Dawn on an Empty Beach

When Liang set foot on the sand, the horizon was a soft brushstroke of purple and gold. The only marks were his dark footprints, which gradually vanished into the flow of breathing. The world had not yet recalled to be noisy, and the sea mist chill the air.

He frequently visited here before the sun rose.

Long and unspoiled, the beach curved softly around the border of a tiny fishing community that had lost all sense of time. Even the children knew how to sit motionless and listen to the wind in this community, where clocks ticked but no one chased them and boats swung in time with the moods of the ocean.

Many years had passed since Liang, a former Southern Mountains monk, departed the monastery. Not with rage or disillusionment, but with a silent realization that the Dao is present in fish markets, ocean tides, temples, and forests. He had no specific goal in mind when he arrived in the village. Nothing asked him to leave, so he stayed.

His focus now was the beach at daybreak.

The silence that was not absence, the emptiness that was not void—there was something about that hour. Without a word, the sea whispered. Without any effort, the sky transformed. The birds floated aimlessly. It was wonderful because everything was exactly as it was.

Liang saw a second set of footsteps next to his own one morning as the sky's edge blazed with orange and rose.

They were barefoot, little, and cautious.

He turned to see a child, maybe eight or nine years old, sitting a few meters away with her face turned to the water and her knees pulled to her chest. Wisps of her black hair fluttered in the wind, tied in a loose ponytail. When he got close, she did not move or give him a look.

He sat next to her and said nothing.

Minutes went by. Hours, maybe. Time did not matter.

"I like the way the world is calm here," the girl finally remarked.

Liang gave a nod. "There is never any noise in the world. However, we frequently talk over it.

Her eyes were interested but not demanding as she gazed at him. "Are you a monk?"

"I was once."

"What made you stop?"

Liang gave a soft smile. "Because I understood that I never had to begin."

That crossed the girl's mind. "That is not logical."

He turned his gaze to the sea. "Until I stopped attempting to make sense of things, it did not to me either."

Once more, she was quiet. Now, the sun had completely broken through the horizon, creating a bridge-like passage of light across the sea that led to an invisible place.

He would subsequently find out that the girl's name was Mei. She was a fisherman's daughter who had started to explore on her own after her mother became unwell. She refrained from crying. She kept it to herself. She just got up early and followed the sea's sound.

She never asked Liang why she had come. Why the shore waited was not questioned by the sea.

They sat together every morning, sometimes talking in bits and pieces that drifted like driftwood between waves, sometimes in silence. She would inquire. He would respond with silence rather than facts.

"Is the sea alive?" she inquired one day.

Liang observed the incoming tide. It has breath. It sings. It pays attention. What else is required for it to be alive?

Mei nodded, as if this verified what she already thought.

Weeks passed. Their temple was still the beach, and their prayer was the morning.

Mei showed up one morning with a cloth-wrapped object. She took a seat next to Liang, tucked the bundle between them, and gingerly opened it. A shattered conch shell with a jagged edge where it had cracked was within.

She said, "I discovered it yesterday." "I still like it even though it is broken."

Liang picked up the shell and flipped it over in his palms. The light still caught the inside, which still shone with pearl and delicate pink. He listened while holding it to his ear.

"What are you hearing?" Mei inquired.

He responded, "The wind." "The wave memory." The reverberation of an element that once pervaded everything.

Mei recanted and followed suit.

She muttered, "Even shattered things remember."

Liang gave a nod. "Broken items can sometimes be remembered more vividly than whole ones."

He did not say it out loud, but there was a lesson there. She was aware already.

An elderly guy came up to Liang while he was sitting outside his little cottage on the outskirts of the hamlet that afternoon. His eyes were clouded by grief, his hands were calloused, and he wore the worn garments of a fisherman.

Without introducing himself, the man said, "You are the monk who is no longer a monk."

Liang bowed his head. "I am a listening man."

The elderly man turned to face the sea. "You talk in riddles, according to my daughter."

Liang grinned. "Only if the truth were too acerbic."

With a sigh, the elderly guy collapsed on the ground next to him. "Her mom is dying." We have tried everything, including the city doctors, medication, and prayers. Nothing is effective. I am at a loss for what to say to Mei.

Liang remained silent.

"She believes the sea will heal her mother," the elderly man went on. You informed her that everything is interconnected, she claimed.

I did not claim she would be healed by the sea. Just that the sea hears.

However, she thinks it is real. similar to a miracle.

Liang gave a slow nod. "Belief is the miracle sometimes."

The elderly man shut his eyes. "When the water drags her mother away, I just do not want her to break."

With a calm voice, Liang turned to face him. She is going to shatter. Everyone does. However, she will also flow.

The wind carried the man's tears down his face.

A week went by. Mei visited every morning, although she did not say as much. The serenity of deep water was in her gaze as she watched something that was invisible.

Then she failed to show up one morning.

Liang bided his time till the sun was completely above. He then made his way to the fisherman's residence.

The air was quiet, the kind of quiet that only occurs when something has passed away.

Mei held the cracked conch shell while standing barefoot in the sand outside.

Her voice was as soft as sea foam when she murmured, "She is gone."

Liang remained silent.

Mei clung to the shell. "I do not want to lose her. She should always return, like the sea, in my opinion.

He was kneeling next to her. "The sea never goes away. All it does is change form.

Mei scowled. "But I am no longer able to see her."

He made contact with the shell. "Is the wind visible to you?"

She gave a headshake.

"But you sense it."

She gave a nod.

"Now she is like that."

Mei put the shell against her ear. Her face softened. "She is whispering."

Liang grinned. "She will always do it."

Mei visited the seashore once more in the days that followed. Seashells, dried flowers, and driftwood fragments were among the tiny offerings she carried. She would place them in the sand and talk to the sea in a low voice. Liang never inquired about her words.

The beach was never given a name by the village. There was no need for a name. People eventually noticed the girl and the non-monastic old monk sitting together at daybreak, though. Others joined them, sitting in reverent silence a few meters away.

An elderly lady who lost her spouse. A young guy who fears maturing. A man who had lost his ability to breathe.

They come to be entire rather than to be healed.

The beach was still devoid of noise rather than people.

And things sprouted in that void.

Time smoothes stories like sea glass.

Sadness is light enough to float, like driftwood.

Whole planets are held motionless by love, which is like tidal pools.

Years went by.

Mei grew.

She said, "I guess I want to go away," while sitting next to Liang one morning. Visit additional locations. Look for other beaches.

Liang glanced to the sea, then at her. "The Dao does not end at the coast."

She grinned. "Are you going to be okay without me?"

He remarked, "You are not with me right now, and neither am I. We just sit next to each other.

"However, I will miss this."

It is impossible to overlook what is a part of you. You just carry it in a different way.

Between them, in the sand, she set the cracked conch shell. "I will leave this here after that. so that another person can hear.

Liang lightly stroked the shell. "And someone will."

The morning sun outlined Mei's silhouette as she stood. She bowed low, turned to face the water, and left.

Liang observed her till she disappeared.

Then he listened while facing the water.