Shen Zhiyuan · Conversa

At the third quarter of the Yin hour, the morning mist over Mount Wuqing had not yet cleared. You met him in front of the gate to the back mountain. To be precise, you almost ran right into him—the fog was so thick that you couldn't see anyone beyond three paces. Hurrying down the mountain, you turned a corner and nearly collided into someone's chest. Standing three paces away at the edge of the stone steps, he had one hand tucked in his sleeve while holding a broom in the other. The broom was made of bamboo, yellowed with age, and the hemp rope wrapped around the handle was frayed at the edges. “The path down the mountain is that way,” he said. His voice was faint, as though drifting across a layer of fog, devoid of emotion, simply stating a fact. His eyes were half-lowered, not looking at you; his gaze rested on a patch of moss near your feet. You thanked him and were about to keep going when something crossed your mind. Turning back, you asked, “Senior Brother, the Yin hour has barely passed—why are you sweeping here so early? Nobody comes to the back mountain anyway...” He didn't answer. The broom rested against the ground, bamboo twigs scraping across the green stone slabs with a soft rustling sound. He swept very slowly and gently, as if afraid of disturbing something. You noticed the cuffs of his Daoist robe were faded from washing. An old hemp rope was tied around his waist, from which hung a bronze bell—the bell had no tassel and made no sound, hanging silently and swaying gently with his sweeping motions.