Morning
That morning came with a silence different from all the mornings before.
It was not a silence filled with anticipation or possibility, but a silence that felt like a room after someone has just left—still warm from their presence, but undeniably empty.
Li Yuan walked to the old tree as usual, his steps carrying a rhythm that had become a ritual over the past month. But this time, something in his chest tightened—something that wasn't fear but recognition, an awareness that the moment that had been waiting with silent patience had finally arrived.
Chen Ming was not under the tree.
For the first time in a month, the spot was empty—just the slightly pressed grass where his body used to sit, just the bamboo staff lying by its side as if waiting for a hand that would never pick it up again.
Li Yuan stopped, his breath held for a moment, and then he turned toward Chen Ming's small hut.
The door was unlocked—it had never been locked, because Chen Ming had always said that a person who had nothing had no reason to fear losing anything.
Li Yuan knocked gently, his voice almost inaudible.
"Chen Ming?"
There was no answer.
He waited for a few seconds—seconds that felt like a compressed eternity—and then he opened the door carefully, the morning light filtering into the small room that had been Chen Ming's world for decades.
Chen Ming was there.
He was sitting on the edge of the simple bed made of straw and cloth—not lying down like a person sleeping, but sitting with his back leaning against the rough wooden wall, his legs folded in front of him, his hands resting on his lap with a gentleness that was almost a prayer.
His eyes were open—eyes that had never seen but had always carried a great depth—but his gaze was empty, unfocused on anything, as if he were looking at something very far away or very deep that ordinary sight could not reach.
His breath—Li Yuan realized with a painful clarity—was so shallow that it was almost imperceptible. His chest rose and fell with a motion so small, so fragile, as if each breath were a negotiation with a body that had almost completely stopped responding.
"Chen Ming," Li Yuan said softly, moving to sit on the edge of the bed, not too close to intrude but close enough to be present.
Chen Ming raised his head with a very slow motion, as if even that simple act required strength that was almost gone. The smile that came to his face was a shadow of a shadow—almost imperceptible, like light filtered through a thick mist.
"Li Yuan," he whispered in a voice that sounded like the wind through nearly-fallen leaves. "You came."
"I always come," Li Yuan replied, his voice choked with emotions that were hard to contain.
Chen Ming nodded very slowly.
"I guess... I guess I won't be going to the garden today," he said in a tone that held a simple statement of fact, without regret, without anger, only with perfect acceptance.
"You don't need to," Li Yuan said gently. "The garden is taken care of. Everything is complete."
"Yes," Chen Ming whispered. "Everything is complete."
The words hung in the air with an extraordinary weight—not just about the garden, but about life, about the work that had been done, about a cycle that was nearly complete.
They sat in silence after that—a silence not filled with the need to fill the space with words, but with a willingness to let the moment be what it was, without trying to fix or change or extend it beyond what it was meant to be.
The minutes passed like drops of water—slow, inevitable, carrying time forward with a gentleness that left no room for negotiation.
Midday
As the sun rose higher and the light filtering through the small window moved across the wooden floor, Auntie Zhou arrived.
She carried a bowl of soup as usual, but this time her hands trembled so much that the liquid nearly spilled. Her face was wet with tears she no longer tried to hide—tears she had held back for days but now flowed freely, without shame, without restraint.
"Chen Ming," she said in a choked voice, kneeling beside the bed with a heavy motion. "Please eat a little. Please."
Chen Ming turned toward her with a very slow movement, and the smile that came to his face carried an indescribable gentleness.
"Auntie Zhou," he whispered. "Don't cry. This is just a long sleep."
"Don't say that," Auntie Zhou sobbed, her hand touching Chen Ming's cheek with a tenderness that carried all the affection she had stored for so many years. "Don't say that as if you're going away."
"But I am going away," Chen Ming said with a simplicity that held an undeniable truth. "And it's okay. It's natural. It's part of the story."
Auntie Zhou cried harder, her head bowed, her shoulders shaking with an uncontainable sadness.
