The morning began, not with birdsong, but with the soft creaking of bamboo as it swayed in the early breeze. Sunlight filtered through the narrow stalks, painting the ground in shifting bars of gold and green. Li Wei lay curled like a sleeping fox beneath the woven mat, the scent of smoke and pine still clinging faintly to his tunic from the night before.
Yao had long since risen. The old man moved like a drifting leaf—quiet, but not entirely without sound. His presence rustled the world around him in subtle ways, like the soft chime of wind through chimes carved from old bone.
Li Wei stirred, one arm flopping across his face. "Mmm. It's still early..." he mumbled, though the sunlight already danced boldly on the floor of the hut.
"Early?" Yao's voice came from the open doorway, already distant, as if spoken from halfway across the forest. "The sun has finished its tea and begun to chase foxes through the valleys. And you, little one, still cling to dreams like a snail to wet stone."
Li Wei grunted and sat up, rubbing his eyes with the back of his sleeves. "Old man, not everyone has owl blood and sleeps on tree branches."
From somewhere beyond the clearing, Yao's laugh echoed, full and bright like the ring of a bronze bell.
Their hut, if it could be called such, perched on the edge of a small ridge overlooking the mist-covered valley. It was modest: walls of packed earth, a thatched roof Yao swore would outlast stone, and a hearth of blackened stone always surrounded by bundles of drying herbs.
Li Wei stepped out, bare feet pressing into cool dew-laced grass. The bamboo whispered around him, and the air smelled of woodsmoke, moss, and distant rain.
Yao stood at the edge of the ridge, arms folded behind his back, his white robes billowing faintly despite the stillness of the morning. He did not turn when Li Wei approached.
"Come, breathe," the old man said simply. "But not like a boy sniffing soup. Like a mountain, steady and full."
Li Wei grumbled but obeyed. He mimicked Yao's stance, shoulders back, feet slightly apart, and pulled in a deep breath. The world seemed to slow as the scent of bamboo, damp stone, and old earth filled his lungs. He held it… then exhaled.
"Again," Yao said.
So he did. And again. And again. Until the complaining faded from his face and the quiet gathered around them like a shawl.
"Why do we do this every morning?" Li Wei finally asked. "Is it really just breathing?"
Yao hummed, as if the answer required careful tasting before speaking. "Breathing is the first gate. A fish cannot climb a waterfall if it forgets how to swim."
Li Wei blinked. "That's... not an answer."
"It is," Yao said, turning now, his sharp eyes full of amusement. "You just haven't caught it yet."
They spent the next hour in quiet motion. Yao led him through postures he called Crane Stillness and Willow Flow. Some were deceptively simple—arms lifted like wings, slow turns of the waist—while others made Li Wei's muscles ache and tremble.
"This one's called Falling Leaf," Yao said, lifting one leg and folding both arms in a sweeping circle. "If you fall, fall with grace. If you land, let it be soft."
Li Wei tried to mimic the motion, but wobbled, nearly toppling into a patch of dew-drenched ferns. He caught himself at the last moment and stuck out his tongue. "I think my leaf is drunk."
Yao chuckled. "Even drunken leaves find the ground."
Afterward, they sat beneath the crooked old pine Yao claimed was older than the mountains themselves. Li Wei leaned against the bark, cheeks flushed, hair sticking to his forehead.
"Old man," he muttered between breaths. "Do you think I'll ever be strong enough to beat that deer that always outruns me?"
Yao raised a brow. "Is it a contest of speed or cleverness?"
Li Wei considered that. "...Both."
"Then yes," Yao said, eyes twinkling. "But first, you must learn to listen to its heart."
"The deer has a heart?"
Yao gave him a dry look. "Everything with breath has a heart. And everything with a heart sings. Even stones. Even the wind."
Li Wei leaned back, frowning thoughtfully. "How do I hear it?"
Yao plucked a pine needle and held it out to him. "When you can hear this fall... truly hear it... you will have begun."
He let the needle drop. It spun, slow and light, before settling on the moss.
