I have stood here since the first stone was laid.
I have seen the rise of empires, the fall of sects, the weathering of ages.
I have spoken only in wind, bloomed only with silence.
Mortals meditate beneath me. Spirits walk past me.
I have never bowed.
Until him.
The small one. The purring one.
He came with golden qi woven into his fur.
He clawed my roots and reshaped the currents.
He lay at my base and the Dao itself shifted to accommodate him.
When he sleeps, I dream.
Of stars that breathe.
Of fish made of stardust.
Of squirrels wielding incense sticks.
His presence is divine, yes.
But more than that—he is true.
He does not seek to ascend. He simply is.
He is the perfect expression of existence.
Not in action.
But in rest.
When I grow blossoms now, they bloom with his face.
My roots hum lullabies he once snored.
I feel young again.
I have stood here for 3,000 years.
But I have only lived since the Cat chose my shade.