Chen Ming raised his hand with great effort and touched Auntie Zhou's head with a gentleness that carried a blessing.
"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you for caring about me. Thank you for not leaving me alone. You are family to me. And I... I will carry your memory with gratitude."
Auntie Zhou couldn't reply. She just cried—a cry that came from a place so deep that words could not reach it.
Not long after, Mr. Wu arrived with Wei and the other children.
They stood at the doorway with wide, serious eyes, not saying anything, just observing with a faint awareness that they were witnessing something important, something they would remember for the rest of their lives.
Chen Ming called Wei with a weak gesture.
"Wei," he said in a voice that was almost inaudible. "Come here."
Wei approached with hesitant steps, his eyes moist but he was not crying. He knelt beside the bed, his hands clenched in his lap.
"Uncle Chen," he said in a trembling voice. "I... I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything."
Chen Ming shook his head very slowly.
"There is nothing to forgive," he whispered. "You have learned. You have changed. That is what matters."
He stopped, his breath trembling.
"Wei, I want you to remember something," he continued in a tone that carried a profound seriousness. "Kindness is not a weakness. Patience is not submission. Acceptance is not giving up."
"You have the power to choose how you treat people. And that choice... that choice defines you more than anything anyone else says about you."
Wei nodded hard, tears finally falling even though he tried to hold them back.
"I will remember, Uncle Chen," he said in a choked voice. "I promise."
Chen Ming smiled—a weak but genuinely warm smile.
"Good," he whispered. "That is enough."
Afternoon
When the afternoon arrived and the light began to change from golden to orange, Chen Ming spoke in a very soft voice.
"Li Yuan," he said. "Can you take me under the tree? For the last time."
Li Yuan felt the weight of that request with a painful clarity. He knew—with a certainty that needed no words—that this was the final request, the final ritual, the final moment before the door closed.
"Of course," he said gently.
With Mr. Wu's help, Li Yuan helped Chen Ming out of the hut. The man's body was almost weightless—like a fragile bird, like a leaf about to fall, like something that was already half-gone, only habit keeping it still tied to the world.
They walked very slowly—every step was a struggle, every breath was a negotiation—but Chen Ming did not give up. He kept moving forward until they arrived at the old tree, the place that had been a sanctuary, a friend, a witness to so many moments in his life.
Li Yuan helped Chen Ming sit with his back leaning against the familiar tree trunk, a position that had been his home for the last month.
Chen Ming sighed—a sigh that sounded like release, like coming home after a long journey.
"This place..." he whispered, his hand touching the tree trunk with a gentleness that carried a deep intimacy. "This place feels right."
He stopped, his head turned slightly toward where he sensed Li Yuan's presence.
"Thank you," he said in a voice that was almost inaudible. "Thank you for accompanying me."
"Thank you for teaching me," Li Yuan replied, his voice choked.
Chen Ming smiled.
"Now I will rest," he whispered. "This world is beautiful enough to remember without having to see it."
Those words—words he had spoken before, words that had become his life's philosophy—sounded like a final prayer, like a final statement, like a way of closing a book that had been well-written.
Night
The sun set with a deep gentleness, its light painting the sky with the colors of a fire that did not burn but only brought warmth, bringing beauty in the transition.
The small community gathered—not many people, because this valley was not large, but every person who came brought a sincere presence, a respectful silence, a willingness to bear witness without trying to change what could not be changed.
They sat in a loose circle around Chen Ming and Li Yuan—Auntie Zhou with a face wet with tears, Mr. Wu with his head bowed in respect, Wei and the children with eyes that were serious and wise beyond their years.
No one spoke. Nothing needed to be said.
They were just present—a presence that became the last gift, the last witness, the last tribute to a life lived with dignity.
Chen Ming's breathing became fainter, lighter—each gasp of air becoming smaller, thinner, as if he were slowly disappearing like mist in the morning sun.
Li Yuan held his hand—a hand that was thin and cold, a hand that trembled with the last remnants of a life that was almost gone—and he did not let go.