Li Wei stared at it. His ears strained. All he heard was birdsong, the distant hiss of the breeze.
He frowned again. "I didn't hear anything."
Yao smiled, but said nothing.
The day wore on with the kind of lazy rhythm only mountain life could provide. After their morning practice, Yao sent Li Wei to fetch water from the stream. The boy went willingly enough, though not without tossing a smooth pebble at Yao's back, which the old man caught mid-air without turning.
"You'll need to be faster than that if you want to surprise an old fox like me," he said with a grin.
The stream ran cool and clear through the bamboo forest, its surface a mirror of shifting sunlight and shadow. Li Wei knelt beside it, dipping his bucket into the flow, then paused, watching the way the water danced over stone.
He remembered what Yao had said. About breath. About hearts. About listening.
The stream, he decided, definitely had a heart. It pulsed, sang even, in a burbling language he didn't understand. It made him smile.
He wandered a little on the way back. Not too far—just enough to follow a butterfly that flickered like gold leaf through the air, or to chase a pair of rabbits that dashed from a bush. The forest was alive in a way that thrilled him, not just with animals, but with secrets. Every bend in the path might reveal something new: a hollowed log filled with mushrooms, a strange stone carved with lichen-covered symbols, or a birds' nest woven from hair-thin twigs.
When he returned, Yao was crouched by the fire pit, roasting yams.
"You took your time."
Li Wei set the bucket down. "I was listening for hearts."
Yao looked up, his expression unreadable for a moment—then he laughed. "Good. Even if your ears are still stuffed with moss, it's good to try."
They ate by the fire, steam rising from the charred yams as the scent of sweet earth filled the air. Li Wei nibbled his carefully, not wanting to burn his tongue.
"Old man, where did you learn all those movements? The ones you make me do in the mornings."
Yao poked at the fire with a stick. "From a ghost."
Li Wei blinked. "A real ghost?"
Yao gave him a sidelong glance. "She was very real. A dancer. Light as moonlight. She never spoke, but her feet told stories. She taught me to move before she passed on."
"Was she your teacher?"
"One of many," Yao said softly. "The world is full of teachers, Li Wei. The trick is knowing how to listen when they don't speak."
Li Wei sat with that for a while. Then, poking at the fire, he asked, "Will I have many teachers, too?"
"You already do. The wind. The stream. That yam you just burned your fingers on."
Li Wei huffed. "That doesn't count."
Yao gave him a look. "Why not? Did it not teach you something?"
"Not to touch hot food."
"Lesson learned."
That night, the forest seemed especially full. The mist crept early, curling around the hut in soft ribbons. The bamboo swayed gently, like dancers in a slow, secret rhythm.
Yao played the flute again. Its sound was soft, like breath itself made music. Li Wei lay on his mat, listening, eyes half-lidded.
"Old man," he murmured. "Do you think I'll ever learn to play like that?"
Yao's fingers paused. Then continued. "If you listen, and practice, and open your heart... maybe."
Li Wei's breath slowed, lulled by the melody.
Outside, the mist thickened, as if drawn by the tune.
Inside, a boy dreamed of falling leaves, hidden hearts, and dancing ghosts.
The sun rose slow and thick over the village, dragging light like a paintbrush dipped in honey across the thatched roofs and dew-laced grass. Mist clung to the ground stubbornly, curling like a lazy spirit around Li Wei's bare ankles as he stepped outside, a yawn still stretching across his face. The bamboo groves whispered to each other in that way they always did, leaves clicking and swaying like they were passing secrets through the morning hush.
He blinked against the light, rubbed his eyes with the back of one small hand, and looked toward the forest. Toward where the Old Man had gone.
Yao had vanished before dawn, leaving only the scent of wet cedarwood and tea leaves in the little hut. It wasn't the first time, not really. The old man had a habit of appearing and disappearing like a breeze with opinions. But it still irked Li Wei.
He folded his arms. "Didn't even say goodbye this time."
A low chirp of protest came from a blue-feathered bird perched on the post beside him, head cocked as if judging his complaint.
Li Wei narrowed his eyes at it. "You didn't stop him either, did you?"
