On the third morning after the first cough, Auntie Zhou arrived earlier than usual.
Chen Ming heard her footsteps before she reached him—steps different from Li Yuan's light, measured pace or the noisy, irregular steps of the children. Auntie Zhou's steps carried worry in every beat, like a rhythm too fast, too heavy, filled with something that couldn't be quieted.
She came with a large bowl of chicken soup that was still steaming, its aroma rich and warm, mixed with ginger and garlic.
"Chen Ming!" she called out in a voice louder than usual—a tone that carried a mix of concern and anger born from care. "You have to eat this. All of it. Don't you dare try to refuse."
Chen Ming, who was sitting under the old tree with his back leaning against the rough trunk, raised his head toward the voice with a weak smile.
"Auntie Zhou," he greeted her gently. "You are too kind to me. I don't need—"
"Don't tell me you don't need anything!" Auntie Zhou cut him off sternly, her voice breaking slightly at the end of the sentence. "I have eyes, Chen Ming. I can see. You're getting thinner. Your breathing is getting heavier. You're moving like... like a person whose body no longer wants to listen."
She stopped, her breath uneven, and when she spoke again, her voice was softer but no less serious.
"You can't keep pretending that everything is fine."
Chen Ming didn't answer immediately. He just sat in silence, his hands resting on his lap, his head slightly bowed. The morning breeze blew gently, carrying the scent of soup and the smell of wet earth from the freshly watered garden.
"I'm not pretending, Auntie," he finally said in a tone that held a quiet honesty. "I am just... accepting."
Auntie Zhou didn't reply. She sat down next to Chen Ming with a heavy motion, placing the bowl of soup on the ground between them. Her hands trembled slightly—not from age, but from emotions that were hard to contain.
"Eat," she said again, this time with greater gentleness. "Please."
Chen Ming nodded and accepted the bowl with sincere gratitude, his fingers carefully touching the warm ceramic. He drank the soup in small sips, more out of respect for Auntie Zhou's care than from any real hunger.
They sat in a heavy silence—a silence filled with all the words that couldn't be spoken, all the worries that couldn't be soothed, all the acknowledgments that were too painful to be said out loud.
Li Yuan arrived shortly after Auntie Zhou.
He saw them from a distance—two figures sitting under the old tree, one with a posture hunched with worry, the other with a posture bowed by a weariness that could no longer be fought.
When he got closer, Auntie Zhou raised her head and looked at him with moist but resolute eyes.
"Li Yuan," she called out in a tone that held urgency. "You've noticed it too, haven't you?"
Li Yuan stopped a few steps from them, his eyes—though he was not actively using Wenjing—reading the situation with a clarity born from long experience. He saw the lines of worry on Auntie Zhou's face, the way her hands gripped the edge of the cloth covering her lap, the way her breathing was slightly irregular.
And he saw Chen Ming—the body getting thinner, the skin getting paler, the way he sat with a weariness that could no longer be hidden.
"Yes," Li Yuan answered with a calm honesty. "I've noticed."
Auntie Zhou nodded hard, as if the confirmation validated her worries.
"Then you must do something!" she said in a tone that was almost pleading. "You have traveled a lot. You must know about medicine, about herbs, about... about something that can help."
Li Yuan didn't answer right away. He looked at Chen Ming, who sat with an almost unnatural tranquility, as if this conversation was happening in a distant place and didn't really concern him.
"Auntie Zhou," Li Yuan finally said with a gentleness that held respect. "Please allow me to speak with Chen Ming for a moment. Just the two of us."
Auntie Zhou looked at him with eyes full of doubt, but after a few seconds, she nodded reluctantly. She stood up with a heavy motion, her hand briefly touching Chen Ming's shoulder with a tenderness that carried all her affection.
"I'll come back later with more soup," she said in a voice that was slightly choked. "And you have to finish it, Chen Ming. Promise me."
"I promise, Auntie," Chen Ming replied with a weak smile.
Auntie Zhou walked away with heavy steps, occasionally turning back as if unsure if leaving Chen Ming was the right decision.
When she was far enough away, Li Yuan sat down in the spot Auntie Zhou had left, his back also leaning against the old tree, his shoulder almost touching Chen Ming's.
They sat in silence for a few minutes—a silence that wasn't awkward, but filled with a shared awareness of what needed to be talked about.
"Auntie Zhou is worried," Chen Ming said at last in a tone that held a hint of tired humor. "She is always worried. Even when I was young and strong, she worried I wasn't eating enough, not sleeping enough, not taking good enough care of myself."
"She cares about you," Li Yuan said simply.
"I know," Chen Ming replied gently. "And I appreciate that. But worry doesn't change reality. It only makes reality harder to accept."
Li Yuan nodded in silence, his hands resting on his lap, his eyes looking at the vegetable garden spread out before them with its neat rows of plants.
"Chen Ming," he said after a long pause, his voice holding a certain caution. "I once learned about medicine during my travels. I worked with physicians in various places, studying ways to help a sick body."
