The first light of dawn slid across the mountain, golden threads weaving through the forest canopy. Dew clung to every blade of grass, glittering like crystal. The house at the edge of the cliff usually hummed with quiet life at this hour—the soft creak of wooden doors, the gentle brush of a broom, the measured rhythm of an old man preparing the day.
But this morning, the house was silent.
Ming sat up on his mat, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. For a moment, he thought perhaps he had risen too early. He waited, listening for the sound of water being poured into the kettle, or the faint cough his teacher made every morning before beginning chores.
Nothing.
"Teacher?" Ming called softly, peeking out into the courtyard.
The mist still hugged the stone tiles. The training post, scarred from countless strikes, stood alone. The broom leaned against the wall, untouched. Ming frowned.
His teacher never missed the morning.
At first, Ming thought perhaps the old man had gone down the mountain trail to gather herbs. That was not unusual. So Ming followed the routines himself—sweeping the courtyard, boiling water, preparing the small breakfast of porridge and wild greens. Each task, he performed carefully, as if his teacher were standing nearby, watching with that calm gaze.
The sun climbed higher. Shadows shifted. Ming set out two bowls at the low wooden table, waiting for the familiar footsteps on the path.
They never came.
By afternoon, Ming grew restless. He walked the garden, checked the small storage room, even searched the rocky paths around the waterfall. The air was filled with birdsong and the rush of water, but not the sound of the man he longed to find.
Maybe he's testing me, Ming thought suddenly. His teacher had often hidden lessons in silence, leaving Ming to puzzle them out. Perhaps this was another trial, meant to sharpen his patience.
That thought comforted him—for a while.
When the sky turned red with dusk, Ming lit a lantern and sat outside the house. He left the door open, so that the glow might guide his teacher back, should he be returning late. The boy dozed on the steps, head leaning against the doorframe. Every time the wind stirred, he awoke with a start, certain he heard footsteps.
Each time, the path remained empty.
The next day came. And the one after that.
Ming carried on as best he could. Each morning, he trained—running laps around the courtyard, striking the wooden post until his fists grew numb, practicing breathing until his chest ached. Each evening, he lit incense and prepared tea, leaving one cup across from his own.
But slowly, the silence of the house pressed heavier on his heart.
Without his teacher's voice, the lessons felt hollow. Without his teacher's presence, the mountain seemed larger, lonelier, more unforgiving. The boy who once laughed at the chirping of birds now found their songs too sharp. The waterfall that once soothed now sounded endless, unchanging.
The nights were the worst.
Ming would lie awake, staring at the roof beams, his body exhausted from training but his mind restless. He replayed every memory—his teacher's steady hand guiding his stance, the quiet patience in his eyes, the rare but genuine smile when Ming succeeded at something small.
He'll come back, Ming told himself again and again. He has to.
Weeks passed. The seasons began to shift. The mornings grew colder, and a thin layer of frost sometimes coated the grass. Ming's body grew leaner, his face sharper, but his eyes carried a weight beyond his years.
Every day he looked down the mountain path. Every day it was empty.
He began speaking aloud during meals, pretending his teacher was still there. He would bow before training, murmuring:
"Teacher, today I will practice twice as hard."
And when he stumbled or grew frustrated, he would imagine the old man's calm voice telling him: Do not rush. Even rivers carve mountains with patience.
These small acts kept his hope alive.
But inside, the ache grew deeper.
One evening, as the sun sank behind the mountains, Ming sat in the courtyard, staring at the horizon. His hands gripped his knees tightly, his jaw clenched.
"Why… why didn't you tell me?" he whispered. His voice cracked, raw with loneliness.
The mountain gave no answer.
A single tear rolled down his cheek, which he quickly wiped away. He had promised himself he would not cry—not because he thought it wrong, but because he believed his teacher would not want him to.
Instead, Ming drew a long breath, steadying himself.
I'll wait. Even if it takes a year. Even if it takes forever.
And so he waited.
The days blurred into one another. Ming's routine became rigid, as if the order of tasks could keep his heart from breaking: sweep, train, eat, meditate, cook, train again, light incense, wait.
Yet the emptiness in the house never left.
By the end of the year, the boy had grown taller. His once-round cheeks had thinned, his gaze more mature, though still carrying that same stubborn spark. To the mountain, he was still just a boy. But in his heart, he carried a weight heavier than most men could bear.
And always—always—he kept one truth burning inside:
One day, his teacher would return.
He refused to believe otherwise.
So even as winter crept down from the peaks, Ming remained. The house stood quiet, the courtyard swept, the incense burned each night.
The boy of ten had become a youth of eleven years old .
Still waiting.
Still hoping.
Still carrying the silence of the empty courtyard.