The third morning on Harmony Alley came with dew clinging to the bamboo leaves like small pearls waiting for the sun to turn them into steam. Li Yuan sat in the backyard, feeling how the morning air flowed in and out of his consciousness body with a calm rhythm.
In these three days, he had felt something he had never felt in centuries: the need to be useful.
Not in a cosmic or spiritual sense, but useful in a simple and human way. Just as water needs to flow to stay clear, he felt that to truly be Li Qingshan, he needed a place to contribute to the daily life of this small community.
"Is there work for someone who can read and write?" Li Yuan asked Chen Wei, who was measuring wood in his backyard.
Chen Wei stopped his activity, looking at Li Yuan with eyes squinting in the sunlight. "You can read and write, Qingshan xiong? Wow, it's rare for someone like that to come to Hexin."
"A little," Li Yuan answered with genuine humility. In his heart, he smiled at what a great understatement that was—he who had once taught the children of Ziran about unwritten characters, who had once read ancient scrolls in a library.
"In that case... hmm." Chen Wei rubbed his chin, covered with a thin beard. "There might be one place that fits. A small library in the town center. The owner, Mr. Shen, is old and often complains that his eyes are blurry for reading small text. Maybe he needs help."
The water within Li Yuan seemed to vibrate with anticipation. A library. Of course. Just as water always returns to its source, he would return to the world of books and words.
"Where is it?"
"On Wisdom Street, not far from the market. A two-story wooden building with a sign that says 'Word House'. Mr. Shen is usually there from morning to afternoon."
Word House.
Li Yuan stood in front of the simple building, feeling the familiar scent that wafted out—the scent of old paper, ink, and something more subtle: the scent of understanding that had settled over many years. Like a silence that has a fragrance.
The wooden door creaked softly as he opened it. Inside, he found a room filled with wooden shelves holding scrolls and books of various sizes. The sunlight that entered through the windows created patterns that danced on the wooden floor, as if they were letters of light writing a story of tranquility.
"Can I help you?"
The voice came from behind a tall stack of books. An old man with white hair and thick glasses appeared, his eyes squinting to see Li Yuan more clearly.
"Good morning, Mr. Shen. I am Li Qingshan. Chen Wei suggested I come here. I am looking for a job and I can read and write."
Mr. Shen took off his glasses, cleaned them with a cloth, and then put them on again. "Ah, Chen Wei. That good carpenter. So you can read and write?"
"Yes, sir."
"Try to read this." Mr. Shen took a scroll from a nearby shelf and unrolled it. "Loudly, so I can hear."
Li Yuan saw the writing on the paper—a classic poem about mountains and water. He began to read with a clear voice and the correct intonation, letting each word flow like water following the contours of the land.
"Among the silent mountains, water flows without purpose, yet it always knows where it must go..."
Mr. Shen nodded slowly, his eyes sparkling. "Good. Not only can you read, but you also understand the rhythm and meaning. That's rare." He carefully rolled up the scroll. "Where are you from?"
"I am a wanderer who decided to settle in Hexin."
"A wanderer who can read and write..." Mr. Shen mumbled, then smiled. "Alright. I do need help. My eyes aren't as strong as they used to be, and there are many books that need to be copied or repaired. Do you want to start today?"
Li Yuan felt something gently vibrate within his Zhenjing. It wasn't a new understanding being born, but an old one that felt... at home. The Understanding of Silence, which always lives among written words. The Understanding of Water, which flows in every sentence read with the heart.
"With pleasure, sir."
The first day of work at Word House felt like a long and pleasant meditation. Li Yuan sat at a small wooden desk in the corner of the room, copying old texts whose writing was starting to fade. His hands moved with a calm rhythm, each brushstroke a small breath of flowing understanding.
Mr. Shen occasionally approached him, observing his work with eyes full of appreciation. "Your handwriting... is beautiful. Like flowing water."
Li Yuan smiled faintly. If only Mr. Shen knew that he once taught children to write with breath, not just with ink.
"Qingshan," Mr. Shen said, sitting in a chair next to him, "where did you go to school?"
"I had no formal schooling. I learned from... life itself."
"Ah." Mr. Shen nodded with deep understanding. "The best teacher is indeed life itself. Books only record what life has already learned."
Li Yuan paused his writing for a moment, contemplating those words. In his simplicity, Mr. Shen had touched upon a truth that he had spent centuries trying to understand.
"Mr. Shen is very wise."
"Not wise. Just old." Mr. Shen laughed softly. "But when you spend fifty years with books, you begin to understand that the best words are the ones that don't need to be written."
Li Yuan felt a subtle vibration in his chest. The Understanding of Silence moved like a very gentle wind, reminding him of the same lesson he had once given to the children of Ziran: the most beautiful characters are those that are never written.
"Qingshan," Mr. Shen continued, "you have... deep eyes. Like a person who has seen something that cannot be explained with words."
Li Yuan raised his head from the paper. The old man's eyes looked at him with a surprising clarity, as if he could see through the layers of years and experience.
"Perhaps," Li Yuan answered softly, "because the best words are indeed those that live in silence."
Mr. Shen smiled, a warm and understanding smile. "Yes. Exactly."
That afternoon, as Li Yuan walked home through the small alleys of Hexin, he felt something new in his stride. Not just because he now had a job, but because he had found a place where Li Qingshan could contribute something meaningful.
At the Word House, he wasn't just copying text. He was helping to keep words and understanding alive, flowing from generation to generation like water that never stops moving.
In that simple job, he felt the echo of everything he had ever learned: that true understanding isn't about having knowledge, but about being a bridge for knowledge to flow to those who need it.
Like water that never owns water, but always is water.
Like silence that never owns silence, but always is the space for meaning to grow.
And that night, as he sat in the backyard of his small house, Li Yuan felt something he had never felt even in his highest spiritual achievements: the simple satisfaction of a day well spent, doing a meaningful job, in a real life.
The night wind blew gently, carrying the scent of flowers and wet earth, like the breath of the world also smiling because he had found his place.