The morning began with stillness.
Even the forest seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the first ripple of air to move through the trees. It was that quiet hour before dawn when the stars still clung to the sky, and mist floated like breath above the stream.
Arin sat cross-legged on a flat stone, eyes closed, his back straight as a pine. He had learned to sit without fidgeting, without seeking comfort — but his young face was still scrunched in faint frustration.
Beside him, Goran knelt, silent and unyielding as the mountain itself. The old man's breath came slowly, measured, as if he were in conversation with the wind.
"Master," Arin whispered at last, breaking the long silence, "what am I listening for?"
Goran did not open his eyes. "You tell me."
Arin hesitated. "The stream? The birds?"
"No."
"The trees, then?"
"No."
"Then what?"
"The space between them."
The boy blinked, confused. He tilted his head slightly, trying to hear something beyond hearing. Only the faint murmur of water and the rustle of leaves reached him. After a moment, he frowned and sighed.
"There's nothing there."
Goran opened his eyes then — sharp, patient, ancient. "Nothing?"
Arin nodded. "Just silence."
The old man smiled faintly. "Then you've found it."
---
For the rest of that morning, they sat without speaking. The wind began to stir softly through the trees, carrying scents of pine, snow, and earth. Each gust brushed past Arin's skin like invisible fingers, but he no longer flinched or shivered.
The boy's mind began to slow — thoughts scattered like leaves in a stream, carried away by stillness. He began to notice things he had never felt before: the distant hum of the forest's breath, the rhythm of his own heartbeat matching the pulse of the world, the tiny vibration of air as sunlight warmed the mist.
It was not sound in the usual sense. It was life itself, whispering.
When at last he opened his eyes, the world seemed different — clearer, alive, vast.
"Master," he said softly, "the wind… it speaks."
Goran smiled. "What does it say?"
Arin paused. "It says… it has always been speaking. I just never listened."
The old man nodded approvingly. "Good. That is the first step. When you learn to listen to the world, you'll also begin to hear your own heart. The noise of men is only loud because they have forgotten how quiet truth is."
---
That evening, they sat outside watching the sunset spill across the peaks like liquid gold. Arin leaned against a tree, still half lost in thought.
"Master," he said at last, "why do you always tell me to listen instead of speak?"
"Because words are born from the tongue, but wisdom is born from silence."
"But if everyone stayed silent, how would people understand each other?"
Goran chuckled. "They would finally start to look instead of talk. Most men's eyes are blind because their mouths never stop moving. Listening is not just with the ears, Arin — it's with the heart. When you listen deeply, even lies become unnecessary."
Arin's brows furrowed. "Then… you mean silence can teach me everything?"
"Not everything," Goran said. "But it can teach you what questions are worth asking."
---
Days passed into weeks, and Goran's lessons grew more unusual.
He would have Arin stand in the stream for hours, eyes closed, arms outstretched, while water roared around him. Sometimes, he would tie a small bell to Arin's wrist and tell him to move through the forest without letting it ring once.
At first, the boy found it frustrating. The stream numbed his legs, the bell mocked his every stumble. But gradually, he began to understand. The bell was not an obstacle — it was a mirror. Each sound it made revealed where his body fought against the world instead of flowing with it.
One afternoon, as sunlight scattered through the trees, Arin walked from one end of the clearing to the other. The bell stayed silent.
When he reached the cabin, Goran was waiting with a faint smile.
"So," he said, "you've learned how to move without disturbing the world."
Arin looked at him shyly. "Not really. I just… stopped thinking about it."
"That," Goran said, tapping his chest, "is the whole secret of mastery. The more the mind talks, the less the heart listens."
---
At night, when they sat by the fire, Goran would sometimes tell stories.
Once, he spoke of a warrior who could cut mountains with his sword but died nameless in a ditch because his heart was full of hatred. Another night, he spoke of a monk who could heal wounds but poisoned his own soul with envy.
"Power," Goran said one night, staring into the flames, "is like water. If it flows, it nourishes. If it stagnates, it rots. You must decide whether your strength will feed or destroy."
Arin watched the firelight flicker across his master's face, the lines carved deep like the ridges of old mountains. "Master… have you ever destroyed?"
The old man's hand paused above the kettle. For a long moment, he said nothing. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but heavy.
"Yes."
He looked into the flames as if seeing something far away. "Once, I thought I was strong because I could defeat men. I didn't realize that every victory left me emptier. I walked away before I forgot what peace felt like. That's why I live here."
Arin said nothing. He didn't yet understand the weight in his teacher's voice, but he sensed it — like thunder behind distant clouds.
---
The next morning, Goran woke to the sound of laughter.
It startled him at first — laughter was rare in his world of solitude. He stepped outside to find Arin standing in the stream, arms out, letting the wind toss his hair and the water splash against him.
"Arin," he called, half amused, "what madness is this?"
The boy turned, grinning. "I was listening to the wind again. It's saying something funny today."
"Oh? And what does the wind find so amusing?"
"It says the old man's face looks like a potato."
Goran stared for a moment, then burst out laughing — a deep, booming laugh that frightened a flock of nearby birds into flight.
"Then the wind must be wiser than I thought," he said. "Perhaps it knows more of the world's truth than any philosopher."
The boy laughed too, and for a moment, the mountain echoed with something it hadn't heard in decades — joy.
---
That night, as the stars rose above the peaks, Goran looked at the sleeping boy beside the hearth.
"He's learning faster than I ever did," he muttered softly. "And he still smiles while doing it."
He turned to the window, where the wind sighed against the wood.
"Perhaps that's what I lost, old friend," he whispered to the air. "Perhaps true strength isn't in silence alone… but in the joy found within it."
Outside, the wind carried no reply — only the soft rustle of leaves, the same whisper it had shared since the world began.
But to Goran's old ears, it almost sounded like laughter.
---