The bird blinked. Then pooped.
Li Wei sighed and grabbed his fishing rod. If the Old Man was going to vanish, then he'd fish alone. He knew the good spots now, anyway. Learned from the best, he supposed.
The forest was a world of layered green and echoing birdsong. Every step beneath the canopy brought him deeper into a place that hummed quietly with a rhythm not quite human. The light was dappled and always shifting, making patterns on the mossy floor that danced just out of reach.
Li Wei moved quietly, just as Yao had taught him. Heel first. Then toe. Breathe like you're afraid to disturb the wind. He thought of the Old Man's voice—soft, smooth, like tea poured slowly into a wooden cup.
"Every step is a question. Every stillness is an answer. The world moves. You listen."
And so Li Wei listened. Listened with his feet and fingers and the space between his ribs. He heard the way the creek giggled at its own jokes, and how the birds sang warnings to one another. He even caught the snap of a branch far off to the left, a deer maybe, or a very clumsy fox.
He reached the stream and settled down near the flat stone they always used. He remembered the first time Yao had brought him here. The old man hadn't said a word, just handed him a rod and pointed at the water.
Then waited.
And waited.
Li Wei had been frustrated at first. No stories, no jokes, just the water and the breeze and a very unhelpful old man smiling into the trees. But over time, Li Wei had grown to like the silence. It was thick, yes, but not empty. It was full of noticing.
He cast his line.
Minutes passed. Or maybe hours. Time bent around the edges in this place, like it had other things to do and didn't much care if you kept track.
Then, a tug.
He sat up, fingers tightening on the rod. Another pull—stronger now. A grin crawled onto his face as he fought the catch, the bamboo pole bending, the line slicing through the water with purpose.
A flash of silver and blue leapt from the stream—then splashed back down, writhing with protest.
Li Wei whooped. "Got you, fish spirit!"
He wrestled it in, hands firm but respectful, and placed it in the woven basket beside him. It wasn't just a fish. It was dinner. And maybe, if the Old Man came back tonight, a peace offering.
"Old Man always says a good fish deserves a good fire," Li Wei muttered as he packed up.
By midday, the sun was high and sweat stuck to his neck like a stubborn ghost. He returned home through the back path, careful not to step on the sprouting mushrooms Yao had warned him were probably not explosive. Probably.
But the hut was still empty.
He frowned. The hearth was cold. The teapot untouched. And worse—his flute lay on the stool, but without that little carving Yao had promised to finish today. A tiny dancing fox. It was going to sit right at the mouthpiece, all smug and clever.
Li Wei sat cross-legged on the floor, arms wrapped around his knees. He watched the fireless pit.
"Old Man," he mumbled. "You're late."
The door creaked open sometime after the shadows had begun to stretch.
Li Wei didn't look up.
"You smell like tree sap and smugness," he said flatly.
Yao's voice drifted in like a breeze full of mischief. "And you, little fish, smell like sunburn and pride."
Li Wei snorted. "Caught dinner."
A rustle. Then the soft thump of a bundle placed on the table.
"Good," Yao said. "Because I brought mushrooms."
Li Wei whipped his head around. "Not the probably not explosive ones?!"
Yao's eyes sparkled. "What's life without a little drama?"
The boy stared at the basket of wild mushrooms like it might detonate. Then at Yao.
Yao winked.
That evening, they sat by the fire. The fish crackled over the coals, glazed with honey and herbs. The mushrooms, to Li Wei's great relief, did not explode. And in the warmth of dinner and dusk, Yao finally carved the little fox onto the flute.
Li Wei watched every movement of the Old Man's hands. They were slow but sure, fingers dancing with purpose. Each motion felt like a story in itself—silent but full of meaning.
"Why a fox?" Li Wei asked.
Yao didn't pause. "Because foxes see everything. Even things they shouldn't."
Li Wei raised an eyebrow. "Like you?"
"Exactly like me."
They laughed. Then silence returned, but this time it was friendly.
The stars blinked awake, one by one.
And the fox on the flute smiled.