doing?" Li Yuan asked gently, with caution—a question that could bring regret or peace depending on how it was answered.
Chen Ming was silent for a long time, his head tilted slightly as if he were listening to something others couldn't hear—perhaps the sound of birds in the distance, perhaps the whisper of the wind, perhaps just the internal dialogue between himself and his memories.
"No," he finally answered in a tone that carried perfect certainty. "I have done all that I need to. I lived. I tried to be kind. I did not harm anyone—or if I did, it was not on purpose and I tried to make it right."
"I tended to the plants. I spoke with neighbors. I tried not to let my blindness be an excuse for bitterness or anger."
He stopped, his hand seeking Li Yuan's hand and finding it, his fingers—cold and trembling—gripping with a surprising strength for someone so weak.
"I loved," he whispered in a voice that carried a great depth of emotion. "Maybe not in a dramatic or romantic way. But I loved my mother until she died. I loved my father. I loved my garden. I loved this valley. I loved the people who were kind to me—like Auntie Zhou, like Mr. Wu, like the children who finally learned not to be cruel."
"And I loved... I loved this life even though it was not perfect. Even though it was difficult. Even though I never saw my mother's face or the color of a sunset or the stars at night."
"That is enough," he said with a simplicity that held a profound truth. "It is more than enough. I have done all that I need to."
Li Yuan felt something break inside his chest—not with violence but with a painful gentleness, like a dam slowly releasing water it had held back for too long.
He realized—with a clarity that made him almost unable to breathe—that he was witnessing something very rare. A person who had reached the end of life without burning regret, without anger toward injustice, without despair over what never came to be.
Chen Ming had reached peace—not because his life was perfect, but because he had learned to accept imperfection with dignity, to find beauty in limitation, to love life for what it was rather than hate it for what it could not be.
"Chen Ming," Li Yuan said in a voice choked with emotions he couldn't fully contain, "you are one of the wisest people I have ever met."
Chen Ming smiled—a weak but genuinely warm smile.
"I am just an ordinary person who learned to live with what I was given," he said with a sincere humility. "There is no special wisdom in that. Just... acceptance. Just a choice not to let a limitation define me."
He stopped, his breath coming out with a tremor.
"But thank you," he whispered. "Thank you for saying that. Thank you for... for making these last days meaningful. For making me feel that my life—though small and simple—is worth remembering."
They sat in silence after that—a silence not filled with the need for additional words but with a deep contentment, with the acknowledgment that something important had been shared, something that would be carried forward beyond this moment.
The sun rose higher, the mist slowly disappeared, and life continued to move with a rhythm that never stopped.
And under that old tree, a man who had lived a simple but meaningful life sat with a peace that could not be bought or forced—a peace that could only be achieved through a life lived with integrity, with kindness, with an acceptance that never turned into bitterness.
His last story had been told.
His last memory had been shared.
And in that sharing, something precious had been passed on—something about how to live with dignity, how to love even when things aren't perfect, how to find peace not by avoiding difficulties but by accepting them with open eyes and a peaceful heart.
As always.
Without drama.
Just with a quiet honesty and a wisdom born from a life lived with perfect attention to every moment, every connection, every breath that was given and received with deep gratitude.
And in that sharing, a legacy was created—not a legacy of wealth or fame, but a more precious legacy: a legacy of how to die peacefully, of how to live with dignity, of how to find beauty in a life that was never easy but always, always worth living.