The mountain night was cool, the stream flowing gently as it always had. Ming sat cross-legged on the flat stone near the water's edge, his breath calm, his back straight.
One year had passed.
He was ten when his teacher disappeared. Now, at eleven, the boy's shoulders had broadened, his fists hardened by daily training, and his eyes carried a quiet sharpness beyond his years.
And yet, his heart still ached with the same question.
"Teacher… where did you go?"
He whispered it often, sometimes to the wind, sometimes to the silent house, sometimes only to himself. No answer ever came.
Each morning, Ming woke before dawn. He ran along the forest path until sweat poured down his back. He punched the wooden post until his knuckles bruised, then healed, then hardened. He practiced breathing under the waterfall, even when the cold made his teeth chatter.
No one told him what to do, but he followed the rhythm his teacher had once given.
And every evening, when the sun sank low, Ming returned to the empty house. He swept the floor, arranged the mats, and lit the small lamp. The silence pressed heavy there, yet he treated the place with care, as though his teacher might walk in at any moment.
Still, no footsteps came.
One night, Ming lay awake, staring at the rafters above. His chest rose and fell, but his heart felt heavier than stone.
He thought of the black scroll hidden in the chest. He thought of the words he could no longer ask.
"Am I doing it right?"
"Would you scold me for this mistake?"
"Would you smile if you saw me now?"
He pressed his hands against his chest. The silence answered nothing.
Loneliness seeped into him, sharper than hunger, colder than winter.
For the first time in many months, Ming's eyes grew wet.
But he did not let the tears fall. He clenched his fists instead.
The night deepened, stars glimmering above. Ming sat upright, trying to calm himself through breathing.
And then, suddenly—he felt it.
A warmth, faint but undeniable, like a hand brushing against his shoulder. His breath caught. He looked around, but there was no one. Only the stream, the trees, the endless sky.
Yet the warmth did not fade.
It was not voice, not sight, not dream. But it was presence. Gentle. Familiar.
His heart trembled. For an instant, he thought—
"Teacher… is that you?"
He closed his eyes and let the feeling linger. It was gone as quickly as it came, leaving only silence once more. But that moment carved deep into his heart.
When the warmth faded, Ming sat in stillness. His breathing steadied. His fists loosened.
And slowly, a new thought took root.
All this time, he had waited. Waited for answers. Waited for guidance. Waited for the day his teacher would return and tell him what to do.
But tonight, he understood.
The silence itself was the answer.
If his teacher had not returned after a whole year, then perhaps it meant he would not.
And if that was true, then Ming could not remain a boy who waited. He had to stand. Alone.
The thought frightened him. But it also gave him strength.
He whispered to the night:
"From today onwards… I am my own teacher."
The next morning, when the first rays of sun touched the mountain, Ming stood tall. His body still small, his fists still young, but his spirit firm.
He ran harder than before, his feet striking the earth like drumbeats. He punched longer than before, each strike echoing with new determination.
Every mistake, he corrected himself.
Every question, he sought the answer through trial.
Every weakness, he faced head-on.
The mountain no longer felt empty. It felt like a mirror—reflecting back his will.
That night, as he sat once more by the stream, Ming placed his hand over his chest.
His voice was soft, but steady.
"Teacher, I don't know if you can hear me. Maybe you can. Maybe you can't. But even if you never return… I'll keep walking. I'll find my own answers. And when the day comes… I'll show you what I've become."
The stream flowed on. The wind stirred the leaves. No reply came.
But Ming no longer needed one.
From that day forward, he carried both the weight of his teacher's teachings and the strength of his own resolve.
And though he was only eleven, the mountain bore witness:
Ming had taken his first true step alone.