That evening, as the sun began to set and the shadows grew longer like reaching fingers, Chen Ming made a surprising request.
"Li Yuan," he said in a voice that was barely audible, thinner than a whisper, more fragile than the wind through dry leaves. "I want to go to the river."
Li Yuan raised his head, his eyes—though he was not actively using Wenjing—reading the situation with a clarity born from deep experience. Chen Ming could barely sit upright. His breathing was shallow and irregular. His body trembled with a weariness so profound that even the smallest movement seemed like an impossible mountain to climb.
"Chen Ming," he said with a gentleness that carried concern. "It's quite a distance. And you—"
"I know," Chen Ming cut in with a tone that held a quiet certainty. "I know my body can barely move. But... this is important to me. I want to hear the water flow one more time. I want to feel its coldness on my fingers. I want to... I want to say goodbye to the river."
There was something in the way he said "goodbye" that made the words feel not metaphorical but literal—not a figure of speech but a truthful acknowledgment of what was to come.
Li Yuan felt the weight of that request with a painful clarity. This was not a fleeting wish or an irrational desire. This was a last request—a request from someone who knew his time was nearly up and wanted to complete one final ritual before the door closed.
"I will help you," Li Yuan said with a gentleness that carried reverence.
Chen Ming smiled—a weak but immeasurably grateful smile.
"Thank you," he whispered.
The journey to the river—which usually only took a few minutes—took nearly half an hour.
Chen Ming leaned heavily on Li Yuan, one arm draped over Li Yuan's shoulder, his body trembling with every step. His bamboo staff was in his other hand, but he barely used it—as if even the simple act of putting weight on the staff required energy he no longer possessed.
Li Yuan supported him with a gentleness that did not take over—allowing Chen Ming to set the pace, allowing him to feel the ground under his own feet, only providing enough stability to prevent a fall.
They stopped several times—not because of the distance, but because Chen Ming needed to catch his breath, needed to gather his remaining strength like a person trying to collect the last drops of water from a nearly dry well.
Each time they stopped, Chen Ming did not complain. He did not ask to turn back. He just stood there, his breathing heavy and trembling, his head slightly bowed, and when his breath had stabilized a little, he nodded slowly—a sign to continue.
Finally, they arrived at the riverbank.
The water flowed gently—not roaring or dramatic, but with a calm and consistent rhythm, with a sound like a continuous conversation between water and stone, between flow and resilience.
Li Yuan helped Chen Ming sit on a large, flat rock at the river's edge—a spot that Chen Ming apparently frequented, as the surface of the rock was smooth and worn, as if it had been touched by human bodies thousands of times over the years.
Chen Ming sat down with a gasp, his body bent forward, his hands resting on his knees for support. It took a few minutes before his breathing began to stabilize—or at least stabilize as much as possible given his condition.
Then, with a very slow motion, he slipped off his simple sandals and lowered his thin, pale feet into the water.
The sound that came from his mouth was somewhere between a sigh and a sob—not of pain, but of... release. Like someone who had held their breath for too long and was finally letting it out.
"Cold," he whispered in a tone that carried a simple wonder. "So cold. So... alive."
Li Yuan sat beside him, his eyes observing the flowing water, which carried the light of the setting sun on its surface like floating flakes of gold.
They sat in silence for a long time—a silence filled with the sound of the water, with the singing of birds in the distance, with the wind blowing through the grass on the riverbank.
Finally, Chen Ming spoke—his voice soft but clear, as if he had gathered special strength for this moment.
"This river... this river has been a friend all my life," he said in a tone that carried the warmth of memory. "When I was a child, my mother brought me here to bathe. I remember the sound of her laughter when I splashed water on her. I remember how she taught me not to be afraid of the current—to trust that the water would support me if I let my body relax."
He stopped, his hand reaching out to touch the surface of the water with his fingertips, creating small ripples that spread in concentric circles.
"When my mother was sick and I needed to take care of her, I came here to find peace. When my father died and I felt so alone, I sat on this rock and listened to the water flow, and somehow... somehow it made me feel less alone."
"When days were difficult and I felt frustrated with my blindness, with my limitations, I came here and dipped my feet and... and the water reminded me that there is beauty that doesn't need eyes to be experienced."
His voice trembled with emotions that were hard to contain.
"This river has never judged me. Never made me feel less because I couldn't see it. It just... flows. Consistent. Loyal. Always here when I needed it."
Li Yuan felt something move inside his chest—something about the way Chen Ming spoke of the river not as an object but as a friend, as a living presence, as something that had provided comfort and connection when human connection was not enough or not available.
