Three days after the meeting at the Pavilion of Silent Moonlight, the noodle shop began to find its rhythm again.
Not because the clamor surrounding the "Li Yuan Phenomenon" had ceased—rumors still stirred in teahouses, people still came with notebooks in hand, and others still tried to mimic his every move.
But something deeper had shifted.
Li Yuan no longer felt the burden to explain or to hide. He was no longer disturbed by the eyes that observed or the ears that tried to capture some "secret."
He simply… was.
Like the fish in the pavilion's pond that kept swimming, undisturbed by the world's attention.
That morning, a young scholar arrived with scrolls and ink ready.
"Master Li Yuan," he said formally, "I am Liu Teng from Qingshan Academy. I wish to document your teachings for future generations."
Li Yuan was arranging clean bowls on the shelf. His hands never paused as he replied.
"There are no teachings I have documented."
Liu Teng smiled as if he had anticipated the answer.
"Of course, humility is part of wisdom. But allow me to observe and record in my own way."
Li Yuan glanced briefly at him.
"As you wish."
No resistance. No explanation. Just a simple permission, neither burdened by hope nor weighed down by fear.
Liu Teng unrolled his scroll, his eyes sparkling.
A customer entered—an elderly woman with a wooden cane. Her steps were slow, her back slightly hunched. She sat by the window, breath a little labored.
Li Yuan approached her with a bowl of warm water and a clean cloth.
The old woman looked at the bowl, eyes glistening.
"Thank you, young man."
She washed her wrinkled hands with careful movements. The warm water didn't just cleanse the dust of the road, but also the weariness accumulated in her bones.
Liu Teng wrote eagerly:
"Subject offered warm water to elderly customer. Possible visual empathy technique—identifying physical needs based on body language."
Li Yuan returned with a bowl of hot chicken noodles.
"I didn't order anything," the woman said.
"For tired legs," Li Yuan replied softly. "And cold hands."
She looked at him differently—not with curiosity or admiration, but… recognition. As if she saw someone who understood what it meant to live with aching bones and a slowing heart.
"How much do I owe you?"
"The usual price."
But when she offered coins, Li Yuan only took half.
"For the noodles," he said. "The rest… for the kindness you'll give to someone else today."
The woman was silent. Not from confusion, but because something deep inside her stirred—something long dormant, now slowly waking.
Liu Teng scribbled faster:
"Psychological empowerment through projected positive trust. Genius!"
After the woman left, walking a little more upright, Liu Teng approached Li Yuan.
"Incredible!" he said, eyes alight. "Your way of reading people's needs—using service as a medium of psychological transformation—this is revolutionary!"
Li Yuan kept wiping the table, his rhythm unchanged.
"May I ask—what technique do you use to assess a customer's emotional state so accurately?"
Li Yuan looked at him. His grey eyes calm—neither defensive nor explanatory.
"I saw a tired old woman. I gave her warm food."
"But surely there's a system behind it. A methodology that can be learned."
Li Yuan put down his cloth and sat on the old broken stool that had long been his quiet companion.
"Liu Teng," he said softly, "tell me about your mother."
Liu Teng blinked.
"My mother? What does that have to do with—"
"Just tell me."
Liu Teng hesitated.
"She… passed away three years ago. Long illness. I… I couldn't do much for her in her final days."
"What do you regret the most?"
Liu Teng was silent. His hand holding the brush trembled slightly.
"I… I spent too much time recording symptoms. Trying to understand. Seeking answers. Consulting healers. I never… never just sat with her."
Li Yuan nodded slowly.
"And now you saw a tired old woman in a noodle shop."
"Yes…" Liu Teng's voice cracked.
"What did you see?"
He looked at the table where the woman had just been. His eyes were moist.
"I saw… my mother. Someone who only wanted someone to notice her, without trying to fix her."
Liu Teng laid down his brush, his hands shaking.
"Li Yuan… I came here to learn your techniques. But what I've received…"
"Was a reminder of something you already knew."
Liu Teng nodded. Speechless.
Li Yuan stood and returned to his tasks.
"Liu Teng, there are no techniques to master. Only… memories of what it feels like to be human."
Liu Teng slowly rolled up his scrolls.
"May I… may I return? Not to write. Just to… sit?"
"Always."
After Liu Teng left, the shop returned to its quiet rhythm.
Bao Jing stirred the broth with habitual ease.
Master Cheng counted coins with a contented face—more customers today, yet far less chaos than the past few weeks.
"Li Yuan," called Bao Jing from the tiny kitchen.
"Yes?"
"This was left at the door this morning. Before we opened."
He handed over a small envelope with no sender's name.
Li Yuan opened it. Inside, a note written in tidy handwriting:
Li Yuan,
Three days ago, you said water continues to flow regardless of how it is interpreted.
I think I understand now.
Today I returned to my old work—not as a phenomenon researcher, but as a teacher.
I teach children to read, not to uncover hidden meanings, but to help them find joy in words.
One of my students asked today why the sky is blue.
Instead of explaining light dispersion, I asked: "Why do you think?"
She said: "Maybe because the sky is sad—but a beautiful kind of sad."
I didn't correct her.
Thank you for reminding me that some questions do not need to be answered.
They only need… to be honored.
– Chen Weiqi
P.S. – I won't return to your noodle shop.
Not out of avoidance—but because I wish to find water in another place.
A place where I too can become part of the stream, not just an observer.