The mountain was quiet that morning.
The kind of quiet that feels deliberate — as though even the wind refused to intrude.
The air was crisp, heavy with the scent of pine and morning frost. The sunlight came softly through the trees, slanting in golden ribbons that fell over the porch where Goran still sat — wrapped in his blanket, eyes half-open, lips curved in that faint, eternal smile.
It had been hours since Arin had moved.
He knelt before his master's body, hands resting on his thighs, breath slow, even, as though the act of silence was the only thing holding him together.
He didn't cry.
He didn't speak.
He simply sat.
The wolf, Karo, lay nearby with his head on his paws, whimpering softly.
Even the stream below had gone quiet, its murmur strangely subdued — as though the entire mountain grieved with him.
---
When the sun had climbed high enough to warm the porch, Arin finally rose.
His movements were slow, deliberate. He took a deep breath, looked once more at Goran's still face, and bowed.
Then he said quietly, "You always said life moves in circles. So I'll return you to where you began."
---
He carried his master's body to the pine grove north of the clearing — a place Goran loved.
It was peaceful there.
Tall pines stood in solemn ranks, their needles whispering softly. The ground was thick with moss and roots, and the scent of sap hung sweet in the air.
Arin laid the body gently on the earth, then turned and began to dig.
He didn't use tools.
He dug with his hands — bare, steady, patient. Each scoop of soil came with a memory.
The time Goran laughed so hard he nearly dropped his tea.
The lessons by the stream.
The night they had sat under the stars, talking about silence and sky.
The ground was hard, but Arin didn't stop. His breath came slow, measured. His palms bled, but he didn't flinch.
By the time the hole was deep enough, the sun had already crossed its zenith.
He wiped his hands on his robe, then knelt beside Goran one last time.
---
"Master," he whispered, "you said the body is only the shell of the soul. That what we teach, what we love — that's what stays behind."
He smiled faintly, though his voice trembled. "Then you'll never leave me."
He placed a folded cloth beside the old man — Goran's staff, cut cleanly in half.
"So you can rest, not fight," he said softly. "You've done enough."
Then, closing his eyes, he lowered his master into the earth and covered him with soil — gently, reverently, like a prayer returned to the sky.
When it was done, he sat beside the fresh mound for a long time, saying nothing.
The wind moved softly through the trees. The pine needles rustled, and for a fleeting moment, it almost sounded like a sigh — or perhaps, a whisper of approval.
---
As dusk began to fall, he gathered stones from the riverbank and built a cairn over the grave.
He worked until the last light faded, stacking the stones carefully, one atop another, each one chosen with care.
When he placed the final stone, he pressed his palms together and bowed deeply.
"May the wind guide you," he said. "And may it carry my thanks wherever you are."
Karo sat beside him, silent, watching.
The forest was dark now. The only light came from the moon, pale and silver, spilling between the trees.
Arin lifted his gaze to it. His reflection glowed faintly in the white light, his face streaked with dirt and quiet sorrow.
He spoke softly, almost to himself. "You told me the world would test me. I think this is the first one."
He looked back toward the grave. "You said every master must one day become a voice in the wind."
The breeze stirred, brushing his cheek.
Arin closed his eyes, a small, bittersweet smile forming. "Then keep whispering, Master. I'll be listening."
---
He didn't sleep that night.
He sat by the fire, staring into the flames. They danced the way Goran used to move — steady, patient, never wasting energy.
Every so often, the fire cracked, and Arin's eyes would flicker toward the sound, half-expecting to hear that deep, familiar chuckle.
When dawn finally came, he rose quietly. He cleaned the cabin, stacked the bowls, swept the floor.
Then he looked at the doorway — the one Goran had stood in a hundred times, watching him train.
"I'll come back," he promised softly. "But I have to see what you wanted me to see."
He stepped outside. The morning air was cool and alive. The mountain spread out before him — green and vast and endless.
He turned to Karo. "It's time."
The wolf tilted his head, whined once, then trotted forward.
Arin followed, each step heavy yet certain.
---
When he reached the ridge, he stopped and turned for one last look at the cabin.
The pines swayed gently around it. The roof gleamed in the sunlight. Smoke rose faintly from the chimney — though there was no fire inside.
It looked almost alive.
"Goodbye," Arin whispered.
Then, with the wind at his back and his master's teachings in his heart, he began his descent.
---
The path down the mountain was long and winding. He had never walked it before. Each step took him further from the world he had known, the world of silence and sky, and closer to the unknown — the world of men, with all its noise and pain and beauty.
The forest thinned as he went. The air grew warmer, heavier. The sounds changed — birds gave way to the faint echoes of distant bells, of wheels, of human life somewhere far below.
He paused once to look back. From here, the peak was shrouded in mist, glowing faintly under the sun.
And for a brief moment, he thought he saw a figure standing there — an old man with white hair, smiling in the light.
Then the wind shifted, and the image faded.
---
By the time Arin reached the foot of the mountain, dusk had returned. He stood on the edge of a narrow dirt road, staring at the open horizon.
He had never seen so much space before — plains stretching endlessly, villages nestled between hills, rivers glinting in the distance.
The world was vast. Beautiful. Alive.
He took a deep breath. "So this is it," he murmured. "The world you wanted me to see."
Karo barked once beside him, tail wagging.
Arin smiled. "Let's see what needs healing."
And with that, he stepped forward — into the unknown, into the world his master had dreamed he would change.
---
The wind rose softly behind him, carrying the faintest echo of a familiar voice:
> "Remember, Arin — silence is the breath between every heartbeat."
He smiled, not looking back. "I know, Master. I'll listen."
The mountain stood tall behind him, ancient and proud, its slopes bathed in the light of a setting sun.
And as he walked into the wide, waiting world, the man who had surpassed the limits of flesh carried with him the one truth his master had left behind —
That strength is not power.
It is gentleness that refuses to yield.
---