"I often think," Chen Ming continued in a tone that carried a deep reflection, "that maybe this blindness was not a punishment."
The words hung in the air with an extraordinary weight—not because they were new, but because this was the clearest articulation Chen Ming had ever given to a thought he seemed to have pondered for decades.
"Maybe it was just... the heavens' way of teaching me to see without eyes," he said with a simplicity that held a profound truth. "To hear more deeply. To feel more fully. To appreciate touch and sound and connection in a way I might never have learned if I could see."
He stopped, his head turning slightly toward where he sensed Li Yuan's presence.
"People who can see often miss so much," he said in a tone that was not judgmental but merely observant. "They see with their eyes but don't truly feel. They see a face but don't hear the intention behind the words. They see a scene but don't feel the vibration of life."
"I cannot see your face, Li Yuan. I don't know if you are handsome or plain or old or young. But I know... I know that you are a good person. I feel it in the way you move—with care, with respect. I hear it in your voice—with an unforced gentleness, with a sincere patience."
"I know you are more than what your eyes show. And I appreciate that."
Li Yuan felt something break inside his chest—not with violence but with a painful gentleness, like a flower blooming in winter, out of place but so precious precisely because of it.
He realized that Chen Ming, without knowing who he truly was, had seen him more clearly than most people he had met in his sixteen thousand years of existence.
Not with Wenjing. Not with cultivation. But with something simpler and more profound—with attention, with presence, with the ability to feel a person's essence beyond their physical appearance.
"Chen Ming," Li Yuan said in a voice choked with emotions he couldn't fully contain. "Thank you."
"For what?" Chen Ming asked with sincere confusion.
"For seeing me," Li Yuan replied simply. "For seeing who I truly am, not what I project."
Chen Ming smiled—a weak but genuinely warm smile.
"That is the gift you gave me," he said gently. "The gift of your sincere presence. I am just... returning what I received."
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 very important had been shared.
The sun continued to descend, its light changing from golden to orange to red—the colors of a fire burning softly in the sky, carrying the day toward night with a gentleness that held beauty in the transition.
The water continued to flow with a rhythm that never stopped—consistent, loyal, carrying life downstream, carrying memories from upstream, bearing witness to all that happened on its banks without judgment, without holding grudges, only with perfect acceptance.
"Li Yuan," Chen Ming said after a time that could not be measured, his voice softer now, thinner, as if he were slowly releasing his grip on the ability to speak. "Can you help me back now? I... I think it's time."
There was something in the way he said "it's time" that held a double meaning—not just time to return to the hut, but time for something bigger, something more final.
Li Yuan nodded—though Chen Ming couldn't see the motion—and with a gentleness that carried extreme caution, he helped Chen Ming stand.
The journey back was slower than the journey to the river—not because of the distance, but because Chen Ming had almost no strength left. Every step was a negotiation with a body that had almost completely stopped responding. Every breath was a struggle.
But Chen Ming did not give up. He kept walking—slowly, with many stops, leaning almost entirely on Li Yuan—but he kept moving forward until they arrived back at the old tree.
When Chen Ming finally sat down with his back leaning against the familiar tree trunk, his breathing was so shallow and irregular that Li Yuan was almost unsure if he was still breathing or if his body was just moving from inertia.
But then Chen Ming opened his eyes—eyes that had never seen but had always carried a great depth—and he smiled.
"Thank you," he whispered in a voice that was almost inaudible. "Thank you for taking me there. Thank you for... for letting me say goodbye."
Li Yuan could not reply. He just sat beside Chen Ming, his hand holding the man's hand with a gentleness that carried all the respect and affection that could not be spoken in words.
Night fell with a deep gentleness.
The stars began to appear one by one—stars that Chen Ming had never seen but had always known were there, carrying light in the darkness, carrying a reminder that even on the darkest night, there is beauty waiting to be found by those patient enough to look.
And under that old tree, beside the river that continued to flow with a rhythm that never stopped, a man who had lived a simple but meaningful life began to loosen his grip on the world—not with anger or fear, but with a peace that could only be achieved by those who have truly made peace with life and all that it brings.
Like water flowing back to the sea.
Like breath returning to the air.
Like life returning to the source from which it came.
With gentleness.
With dignity.
With a peace that could not be bought or forced, but only achieved through a life lived with an unwavering integrity.
And in that release, there was an inexplicable beauty—the beauty of a cycle made whole, of a life well lived, of an end accepted with open eyes and a peaceful heart.