In the second month since the plague reached Hexin, Li Yuan began to understand something profound about human resilience: that life doesn't stop because of death, but instead becomes more... intensely lived. More meaningful in every small detail.
This morning, he stood in Chen Wei's backyard, watching his friend work with wood with movements that were... different from usual. Slower, more deliberate, with an almost reverential attention to every joint, every curve, every finishing touch.
"This is for Granny Huang," Chen Wei said without looking up, his hands continuing to smooth the surface of the pine wood with fine sandpaper. "She... she didn't make it through the fever last night."
Li Yuan felt the familiar pang of grief. Granny Huang was a gentle old woman from the eastern district, who had come to the care center two weeks ago with her grandson. Despite all their efforts—herbal remedies, intensive care, even the subtle spiritual assistance from Li Yuan—her old body wasn't strong enough to fight the disease.
Not every battle can be won, Li Yuan reflected, feeling the weight of that reality. No matter how much love, care, or even spiritual power is given. There are limits to what can be done, and the acceptance of those limits is part of wisdom.
"What about her grandson..." Li Yuan asked softly.
"He's alright. Physically." Chen Wei stopped sanding and looked at the almost-finished coffin with a complex expression. "Emotionally... well, he lost the last person in his family. Sister Lin said he'll be staying with the Wang family for a while."
Orphaned by the plague, Li Yuan felt something heavy settle in his chest. One more child who has to learn to navigate the world without the anchor of a family.
"Chen Wei," Li Yuan said after a moment of silence, "the coffins you make... they're beautiful. Not just functional, but... full of respect."
Chen Wei smiled—a sad but also proud smile. "Everyone deserves to... to leave with dignity. To be remembered not as a victim of a disease, but as a person who lived, who mattered, who was loved."
A profound understanding, Li Yuan appreciated. About how the ritual of death is not just for the dead, but for the living—a way to honor the deceased and help the living process grief with meaning.
"May I help?"
Chen Wei looked at him with surprise. "You know carpentry?"
"A little," Li Yuan answered with genuine modesty. Three hundred years of experience does give a person exposure to various skills, but more important than technical knowledge is... the intention to serve.
Chen Wei handed him a piece of sandpaper. "The handles still need to be smoothed."
For the next half an hour, they worked in companionable silence. Li Yuan felt there was something... meditative in this process. It wasn't just about preparing a resting place for Granny Huang, but about channeling grief into a meaningful action, into a service that honors both the dead and the living.
And very subtly, almost unconsciously, Li Yuan let the Understanding of Memory flow into the wood—not for a magical purpose, but for imbuing this coffin with a sense of... continuity. A reminder that death is part of a larger cycle, and that love and memories continue even when a physical presence ends.
That afternoon, Li Yuan found himself in the small garden plot they had established behind the care center. Initially, this garden was meant for growing medicinal herbs, but gradually, it had become something more—a space for more holistic healing.
Three children—including Granny Huang's grandson, Xiao Ming—sat in a small circle among the plants, their faces showing a mixture of sadness, confusion, and questions they didn't know how to express.
"Uncle Qingshan," Xiao Ming said in a small voice, "why did Granny have to go? We gave her the best medicine, we prayed..."
Li Yuan sat on the grass among them, feeling the weight of the question. How to explain the mystery and apparent unfairness of death to children, without making them lose hope or trust in the goodness of life?
"Xiao Ming," Li Yuan began in a gentle voice, "have you ever noticed how this garden works?"
The boy nodded, his eyes still watery.
"Look at these plants," Li Yuan pointed to a small patch where some herbal plants were thriving, while others looked wilted. "Some of them are strong and green, others are starting to wither. Does that mean the withered ones failed?"
"No," one of the little girls answered. "They are old or sick."
"Exactly. And what happens when a plant withers and... finishes its cycle?"
"They become compost," Xiao Ming answered in a slightly steadier voice. "And compost helps new plants to grow."
"Yes." Li Yuan took a handful of rich, dark soil. "A plant that has finished its life cycle doesn't just disappear. It becomes part of the nutritious soil, which gives strength to the next generation."
Li Yuan felt the Understanding of Memory vibrate with a gentle warmth, helping these children connect with a broader understanding of continuity and meaning.
"Your Granny," Li Yuan continued, looking at Xiao Ming with eyes full of compassion, "she lived a long life full of love. And now, even though she is no longer physically here, all the love she gave, all the wisdom she shared, all the beautiful memories—all of that becomes part of you. Part of everyone who knew her."
"Like compost for the soul?" the little girl asked in a thoughtful voice.
A perfect way to put it, Li Yuan smiled. "Yes, like compost for the soul."
"But I still miss her," Xiao Ming whispered.
"And that's normal. That's even beautiful," Li Yuan replied, allowing the Understanding of Existence to flow with gentle reassurance. "Missing someone means you love them. And that love doesn't disappear just because the person you love is no longer there."
Li Yuan took a small seed from a packet he always carried. "How about we plant this together? For your Granny. Every time this plant grows and blooms, you can remember her with a smile, not just with sadness."
A simple ritual, Li Yuan realized while helping the children make a small hole in the soil, but simple rituals are often the most effective for helping people process grief and find meaning in loss.
