A full year had passed since Ming last saw his teacher.
He was ten when the figure he relied on most vanished without a word. Now, at eleven, his days were shaped by silence and training.
Every morning he ran through the mountain paths, bare feet pressing into the earth. Every afternoon he tempered his body—punches against the wooden post, breathing exercises by the stream, meditation under the pine tree.
Though no one guided him, Ming refused to stop. His teacher had left, but Ming held tightly to the promise in his heart:
> "When Teacher comes back, I'll be stronger. He won't be disappointed."
His body grew leaner, his movements sharper, his senses clearer. He could hear the whisper of wind weaving through the leaves, feel the faint vibration of water flowing beneath the soil. At night, when he sat in stillness, his heartbeat no longer sounded alone—he felt a faint rhythm from the mountain itself, steady and eternal.
And yet, despite all this growth, his heart remained heavy. No matter how many times he looked to the mountain paths, his teacher never returned.
One late evening, as the moon rose high and the cicadas quieted, Ming stepped into his teacher's empty house to tidy it. He dusted the shelves, arranged the old books, and wiped the meditation table where his teacher once sat.
It was then his hand brushed against something strange at the corner of a wooden chest.
A faint crack, hidden deep beneath the folded cloth.
Ming hesitated, then pulled the cloth aside. There, wedged carefully at the bottom, was a black scroll.
It was simple at first glance—dark silk wrapped tightly, edges slightly worn. Yet when his fingers touched it, the air seemed to cool, and his skin prickled as though the scroll carried a life of its own.
Ming's heart beat faster.
> "Teacher… did you leave this behind for me?"
He held it with both hands, but did not dare unroll it. Something deep within whispered that the time was not right. He was too young, too unprepared.
So Ming placed it carefully back into the chest, sitting silently beside it. His blue eyes reflected the moonlight as he whispered to himself:
> "One day… when I'm ready, I'll open it. Until then, I'll keep waiting, Teacher."
The black scroll lay motionless, its presence heavy but quiet—like a secret waiting for its time to awaken.
In the mornings, it was the cry of hawks echoing through the peaks. At noon, the rush of streams tumbling over stone. At night, the cicadas sang until silence fell, and the world sank into stillness.
For a whole year, these voices were Ming's companions. His teacher's absence left an emptiness heavier than stone, but Ming refused to collapse beneath it. He had promised himself he would not waste a single day.
So he trained.
Every dawn, before the first light touched the valley, he was already running the winding paths, bare feet slapping against earth still cool with dew. The sharp stones tore his skin, but Ming clenched his jaw and kept going. When the pain grew too strong, he reminded himself:
"If I stop, Teacher will return and see me weak."
The thought alone carried him further.
By midday, sweat drenched his thin shirt. He stood before the wooden post near the courtyard and struck it again and again until his knuckles split and bled. His arms trembled, his ribs ached, but Ming's stubborn will refused to break.
When exhaustion finally pinned him down, he sat cross-legged beneath the old pine tree. He slowed his breathing until his chest rose and fell with the rhythm of wind in the branches. Slowly, he learned to sense things beyond himself: the steady flow of water in the stream, the sigh of earth shifting beneath roots, the pulse of life within his own body.
These became his lessons, in place of his teacher's voice.
Yet no matter how hard he pushed himself, the evenings always carried the same weight.
When he tidied the empty house, he would find his gaze drifting toward the chest in the corner. There, hidden under cloth, lay the black scroll. Its presence was quiet but unyielding, like a shadow that refused to fade.
Ming never opened it.
Every time his hands brushed against its dark silk, he felt the same chill seep through his skin, as if the scroll was not an object but a silence watching him. He did not fear it, but neither did he dare defy it.
Sometimes he would sit in the dim glow of a lantern, scroll resting across his knees, and whisper softly:
"Teacher… was this meant for me?"
The scroll never answered. Its surface remained cold, smooth, lifeless.
And yet, Ming could not bring himself to put it away quickly. He kept it near, sometimes speaking to it as though it were his teacher himself.
"Today I managed to run two laps without falling."
"My fists hurt, but the pain feels lighter than before."
"I wonder… when you come back, will you still call me stubborn?"
Each night the words spilled out, and each night silence greeted him in return.
But to Ming, the silence was enough.
Seasons shifted.
In summer, thunder rolled over the mountains, and Ming trained even as rain drenched him, fists slamming against the soaked wooden post. The scroll lay safe inside the house, but when he returned drenched and trembling, he would dry himself by the fire and glance toward it. Somehow, seeing it there steadied him, as if the silent object tethered him to his teacher's unseen presence.
In autumn, the pine needles fell in waves, carpeting the courtyard in gold. Ming raked them aside each morning before his training, muttering under his breath:
"Teacher always kept this place neat. If he returns and sees it messy, he'll scold me."
In winter, frost bit at his skin until his fingers stiffened. He wrapped himself in old robes, breath misting in the frigid air, but he still sat cross-legged by the stream, forcing his lungs to grow stronger with each icy inhale. Some nights he shivered beneath thin blankets, teeth chattering, but when the scroll caught his eye in the moonlight, he whispered:
"Don't worry, Teacher. I can endure this much."
Spring arrived at last. The snow melted, and fresh green spread over the slopes. Ming's body had changed—his arms lean and firm, his steps lighter, his senses sharper. His childish roundness had faded, leaving behind the shape of a youth hardened by solitude.
But inside, his heart still carried the weight of waiting.
One night, as stars scattered across the sky, Ming sat in the courtyard with the scroll beside him. The fire had burned low, casting long shadows against the walls.
He stared at the black silk, his hand hovering over it.
"Why won't you answer me?" His voice was soft, almost a plea. "Even if Teacher left it behind, even if you were meant to guide me… why stay silent? Why just watch me struggle?"
His throat tightened. For the first time in months, tears pricked at his eyes.
"I train every day. I don't stop. I… I keep waiting. But you don't say anything. Teacher doesn't come back. And I…"
He broke off, curling his hands into fists. His breath shook.
"…I'm lonely."
The words slipped out before he could stop them. The night swallowed his confession.
For a long moment, Ming sat unmoving, his small figure dwarfed by the vast mountain silence. The scroll lay across his lap, unmoved, unchanging.
At last, he wiped his face roughly with the back of his hand.
"No. I can't say things like that. Teacher wouldn't want me to."
He placed the scroll back into the chest with care, pressing the cloth over it as though tucking it to rest.
"Sleep, then. When the time is right, I'll be ready. Until then… I'll carry your silence."
From that night onward, Ming stopped questioning the scroll aloud. But his attachment did not lessen. Every morning before training, he would glance at the chest and nod to it, as though greeting an old friend. Every night before sleeping, he would bow once to it in silence.
The scroll never moved, never glowed, never helped.
But to Ming, it was proof his teacher had not truly abandoned him. Proof that somewhere, beyond the mountain, his teacher still lived.
And so, even in silence, the black scroll became his anchor.
An unspoken bond.
A presence that watched but never guided.
A shadow of his teacher, waiting with him in the long years ahead.
Ming grows through the seasons, showing time's passage.
He speaks to the scroll like his teacher, but it never responds.
His loneliness is revealed but also his resolve.
The scroll is simple, heavy, and mysterious — never helping cultivation, only standing as a silent bond.