The sage moved his palm in a slow, circular motion, and before the boy's wide eyes, blocks of wood appeared, dropping softly onto the ground. They looked freshly cut, still smelling of sap. The boy blinked, half expecting it to be another illusion, but when he touched one, it felt warm, alive.
The sun was lowering again, but this sunset felt different. This one belonged to the real world, no strange mirage, no shifting colours. The orange light stretched long across the soil, brushing the sage's robes with molten gold. The boy felt, for the first time, that time itself was moving forward again.
"Practice on them," the sage said quietly.
The boy studied one of the blocks for a long while. The sage watched him for a moment, then asked in mischievous smile, "Do you wish to know how I brought these blocks from the air?"
The boy didn't look up. "Nope, not now. I want to focus here."
The sage smiled softly. "Good. Go for it."
He began cutting, clumsy at first, then steadier. On his tenth try, he shaped a rough but recognizable form, two small spheres joined by a neck, the early ghost of a gourd. He laughed, proud but shy, and showed it to the sage.
"When you're hungry," the sage said, handing him a few bell fruits from a hanging branch, "eat these."
They looked ordinary, but when he bit into one, its taste vanished like air. It filled him, yet he could not describe how. Each time he ate, his hunger faded completely, and his focus deepened.
At night, the sage always lit a small fire near him. Its crackle was soft, like a companion. Under that light, the boy carved in silence, the moon above, his wooden figures beside him, and the sage meditating not far away.
Days became weeks. He learned to make a sphere smooth enough to roll on the earth. Then came a cone, a cylinder, a pyramid, each shaped by patient repetition. When he mastered those, he moved on, carving a tiny fish, an elephant, a spinning toy, even ornaments shaped like petals and clouds.
He started arranging them neatly on a wooden shelf the sage had built for him beside the tree. It became his little world, a collection of his efforts, his failures, and his quiet triumphs. Each piece told its own story: a shaky start, a correction, a smoother finish. Sometimes, when he looked at them, he smiled faintly, not out of pride, but recognition.
The sage often opened his eyes during meditation, only to find the boy completely absorbed, lost in motion and silence. Watching him, he murmured softly to himself, "Be careful, little one. Don't let creation swallow the creator. If you forget who you are while shaping things, the form will start shaping you."
But the boy paid no mind. His world had narrowed to breath, blade, and wood.
Seasons drifted past quietly. Winter's breath turned to spring's fragrance, and soon summer's heat began to return. Six months had passed. The shelf beside him was now filled, animals, toys, ornaments, countless shapes of imagination given life through wood.
When the sage finally spoke again, his voice was low and almost proud. "You've come far. Your hands no longer doubt themselves."
The boy smiled, wiping sweat from his brow. "Thank you."
The sage rose, his robe brushing lightly against the dust. "Now," he said, "for your last task."
He handed the boy a single block of smooth, pale wood. Its surface was flawless, untouched. "Carve on this," the sage said and gave him another hexagonal block where... 'Two koi fish, circling each other tail to tail, one flowing with calm, the other with storm. Together, they make the circle of balance.'
The boy nodded. Without speaking he started.
For three days, the sound of carving filled the clearing, patient, rhythmic, almost musical. He worked through sunrise and sunset, stopping only to eat or wash. With each line was measured, each stroke purposeful he finally finished.
The two koi fish seemed alive, forever circling, their tails forming an endless loop. Around them, he carved the chaos of elements, thunder, waves, and flickering fire, as if the world itself was spinning around their quiet dance.
The sage took it gently, turning it in the golden light. His eyes softened. "This…" he whispered, "is more than skill. Very good."
The boy looked up, his eyes shining faintly.
"Your learning ends here," the sage said with a saddened smile, then smiled. "Or perhaps, this is where it truly begins."
The boy pondered for sometime and then looked at his works, the two koi fishes circling each other, other works of 6 months and then at the sage."Did I really learn everything?" he asked quietly, his fingers brushing the wooden curve. "But I still feel… something is missing. There's a kind of emptiness inside me, like hunger. I know you can teach me more, can't you?"
