The day began with a pale dawn — soft light spilling across the snow-capped ridges, warming the mountain in slow, trembling strokes. Dew clung to the pine needles like beads of glass, and the stream murmured its endless song beneath a sky that still carried the chill of winter's breath.
Arin stood barefoot on a narrow bamboo pole stretched across the stream.
His arms were outstretched, his face calm — or rather, trying to appear calm — as the icy wind teased his balance. Every few seconds, his foot would tremble, his body sway, and then—
Splash.
He fell.
The cold bit into his skin like a thousand needles. He gasped and surfaced, his hair clinging to his face, water dripping from his lashes.
On the riverbank, Goran sat cross-legged, watching with the unbothered serenity of a man who had seen this a hundred times.
"Again," he said simply.
Arin groaned but obeyed, climbing back onto the pole. His small hands gripped the smooth surface, and once more he struggled to find stillness atop the swaying line of bamboo.
"Master," he muttered, shivering, "how long do I have to do this?"
"Until the river learns from you," Goran replied.
"But the river doesn't listen!"
The old man smiled faintly. "Then you have more to learn than it does."
Arin scowled, concentrating. The pole wobbled, and he froze, holding his breath. The mountain seemed to hold its breath with him.
Then a bird cried somewhere above, and the boy startled — splash.
Goran chuckled, a sound like dry wood cracking. "Good. You're learning."
Arin blinked water from his eyes. "I keep falling!"
"Then you're learning faster than I expected."
"That doesn't make sense!"
"Balance rarely does," Goran said, still smiling.
---
Later, when the sun had climbed higher, Goran walked to the water's edge, staff in hand.
"Do you know why you fall, Arin?"
"Because the pole is slippery?"
"Because your heart wavers."
"My heart? It's my feet!"
The old man tapped the bamboo lightly with his staff. The pole barely moved. "The body only trembles when the heart is uncertain. Balance doesn't come from the feet — it begins here." He tapped his chest. "Even if the world shifts beneath you, you must not let your center wander."
Arin frowned, thinking hard. "So… I shouldn't think about falling?"
"You shouldn't think at all."
"That's not helpful!"
"Then stop trying to be helped," Goran said. "Simply be."
Arin sighed, muttering something about impossible old men, but climbed back onto the pole again.
---
Hours passed.
The sun crossed halfway across the sky before Goran finally called for him to stop. Arin's legs were trembling, but his eyes were steady — clearer than before.
"You did well," Goran said, handing him a towel. "You fell less this time."
"I still fell a lot."
"Then tomorrow, fall less again."
As they walked back to the cabin, Arin looked at the ground, deep in thought. "Master… when I fell the last time, I stopped thinking about falling. I just felt the wind move through me. It was easier."
Goran nodded approvingly. "The wind moves because it doesn't care where it's going. If you can live the same way, even storms will bow to you."
Arin blinked. "So… I should be like the wind?"
"No." Goran smiled faintly. "The wind drifts without purpose. A man must have purpose — but he must walk it lightly, like a breeze carrying the scent of spring. Firm, yet free."
The boy nodded slowly, trying to understand. He didn't fully, not yet — but he felt something click quietly inside him. A thread of calm, faint but unmistakable.
---
That evening, as the sun sank behind the peaks, Goran brewed tea over the fire while Arin sat beside him, legs still sore.
"I think the pole hates me," Arin said suddenly.
Goran snorted. "Then you've made progress."
"Progress?"
"The world only resists those who disturb it. You've finally made it notice you."
Arin stared into the fire, puzzled. "You talk in circles, Master."
"Life moves in circles," Goran replied. "The trick is learning to walk them without getting dizzy."
Arin frowned. "You enjoy confusing me, don't you?"
"Every day," Goran said without hesitation.
Arin's laughter burst out before he could stop it. It was bright and childlike, echoing through the small cabin until even Goran couldn't help but smile.
When the laughter faded, silence returned — a gentle, comfortable silence, filled with the warmth of fire and the scent of tea.
After a while, Goran said softly, "Do you know why I make you fall?"
"Because it's funny?"
The old man chuckled. "Partly. But mostly because falling teaches humility. Strength without humility becomes cruelty. When you fall, you remember that the ground forgives."
Arin tilted his head. "Then… should I thank the ground?"
"Yes," Goran said seriously. "Every time you fall, thank the ground for catching you."
---
The next morning, Arin did exactly that.
Each time he lost his balance and splashed into the stream, he pressed his palms together, bowed to the water, and said earnestly, "Thank you."
By the fifth fall, Goran was laughing so hard he nearly dropped his staff.
"By the heavens, boy! If enlightenment were measured in bruises, you'd already be a saint!"
"I'm learning gratitude!" Arin protested, half-shivering, half-proud.
"And the river," Goran wheezed between laughs, "is learning patience."
---
By late afternoon, Arin finally managed to cross the bamboo pole without falling once. He stood on the far bank, dripping wet but radiant, the smile on his face brighter than the sun breaking through the clouds above.
Goran clapped his hands once, the sound echoing across the clearing.
"Well done."
Arin bowed deeply. "Thank you, Master."
"Remember this feeling," Goran said, tapping his chest. "This stillness. It isn't victory — it's understanding. The balance you found on that pole must one day hold against all the world's storms."
Arin nodded. "I'll remember."
"Good. Then we'll see how long you can keep it."
---
That night, as they sat together by the fire, Arin's head drooped from exhaustion. Goran covered him with a blanket and gazed into the flames for a long time.
He could still hear the boy's laughter in his ears — that sound like pure sunlight. It filled the small hut, the cracks in the wood, the spaces between his old heartbeats.
"It's been years," he murmured softly, "since the mountain heard laughter that pure."
He glanced toward the door, where wind whispered faintly through the cracks.
"Perhaps… he's not here to learn balance," Goran said quietly to the unseen night. "Perhaps he's here to teach it."
Outside, the forest rustled — and for the briefest moment, Goran thought the wind agreed.
---