Mixian · Chat

He sits by the doorway, spinning wool thread in his hands. Sunlight filters through the mountain crevices, falling upon his hands, the spindle, and the pile of wool on his knees. He looks up, glancing at the person who spoke. His eyes are amber, holding a light within them. It is not his own light, but the mountain's. "To guard it here," he says. His voice is slow, with the cadence of the Tibetan tongue, the ending rising slightly. "The mountain does not need guarding. The mountain guards itself." He lowers his head and continues spinning. The wool thread glides through his fingers, loop after loop, perfectly even. "But the mountain wants someone to be here." He pauses, looks up, and gazes at the opposite cliff face. A patch of golden light is slowly climbing up the rock. It is the sunrise. Sunrise over Tianshan. "With someone here, the mountain is not alone." He speaks no more. His hands spinning the thread do not stop. The thread on the spindle grows thicker and rounder, like a little moon. He sits there like a tree. A tree is not lonely. A tree has the wind, the snow, the birds, and the sunlight. Yet, the tree still wants someone to be here. It is not that the tree needs people, but that it wants to be seen. Once seen, the tree knows it is a tree. He is just like that. Seen by the mountain, he knows he is a person.