The sage watched him for a long while before speaking. "Yes, I can. But even if I give you all the heavens in my hands, one day you will still feel that same hunger. That is the way of humans."
The boy frowned slightly. "But why? I want to carve more, I want to learn everything you know."
"I know, little one," the sage said softly. "You want to keep making, keep perfecting, because creation gives you warmth. But remember what I told you, the more you attach yourself to something, the more it pulls you down. You've been here six months, and the path you came from has already grown cold. Neither forward nor backward, only circling."
The boy looked around. The clearing had changed since the day he first arrived. Near the tree stood a low wooden shelf he had built himself, stacked neatly with the fruits of his long effort, a sphere smooth as moonlight, a fish frozen mid-swim, an elephant with tiny curved tusks, and dozens of small ornaments shaped by curiosity and persistence. Sawdust still clung to the earth beneath.
He smiled faintly at them, pride flickering in his eyes. "But I'm happy here," he said.
The sage shook his head slowly. "No, not happiness, desire. You've mistaken them again. Desire pretends to be joy until it chains your heart. You escaped one illusion, and now you're weaving another around yourself. You've turned this clearing into your little paradise, but tell me, can paradise exist without motion?"
The boy stayed silent.
The sage's voice softened further. "Joy is when your heart dances without reason. Desire is when it dances for something. You've been carving joy into wood, but inside you've been carving a prison."
The boy lowered his head. "But I… I enjoy it here."
"I know," said the sage. "That's how all attachments begin, with enjoyment. But if you never walk forward, you'll forget how to walk at all. You once said you wished to find the truth, remember? Sitting under this tree, carving wood, will that truth come crawling to you?"
The boy didn't answer. His gaze turned inward, and the world around him faded. For a moment he drifted, lost in his thoughts, caught between the comfort of the known and the ache of the unknown.
The sage's voice pulled him back, deep and calm as a river. "More attachments await you, little boy. More distractions, more illusions. The more you linger, the more they'll entangle you. Move forward, find what still amuses your heart, seek what gives meaning to your small, useless life. Learn more, not from me, but from what's waiting beyond this hill."
The boy stood still for a while, then bowed deeply. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I didn't notice how time slipped away. I was proud of my little skill, lost in my small world. I thought I was learning, but I was only hiding inside an illusion again."
The sage smiled faintly, his wrinkles folding like ripples in water. "It happens to all of us. When one lesson is not learned, it returns again, sometimes louder, sometimes crueller. History always repeats itself in the hearts of those who don't listen."
He reached out and rested one hand gently on the boy's head. The touch was warm, grounding. With the other hand, the sage raised his palm toward the air. Something shimmered faintly between his fingers — a glow, like a small sun held within his grasp.
"Here," he said quietly. "A gift."
The boy looked up. "Thank you… but what is it?"
The sage's eyes glimmered with distant sadness. "Before you begin your journey again, I'll show you how far I've come in mine. I wished to go further — much further — but alas…" He turned his gaze toward the horizon, where dawn was breaking in soft gold. "Time has run its circle."
............
The sage took a deep breath, his hand moving slowly through the air as if stirring invisible threads. Then, from nowhere, a hexagonal wooden block appeared, hovering gently before resting in his palm. The boy's eyes widened, even after months, these quiet miracles no longer shocked him but filled him with an almost reverent calm. The sage placed his index finger on the centre of the block and closed his eyes.
From his fingertip, a faint silver glow seeped into the grain of the wood quiet, deliberate, ancient. The air around them trembled softly, the wind holding its breath. For a long time, nothing happened. The sage's brows furrowed slightly, the light dimmed, and the boy thought it had failed.
But the sage only smiled faintly, opening his eyes with a glimmer of something deep, perhaps acceptance, perhaps knowledge of something beyond sight. He handed the block to the boy."Now take it," the sage said quietly.
The boy accepted it with both hands, feeling its strange warmth. The wood pulsed faintly, as though something living slept within it."Face the rising sun, blew the wind," the sage instructed.
