Seasons of Stillness
Morning light spilled over the ridge, pale and unhurried, like it had for centuries. Yet for Ming, each dawn had begun to feel new.
The monkey stirred before him, stretching with a comical yawn before scurrying toward the courtyard steps. Ming followed slowly, his breath misting in the crisp mountain air. Once, his mornings had been filled with a rigid determination: sweep, train, meditate, endure. Now, the rhythm remained, but softened—woven with laughter, mischief, and the warmth of another presence.
He swept the courtyard, as always, but now the monkey darted about chasing the broom's shadow. It tripped over its own tail, tumbled headfirst into the pile of leaves, then scrambled out proudly, as though declaring victory over the mess it had caused.
Ming sighed, shaking his head, but his lips betrayed him with a faint smile.
"Hopeless," he muttered. Yet when he reached for the pile, the monkey hopped over and tried to help, clutching a twig like a broom, scattering more dust than it gathered. Ming chuckled softly. "Hopeless—but loyal."
Meals became their small wars.
By the stream, Ming washed roots and herbs while the monkey hovered impatiently at his side. The moment Ming turned, it snatched a wild berry, stuffing both cheeks like a thief. Ming caught it, tugging gently at its tail.
"That's mine."
The monkey screeched in mock outrage, clinging tighter to the berry until the tug of war ended with juice splattering across both their hands. Ming laughed, licking the stain from his knuckles.
"You win," he said. But later, when he roasted a handful of chestnuts by the fire, the monkey shoved one into his hand without hesitation, chirping in triumph.
It wasn't about food anymore. It was about sharing.
Training continued, but even that had changed.
When Ming struck the wooden post, the monkey sat nearby, pounding the dirt with tiny fists, imitating his rhythm. At first Ming corrected its stance playfully, nudging its elbows or shifting its balance. But after a time, he began to realize—its mimicry pushed him too.
The monkey's clumsy punches reminded him of his own first days. Of mistakes, of persistence. Watching it stumble and rise again made him aware of the simple beauty in repetition.
Not perfection. Not victory. Just practice.
One evening, sweat running down his temple, Ming leaned against the post and whispered, "Maybe that's all life is… practicing until the end."
The monkey leapt onto his shoulder, pressing its head against his neck, as if agreeing.
The seasons rolled quietly over the mountain.
In spring, the forest came alive with fresh green shoots. Ming gathered herbs he had overlooked in the past, learning their names and uses from memories of his teacher. The monkey scampered through blooming branches, showering him with petals.
In summer, the air turned heavy with heat. Ming stripped down to his waist, plunging into the stream with a gasp. The monkey dove in after him, splashing furiously, almost drowning before Ming caught it and held it above the water. The two of them laughed until their bellies ached.
In autumn, the mountain blazed gold. Ming raked leaves into great piles, and the monkey leapt into them, disappearing and reappearing like a mischievous spirit. The crackle of drying grass and the scent of smoke filled their evenings.
Winter came slow and patient. Frost etched the courtyard stones white. Ming lit a fire each night, wrapping himself in furs, with the monkey nestled close against his chest. They breathed together, sharing warmth. Silence returned then—but it was no longer empty.
On nights when the stars shone especially bright, Ming sat on the courtyard steps, gaze drifting toward the endless sky. His thoughts sometimes returned to his teacher, to his vow, to the world beyond these slopes.
But then he would feel the monkey's small weight pressed against him, hear its soft breathing, and he would smile faintly.
"I'll still seek my answers," he murmured one evening, voice carried on the wind. "But I won't chase them like fire anymore. If truth can be found in quiet days, then I'll learn it here."
The monkey lifted its head, eyes catching the starlight, deep and oddly knowing. Ming chuckled, brushing its fur gently.
"You… you really are like a brother to me."
The mountain, once a place of silence and waiting, had become something else entirely.
It was still harsh. His hands still blistered. His muscles still burned. Hunger still gnawed when food ran scarce. But beneath those struggles lived something more enduring: laughter echoing between trees, warmth shared by the fire, the bond of two beings who had chosen each other without words.
