Behind the voices of children beginning to know letters,behind the wooden shelves slowly filled with meaning,there was a figure who rarely spoke,but was always present.Li Haoming.Father of Li Yuan.An old man who had seen too much,but for the first time, felt he was witnessing something truly growing.
That morning, he arrived early at the library.His hand touched the wooden floor,as if greeting the past that had come alive once more.
No words.Just slow steps and long breaths.He sat in the corner, on the bench Li Yuan usually used,and stared at the empty shelf on the east side—a shelf meant for books yet to exist.
"A place for possibilities," he whispered softly.
Li Yuan arrived not long after.He didn't greet his father aloud,just sat beside him.And for them, that was enough.Silence was their language of understanding.Because words often failed to reach what had long been buried.
"Father," Li Yuan said softly,"Do you regret not building this sooner?"
Li Haoming smiled.Not a smile of triumph,but the smile of someone who had learned to accept time.
"Not all seeds grow in the same season," he said."I was just waiting for you to water this land."
He had once believed more in physical labor—in the fields that needed plowing,in the body that needed strength.But now, he watched children writing,and saw a village changingnot by weapons,but by words.
His old eyes filled with tears.Not from grief,but from something he could never express—finally, he could feel it.
That day, Li Yuan and his father sat together for a long time.They didn't talk about the future.They didn't bring up the past.They simply stayed in a moment—where a father saw his son,and a son realized that the roots within himwere still alive,and now growing alongside him.
Two years passed like morning mist—arriving quietly, fading without sound.
In the dim light of dusk, the old body lay across his lap.Li Haoming, the father who once led him down silent paths,now lay there, his breath slowing to almost nothing.
There were no cries.Only a soft breeze,as if the earth itself bowed in reverence.
Li Yuan looked into his father's wrinkled face.His eyes were red, but he hadn't cried yet.He sat still, like a student who knew the final lesson was about to end.His hand gripped the old fingers that had once held hiswhen he was learning to stand.
His father's voice came faintly,as though from a distant place.
"Li Yuan… that is your name…"
Li Yuan bit his lip. His voice barely emerged,"Father… I'm here."
Li Haoming gave a faint smile,his eyes half-open,staring at the ceiling of the old hut.
"Li"… our family name," he whispered."Like the plum tree… it endures winter,blooms not when others bloom,but stands firm,and blossoms when all is still.It holds the meaning of resilience… wisdom… and ripeness—like fruit harvested after a long season."
Li Yuan bowed his head.Tears finally fell,dropping quietly onto his father's hand.
Li Haoming drew a long breath—perhaps the last full one.
"'Yuan'… your given name.It means origin… beginning…the root of everything.Depth. Mystery.The source of rivers,of mountains,of self."
His eyes now closed,but a faint smile still lingered.
"Your name," he whispered,"is a mature tree with deep roots.Remember that… your path is to remember."
Li Yuan could no longer hold back his tears.They flowed quietly,like a river breaking free beneath the earth.
Wind slipped in through the bamboo walls.Leaves fell outside.
Li Haoming said no more.His breath grew still.Like a candle extinguishedafter completing its purpose.
Li Yuan held the body close.There were no words,only a silence that echoed with a thousand meanings.He didn't cry aloud.He simply sat,and in that stillness,tears became prayer,and loss became understanding.
That night, the village fell into silence.The villagers knew.But no one dared knock on the door of that home.
They understood—this was not just an ordinary grief.This wasn't just a father passing.It felt as if a root had been pulledfrom the soil that had nourished them all.
The next morning,Li Yuan stood before a simple grave beneath the old plum tree.He dug it himself, without help.He wanted his father buried in the place where they once sat together,watching the sunset,sharing only the silence that felt like home.
On the grave,he wrote with his own hands:
Li HaomingFather, Tree, Root.
No more.No less.
Some children came.They stood at a distance,unsure of what to say.They saw their teacher standing with his back to them,his white shirt stained with soil.
After a long pause,one brave girl asked,"Teacher… are you sad?"
Li Yuan turned.His eyes were swollen,but calm.
"I… am understanding," he said gently.
"Understanding what?"
Li Yuan looked up to the sky.
"That loss… is a form of love we can no longer hold.But it still grows… inside."
Days passed slowly after that.
Li Yuan spoke little.He spent more time in the library,opening old books,writing down words he never said to his father.He began writing a new book—not about technique,not about teaching,but about memory.The book had no title.
Some children noticed the change.But they didn't ask.They simply sat closer,read longer,and sometimes hugged their teacher—quietly, without words.
On the seventh night after Li Haoming's passing,Li Yuan sat before the fire.
He spoke in his heart:
Father, I don't know if you can still hear me…but I know you would understand.I will keep walking.Slowly, as you taught me.But every step I take nowwill carry you with me.
Seasons changed.
The plum tree bloomed.
And beneath it,a child sat,writing their very first book.
Li Yuan watched from a distanceand smiled.
Beneath the loss, something had grown again.Not to replace what was gone,but to inherit a meaning that never dies.