Morning returned to Qingxi Village the way it always did. Quietly and without asking permission. It settled into the streets and fields as if it had never left.
Mist drifted down from the mountains and slipped between the houses, softening doorways and fences until the village looked slightly unreal. Dew clung to cabbage leaves and the cuffs of people's trousers. A rooster attempted to crow, its voice cracking as if it had woken too early. The damp air held everything in a gentle stillness. The village lingered in sleep.
Yet beneath that calm, something had changed. The quiet remained, but it no longer felt empty.
Whispers moved faster than the mist. They passed through the village while the fog only hovered, slow and patient. If you listened carefully, you could hear them moving.
People said he spoke to falling leaves. That he once stood beneath a tree and answered them as they came down.
He had survived a fever that burned for a full month. Most children would not have lived through it. A sickness like that was meant to leave something broken behind. When he recovered, nothing about him seemed broken at all.
My cousin said that even the cultivators bowed to him. That was enough to make people lower their voices.
Speak softly. What you say matters now.
Xiao Lin heard very little of it. She was not paying attention and so she missed the part that might have explained everything.
Near the village well, a man struggled with a rope. Each knot slipped loose the moment he tied it. The hemp felt rougher than usual, stubborn in his hands.
It does not want to be held, he muttered.
A woman drawing water paused. She watched him, then the rope, then him again. Her brows drew together as if she were looking at something fragile.
She carried that sentence with her all morning.
As the sun climbed higher, Qingxi Village fully woke. People found reasons to walk past Xiao Lin. They slowed when she spoke. They lingered when she fell silent.
Walking felt different now. Each step sounded louder than it should have, as if the ground itself were listening. When he stopped, the feeling faded, like a breath finally released.
His mother sent him to carry firewood to the edge of the village, a task he had done many times before. Today, every sound followed him. The creak of the bundle. The whisper of grass. The distant tapping of a woodpecker. None of it troubled him. He was not thinking about it at all.
So when Old Qian the potter called his name, Xiao Lin nearly dropped the load.
Lin'er, Old Qian said warmly. You look well today.
I am not as hot as before, Xiao Lin replied.
Old Qian nodded as if that simple sentence carried more weight than it should have.
I hear you have gained some insight, the old man said carefully.
I have trouble sleeping, Xiao Lin said. I do not know what to do about it.
Old Qian's smile froze.
Yes, he said slowly. Naturally.
Xiao Lin shifted the firewood on his shoulder. It pressed uncomfortably against his skin.
If the night is loud, Xiao Lin said, it is better to listen than to think.
Old Qian's eyes widened. He bowed, not deeply, but with unmistakable respect.
Xiao Lin stood there long after the potter left, unsure of what had just passed between them.
By midday, people gathered in the village square without meaning to. Xiao Lin sat beneath the old banyan tree. Its thick roots broke through stone laid down generations ago. The shade felt calm and familiar.
Children played nearby. They glanced at him when they thought he was not looking. When he noticed, they fell silent.
A deep voice cut through the murmurs.
Is it true.
Zhang Hu stood with his arms crossed. He did not care for riddles. He wanted clear answers.
Do you understand the Dao now.
The square grew still.
I do not know what that is, Xiao Lin said.
A ripple passed through the crowd.
Then why do people say you speak like an immortal, Zhang Hu asked.
Xiao Lin hesitated, searching for words that would not vanish the moment he spoke them.
I just say what comes out.
Zhang Hu stepped closer. Then say something now.
The air grew heavy. Xiao Lin looked at the banyan tree beside him. A single leaf trembled, broke free, and drifted downward, spinning slowly until it touched the ground.
Things fall when they are ready, Xiao Lin said quietly. Forcing them only changes how they land.
Silence.
Zhang Hu stepped back. I see.
The crowd slowly dispersed.
Only Shen Yue remained. She sat at the edge of the square, peeling a pear. She watched Xiao Lin with curiosity, not reverence.
You looked cornered, she said, offering the fruit.
He accepted it without thinking. Juice ran down his fingers.
You do not actually know what you are saying, do you.
He nearly choked.
She laughed softly. Not unkindly.
That is the strange part, she said. Everyone else thinks you are right.
A shadow crossed the square.
A traveler stood at the edge of the trees. His robe was worn but clean. A gourd hung at his waist. His eyes were sharp and alert.
The air here ripples, he said. Like a stone dropped into water.
His gaze settled on Xiao Lin.
You have not been well.
I woke up this morning, Xiao Lin said. That is all.
The traveler smiled faintly.
Later, before leaving, he said, When a road calls you, do not pretend you did not hear it.
That evening, Xiao Lin sat alone by the well. The rope lay coiled beside him. The water was still.
Then, without wind, it rippled.
Xiao Lin leaned closer and saw his reflection. Thin. Pale. Uncertain.
Behind him, the air seemed to listen.
In Qingxi Village, beneath a sky that had not changed, Xiao Lin spoke without meaning to.
And once again, the world understood.