As they planted the seed together, Li Yuan allowed the Understandings of Memory and Existence to work very subtly—not to manipulate or force healing, but to remind these children that they were surrounded by love, that they were valuable and cherished, that there was a future worth living for.
That evening, as Li Yuan walked home through the streets of Hexin, he felt something... different about the city's atmosphere. Yes, there was still an underlying current of worry and sadness because of the ongoing crisis. But there was also something else—a deeper sense of community, more meaningful connections, a more intense appreciation for small moments of beauty and kindness.
On a street corner, he saw Master Zhang—the old baker—giving an extra loaf of bread to a family that had just arrived from an affected village, refusing to accept payment.
In a small plaza, some teenagers were playing simple music on improvised instruments, creating a moment of joy for anyone passing by.
On the front steps of several houses, neighbors sat together in small groups, not necessarily talking much, but simply being present for each other in companionable silence.
Crisis, Li Yuan reflected, feeling a warmth spread in his chest, has a strange way of bringing out both the worst and the best in humanity. And in Hexin, somehow, it brought out the best.
Perhaps because they already had a foundation of caring and mutual support before the crisis hit. Perhaps because they chose to respond with love rather than fear from the beginning.
When he entered Harmony Alley, Li Yuan found a familiar yet still touching scene: Sister Lin was sharing a simple meal with an elderly couple from another district whose house was currently in quarantine, Madam Wang was teaching some women how to make a salve for minor skin irritations, and Chen Wei was playing a simple game with a small group of children, helping them to laugh even in the midst of difficult circumstances.
Life continuing, Li Yuan observed with deep appreciation. Not just surviving, but actually living. Finding ways to maintain joy, connection, purpose, meaning—even when surrounded by uncertainty and loss.
"Qingshan!" Sister Lin called out when she saw him. "Perfect timing. We were just discussing plans for a small celebration next week—nothing elaborate, just... a way to honor those who have passed and celebrate those who are still here."
"A celebration?" Li Yuan asked, joining their group.
"Just a simple one," Chen Wei explained. "A shared meal, some music, maybe a storytelling session where people can share memories of lost loved ones, or gratitude for the kindness they experienced during this crisis."
A beautiful idea, Li Yuan realized. A way to acknowledge grief without being overwhelmed by it, a way to find meaning and beauty even in the midst of tragedy.
"I think that's wonderful," Li Yuan replied with deep sincerity. "How can I help?"
"Actually," Madam Wang said with a mischievous smile, "we've already discussed that. And we all agreed that you should be... the guest of honor."
Li Yuan felt a moment of surprise and discomfort. "Guest of honor? Why?"
"Because," Sister Lin answered with a gentle but firm voice, "during this crisis, you have become... an anchor for all of us. Not a leader in the traditional sense, but... a presence that gives strength and hope."
"And because," Chen Wei added, "the story of your kindness and skill has spread throughout Hexin. People from other districts are coming specifically to ask about the 'gentle healer from Harmony Alley.'"
Oh. Li Yuan felt a mixture of pride, worry, and responsibility. A growing reputation. That could be a blessing or a complication, depending on how I handle it.
"I don't feel like a special hero or healer," Li Yuan answered with genuine honesty. "I'm just... doing what I can to help."
"Exactly," an elderly woman sitting with Sister Lin said in a warm voice. "And that's what makes you special. You don't try to be a hero. You are just... consistently kind, consistently helpful, consistently present when people need it."
Simple presence, Li Yuan reflected. Consistent kindness. Reliable availability for service. Perhaps those are indeed the qualities that people value most highly—not dramatic gestures or spectacular abilities, but a steady, dependable goodness.
"Alright," Li Yuan replied after a moment of silence. "But on one condition."
"What is it?"
"This celebration is not about me. This celebration is about the community. About the way everyone has supported and cared for each other during this crisis. I'm just one person in a much larger web of kindness and service."
Sister Lin smiled in approval. "Deal. And that is exactly the kind of response that makes us respect you so much."
Genuine humility, Li Yuan realized, is apparently a quality rare enough to be remarkable. Perhaps because most people, when given recognition and praise, tend to embrace or even amplify it, rather than redirecting the focus back onto the community.
That night, as Li Yuan sat in his courtyard sipping herbal tea and listening to the gentle sounds of Harmony Alley settling down for sleep, he felt something complex.
Pride in a community that had shown such resilience and goodness in the midst of a crisis. Gratitude for the trust and appreciation they had given him. Worry about a growing reputation that might attract unwanted attention or create unrealistic expectations.
And underneath it all, a deep satisfaction from knowing that his spiritual gifts were being used in a way that truly served the highest good of as many people as possible.
Fame, Li Yuan reflected, can be a double-edged sword. But as long as I remain focused on service rather than recognition, as long as I remember that any abilities I have are meant for serving others rather than elevating myself, perhaps this growing reputation can become an opportunity for even greater good.
The key is maintaining humility, maintaining focus on the community rather than individual achievement, and never losing sight of the fact that true strength comes from collective caring, not from individual power.
Even when individual power—spiritual or otherwise—can be a valuable tool for facilitating collective caring.