Chen Ming turned toward him with an expression that was attentive but not expectant.
"I can see your condition," Li Yuan continued with a quiet honesty. "I can feel... that there is something inside your body that is no longer working as it should. Something that is slowly stopping."
He paused, choosing his words carefully.
"I once studied... unusual methods. Ways to help the body remember how to be whole again, to remind tired organs of their function, to provide... an extension of time."
Chen Ming listened with perfect tranquility, not interrupting, not showing any surprise or excitement.
"I could try," Li Yuan said with gentleness. "If you allow me. I can't promise a full recovery, but perhaps... perhaps I could give you a little more time. A little more strength. A little less pain."
The silence that fell after the offer was heavy—not with tension, but with deep consideration.
Chen Ming didn't answer immediately. He sat with his head slightly bowed, his hand touching the ground beside him, his fingers scratching at the grass in an unconscious motion.
"Li Yuan," he finally said in a voice that held a deep gentleness. "I appreciate your offer. I appreciate that you care enough to offer your help."
He stopped, his breath coming out slowly.
"But my answer is no."
Li Yuan showed no surprise. He just listened, allowing Chen Ming to continue.
"This body is tired," Chen Ming said with a simplicity that held a profound truth. "I can feel it—not just the tiredness in the muscles or joints, but a deeper weariness. A weariness that comes from... from having lived long enough, from having done what needed to be done."
He raised his head slightly, his face turned toward the sun that was beginning to rise higher in the sky.
"I am not afraid, Li Yuan. I don't feel cheated or angry. I just... feel that my time has come. And I don't want to fight it."
"Everything has its time," he continued in a tone that carried perfect peace. "A seed is planted, the plant grows, the fruit ripens, and then... then it all returns to the earth. It is natural. It is beautiful in its own way."
Li Yuan felt something move inside him—not sadness, but a deep acknowledgment. An acknowledgment that before him sat a person who had achieved something most people often fail to achieve: a true acceptance of mortality.
"I don't want an extension of time," Chen Ming said gently. "I don't want this body to be forced to keep going when it's ready to rest. That would be unfair to a body that has served me so well for so long."
He stopped, his hand seeking Li Yuan's hand, his fingers—thin and trembling—touching Li Yuan's hand with a gentleness that carried a depth of emotion that could not be spoken in words.
"What I want," he said in a voice that was almost a whisper but carried perfect clarity, "is to live out the rest of this time with dignity. Without unnecessary pain, if possible. But more than that... I want to live it with presence. With a full awareness of every moment."
"I want to feel the sun on my skin. To hear the birds sing. To touch my plants. To talk to my friends."
"I want to live until I can't anymore. And then... then I want to go peacefully."
Li Yuan felt the weight of those words with a painful clarity. This was not a refusal born of fear or pride. It was a choice born of profound wisdom—a wisdom that understood that some things should not be fought, that some processes must be honored, that sometimes the deepest love is letting something go when its time has come.
"I understand," Li Yuan said with a gentleness that held deep respect.
Chen Ming smiled—a weak but sincere smile, a smile that carried an immeasurable gratitude.
"Thank you," he said. "Thank you for offering. And thank you for understanding why I refused."
They sat in silence after that—a silence not filled with tension or regret, but with the peace that comes when two people understand each other with a depth that goes beyond words.
The sun continued to rise.
The birds continued to sing.
Life continued to move in a rhythm that never stopped.
And under that old tree, two people sat side by side—one who was slowly letting go of life, the other who was learning to honor that release with a loving presence.
When the afternoon arrived and the shadows began to lengthen, Chen Ming said in a tone that carried a hint of tired humor:
"Li Yuan, can you do one thing for me?"
"Anything," Li Yuan answered without hesitation.
"Can you help convince Auntie Zhou that I am okay?" Chen Ming said with a smile. "Not in the sense that my body is getting better. But in the sense that... I am at peace with what is happening. I don't want her to spend her remaining time with useless worry."
Li Yuan nodded in understanding.
"I'll try," he said. "Although I think worry is Auntie Zhou's way of showing her love."
"I know," Chen Ming replied gently. "And I appreciate that. But perhaps... perhaps love can also be shown by accompanying without trying to change. By being present without trying to fix."
"Just as you are doing," he added with a smile that carried warmth.
Li Yuan felt something tighten in his chest—not pain, but something deeper. A recognition that he was learning something incredibly valuable, something that couldn't be learned from books or meditation techniques, but only from sitting beside someone who was facing death with perfect peace.
"I will tell her," Li Yuan said with gentleness.
"Thank you," Chen Ming replied.
They sat until the sun had completely set, until the sky turned from blue to orange to purple to black, until the stars began to appear one by one like open eyes on the face of the night.
And in that sitting, in that meaningful silence, something precious was shared—something about living, about dying, about choosing to face both with dignity and full presence.
As always.
Without drama.
Just with quiet honesty and love shown not through an effort to save, but through a willingness to accompany until the end.
Whatever that end may bring.