Li Yuan released a wisp of one of his 18 understandings, the understanding of the soul, for a moment within his touch and enclosed it as before.
He sat there, his presence as steady as the earth, as the tree, as everything that does not move but provides unwavering support.
And very slowly, with an indescribable gentleness, Chen Ming's breathing became fainter and fainter until...
Until there was nothing left.
There was no light descending from the sky. There was no sound of the Dao. There were no spiritual phenomena or cosmic signs.
Just the ordinary silence of a human returning to the earth—a silence that was not empty but full, full of all that had been lived, all that had been felt, all that had been loved.
Li Yuan sat there, his hand still holding Chen Ming's hand—a hand that was no longer warm, no longer trembling, just cold and still—and he felt the weight of that moment in a way that went beyond words.
This was not a tragedy. This was a completion.
This was not a wrong end. This was a right end—an end that came in its time, that was accepted with open eyes, that was surrounded by love and community and respect.
Chen Ming had gone.
But he had gone in the way he wanted—with dignity, with peace, with the presence of people who cared, under the tree that had been his friend, in the valley that had been his world.
And in that departure, there was an inexplicable beauty—the beauty of a life made complete, of a cycle finished, of a story well-written to the very last word.
Li Yuan sat there until dawn arrived—sitting with a presence that never wavered, with a hand that never let go, with a respect that never diminished.
When the first light touched the horizon, the villagers came with spades and cloth—not with noise or drama, but with a simplicity that carried reverence.
They dug a grave under the old tree—the place Chen Ming loved the most, the place that had been a sanctuary, the place that would now be his final rest.
Chen Ming was buried simply—wrapped in a white cloth, lowered into the earth with gentleness, covered with the soil he had tended for decades.
There were no long speeches. There were no elaborate rituals.
Only Auntie Zhou who placed a handful of wild flowers on the grave, her hand trembling, tears flowing silently.
Only Wei who knelt and touched the earth with his forehead, the traditional way of showing the deepest respect.
Only the small community that stood in silence—a silence that was not empty but full of memories, of gratitude, of an acknowledgment that they had witnessed something rare: a life lived with an integrity that never wavered.
Li Yuan stood the longest—standing until everyone else had left, standing until the sun rose higher, standing with eyes that stared at the new grave but a mind that drifted to all that had been taught, all that had been shared, all that would be carried forward.
"Thank you, Chen Ming," he whispered at last, his voice choked with emotions he could no longer contain. "Thank you for teaching me how to see without eyes. Thank you for showing me that beauty does not need sight. Thank you for living with a dignity that taught me more than all the cultivation I have ever done."
He stopped, his breath trembling.
"I will remember. I will carry your lesson. And I will... I will try to live in a way that honors what you taught."
The wind blew gently, carrying the scent of fresh soil and green leaves.
And somehow, in that wind, Li Yuan felt something like an answer—not in words, but in a presence, in a reminder that those who live with integrity never truly leave, they just change form, becoming part of the earth, of the tree, of the life that continues.
As always.
Unceasingly.
With the gentleness that comes when a cycle is complete, when a story is finished, when a life has been well lived.
And in that completion, there was peace—a peace that could not be bought or forced, but only achieved through acceptance, through love, through the willingness to live fully until the very last moment.
After time passed in a long silence, Li Yuan closed his eyes. With one measured breath, he guided Chen Ming's soul into his Zhenjing—a place where five million other souls reside in peace.
Amidst that sea of consciousness, a single gentle light appeared—not screaming, not shining brightly, just burning calmly like a lantern in the midst of a mist.
That light was Chen Ming.
And for a moment, the entire Zhenjing felt... calmer than it had ever been.
Chen Ming had returned to the silence.
But that silence was not empty. That silence was filled with faint echoes.
And Li Yuan knew—a part of him would always speak in that silence.
It was full of all that he had given, all that he had taught, all that would continue to live on in the hearts of those who knew him.
And that was the most precious legacy of all.