The boy turned toward the east. The first light of dawn painted the clouds gold, touching the tips of the trees. It had been six months since he came here. In that time, his world had narrowed to this little clearing, to the carved blocks, the sound of wood being shaped, and the quiet rhythm of his teacher's breathing.
He blew a soft breath over the wood.At first, nothing changed.
The sage tilted his head slightly, smiling as if amused by the world's slowness. He extended his hand to take it back, but then — something happened.
The wooden surface began to rotate, lines emerging and curling as if drawn by invisible ink. The boy watched in awe as an uneven polygon formed, each edge shimmering faintly. Fine shavings — thin as thread, lighter than ash, peeled away and fell burning, turning to embers before they even touched the ground. The boy stepped back instinctively.
Then, from the centre of the shape, came a sound, like soft cracking, or the whisper of bones. The wood split open, and from its heart burst fragments shaped like fish scales, flying out one after another. Each piece caught the wind and began to transform, shifting from dull brown into soft pink petals, each glowing faintly like burning sakura leaves.
They scattered into the air, spiraling upward and then vanishing. The boy's breath caught. From the remaining wood, the faint outline of a face began to emerge, half serene like a Buddha, half twisted like a Mara. On either side, dragons and deer, snakes and spirits wound together in intricate harmony, their shapes blending as if the entire world had been carved into that single, small block.
It was both terrifying and beautiful, a vision of chaos and calm locked in one breath.
"Did you like it that much?" the sage's calm voice broke through the trance.
The boy turned to him, still trembling slightly. "Sage… I cannot take this from you. It's too precious."
The old man smiled, not proudly, but with that tired kindness of someone who has seen a thousand suns rise and fall. "Take it," he said. "Think of it not as a gift, but as a sign, that some things can be shaped not by force, but by patience. It is only a token, nothing more."
"But—"
"—If it helps you," the sage continued, "then take it as a charm from a broken old man."
The boy lowered his eyes. "I don't want to call you that. You are more than that to me."
The sage's laugh was quiet, like dry leaves brushing each other. "That is what the young always say before they move on."
The boy hesitated, then knelt and bowed deeply. "Thank you for teaching me all this."
But before his head could reach the sage's feet, a hand stopped him. The old man's palm rested lightly on his shoulder. "What did I teach you, really?" he said gently. "You carved your own path. I only held the candle."
The boy looked up, eyes glistening. "But I couldn't have done it without you."
"Maybe," the sage murmured. "But remember, even the brightest candle burns itself away in teaching others to see."
He turned away slightly, staring at the wooden shelves lined neatly beside the hut. Over the past six months, the boy had filled them with countless creations: tiny fish, spirals, rings, stars, flowers, and even small ornaments that caught the sunlight through the window. Each piece spoke of a different mood, some rough and sharp, some smooth and delicate. Together they formed a story — the quiet chronicle of the boy's growth.
The sage's eyes softened as he looked at them. "You have done well," he said quietly. "These shelves hold not wood, but time."
The boy followed his gaze. There was a small toy, a cube balanced on a sphere, carved in the early days when his hands still trembled. Near it lay a pyramid, and beside that a smooth, water-like cylinder that reflected light like silver. Every object had its own story, each a piece of his past self.
"Sometimes," the sage said, "we believe we create things. But the truth is, they create us. Every block you carved also carved a little of you."
The boy nodded silently. He felt the truth of it, deep in his chest — that strange emptiness of knowing he had changed but not knowing what to do next.
The sage placed his hand in the air again, drawing invisible lines. From the thin air, a branch twisted into existence, slowly spiraling and intertwining like a rope. The sage took it gently, wrapped it around the hexagonal plate, and then placed it over the boy's neck.
"Now it is complete," the sage said softly. "This will protect you in moments when your spirit is weak. It will remind you of what you have seen, and what you have forgotten."
The boy touched the charm, feeling the faint pulse of energy from it. "I… don't know how to repay you," he whispered.
"There is no debt between souls that meet by fate," the sage said, his eyes reflecting the golden light of morning. "You will go your way, and I will go mine. But before that — tell me, do you have any questions left? Anything you have hidden from me since the first day?"
To be Continued...