Ming no longer counted his days in loneliness. He counted them in moments: a fruit stolen, a splash in the stream, a quiet night of shared breath.
And though his teacher had not yet returned, Ming no longer felt abandoned. The vow in his chest remained, but its weight was gentler. He was not walking alone anymore.
The mountain was still the same.
But Ming had changed.
And because of that, so had everything.
The mountain grew quiet at night, but it was no longer the silence of loneliness. It was the silence of breathing, of small lives stitched together in rhythm.
Ming sat on the courtyard steps, the broom leaning against the wall behind him. His knuckles were red from training, his shoulders aching from the day's endless movements. Beside him, the little monkey gnawed on a stolen fruit, cheeks puffed as though it were hoarding a treasure.
Ming reached over and pinched its ear lightly.
"You know," he said softly, "you cause more trouble than you're worth."
The monkey squeaked in defiance, clutching its fruit tighter, eyes gleaming with mischief.
Ming let out a quiet laugh, the kind that came without effort. A year ago, his chest had been full of heavy vows and sharp hunger for strength. Now, there was weight still—but it was the steady weight of choice, not burden.
Morning after morning passed in this way. Ming would rise before dawn, stretch his stiff limbs, and sweep the courtyard until the stones shone under the mist. The monkey followed with a broken twig, dragging dust more than clearing it, yet puffing its chest proudly at the effort.
At breakfast, their battle for food became tradition. The monkey's tiny hands were always faster, always snatching the best pieces. Ming pretended to scold it, but he always split what remained. Sometimes the monkey even offered him a bite in return, pressing fruit against his lips with surprising gentleness.
Training filled the hours after, but it was different now. Ming still struck the wooden post until his fists throbbed, still ran along the trails until sweat soaked his robe, still meditated by the stream until shadows grew long. Yet the air no longer pressed on him as before. His discipline was no longer born of desperation. It was born of steadiness.
Whenever his mind wandered too far—toward ambition, toward the ache of missing his teacher—the monkey would pull him back. A tug on his sleeve, a stolen pinecone tossed onto his lap, a squeak of laughter that echoed through the trees. Ming never said it aloud, but he had grown thankful for those interruptions.
One evening, after a long day, Ming sat in the fading glow of lantern light. The monkey was curled at his side, breathing softly, warmth seeping into his ribs. He traced the grain of the step beneath his fingers and let his thoughts unfurl like threads.
"I've walked this path for years," he whispered, eyes fixed on the dark line of mountains. "I thought power was the only road forward. That strength would give me answers."
The wind stirred, carrying pine-scented air across the courtyard.
"But what if," Ming continued, quieter now, "what if living simply is enough? To laugh, to train, to eat, to watch the days fold into years. To grow old without ever touching immortality. Would that really be failure? Or would it be… peace?"
His words did not feel like weakness. They felt like release.
The monkey stirred in its sleep, nudging closer. Ming's lips curved faintly.
"Teacher," he said, voice steady though his chest ached with honesty, "you told me to endure, to walk until I found my truth. Perhaps my truth is not beyond the heavens, but right here—on this mountain, with this little life beside me."
In his mind, he pictured the years to come. Wrinkles at his eyes, hair silvered by time, the monkey still perched on his shoulder, older but just as mischievous. Days of sweeping, cooking, patching torn robes. Nights of lanterns burning low, of stories told not to impress the world but to comfort himself.
And when the end came, it would not be with thunder or glory. It would be with the sound of the stream, the scent of pine, the warmth of a companion curled nearby.
He closed his eyes and breathed deeply.
"I don't regret this path," he whispered into the night. "If I die mortal, I die having lived. As long as I find my answers, I need nothing more."
The vow settled in his chest like a calm flame.
The stars wheeled above. The mountain kept its ancient watch.
Ming rose, placed the lantern at the monkey's side so the little creature wouldn't fear the dark, and bowed—not to destiny, not to heavens, but to life itself.
Then he lay down beside his unlikely brother, the mountain breathing with them both.
For the first time, Ming did not dream of power or loss.
He dreamed of mornings filled with laughter.
He dreamed of days filled with quiet work.
He dreamed of a mortal life, fully chosen, fully his own.