That day, the rain fellnot heavy,but enough to soften the earthand scent the air with soil.
Li Yuan sat in the corner of the old librarywhich was no longer old,just quiet.His hand touched a bookwithout a cover,without a title,without a first page.
He opened it slowly.Its pages were blank.
But not empty.
He let out a breath.And in that breath,his childhood returned:a seven-year-old entering this place for the first time,thinking he had discovered the world,when really,he had discovered himself.
Li Yuan smiled.Back then, he didn't understand why the book was blank.Even now, maybe he still didn't.But he felt it.
He touched the first page,then picked up a pen.
On that empty page,he didn't write a name.Nor a lesson.Just one sentence:
"Understanding does not always begin with words, but with silence that cannot be written."
Then he closed the bookand placed it on the highest shelf.No label.No explanation.
A few days later,a child found it.
"Teacher, this book is empty…"
Li Yuan smiled."Because it hasn't been written yet."
"Then who will write it?"
Li Yuan didn't answer.He simply looked at the child—like the sky watching a leaf fall into the river.
Maybe no one would ever write in that book.Or maybe one day,someone would write in it without knowing they were doing so.
Because in the Root of the Soul Library,not every book is meant to be read.Some are meant to be felt.
Night fell without a sound.
Outside, fog cloaked the village paths like a breath that had forgotten its way home.Inside the warm wooden house,Li Yuan sat with his father.
There weren't many words.Just a small fire in the hearth speaking for them.They sat across from each other,with bowls of tea in hand,and time flowing gently.
Li Haoming looked at his son.
"I used to think you'd leave this village, like your mother… chasing wider skies."
Li Yuan said nothing.
Li Haoming smiled,but it wasn't laughter—it was more like a wound learning to heal.
"But you stayed. And… I don't know whether to feel proud or worried."
Li Yuan stared at the fire.Its glow danced in his father's eyes.
"I stayed… because I haven't finished looking within,"he said softly.
Li Haoming fell quiet.The night wind touched the windows.Dry leaves fell like questions that needed no answers.
"Father…" Li Yuan's voice was gentle."Are you happy… here?"
Li Haoming sighed."Happiness… is not a place, Yuan. It's when I see you drinking tea with me, with no burden on your forehead… at that moment, I'm happy."
Li Yuan bowed his head.
"I used to think you were just a stubborn farmer. But now… I know you're someone who protects this land so it won't disappear."
Li Haoming chuckled softly.
"And you are someone who's teaching this land how to read."
They both laughed quietly,like bamboo rustling in the wind.
That simple night held no grand achievement.No lightning of realization.Just a small silencethat embraced two heartsunder one roof.
And sometimes,that is more than enough.
That morning wasn't brighter than usual,but the children's eyes reflected a lightthat hadn't been there before.
They sat cross-legged on the library floor.Their hands held paper.Some papers were crumpled,some damp from nervous sweat.But all of them had one thing in common:
Silence trying to become words.
Li Yuan watched from a distance.Mu Yi sat at the doorway,while Fan Tu helped the children dip their small brushes into ink.
There was no sound.Just the sound of breathing,and the first strokes.
Letters were born.Their shapes were not perfect.Some tilted,some trembled.
But each letter carried courage.
One child wrote about her mother laughing in the rain.Another wrote about the big stone by the river that had become his friend.
And a child who once couldn't write a single letter,now wrote a single sentence:
"I want to remember all this, so it won't vanish like the wind."
Li Yuan closed his eyes for a moment.
Not from emotion,but because he heard something.
Not a sound from outside,but one from within.
A soft rumble,like a door opening inside him—a door made of honest words,born from hands that were learning.
Their first books were not neatly bound.Just collections of pages,stitched together with thread and intention.
But for them,it wasn't just a book.
It was proof thatthey had seen,they had felt,and they had tried to understand the world.
And for Li Yuan,that day wasn't about teaching,but about listeningto the voice that grows from silence.