The rain had stopped an hour before, but the sound of water still dripped from the old roof. I stood at the edge of the village road, staring at a quiet house that had long been empty. People said it was strange—that anyone who went in came out puzzled or changed. Some even said a ghost lived there. But I wasn’t afraid.
My name is Mei. I was eleven years old the summer I wandered into that house, searching for something I couldn’t name. I didn’t know it then, but that day would still live in my heart many years later.
Mama was always busy after Papa passed. Our home was filled with noise and footsteps, with pots clanking and neighbors knocking. Everyone had an opinion, and no one ever stopped to listen. I felt like a leaf in the wind, bouncing about, never sure which way to turn.
One afternoon, after another loud argument between Uncle Shen and Mama, I couldn’t take the noise anymore. I slipped out quietly and followed the road toward the hills. That’s when I saw it—the house no one entered.
It didn’t look scary. The windows were open, the door gently swinging in the breeze. Wild flowers grew between the stones of the porch. Something about it made my heart slow down. I stepped through the doorway.
Inside, there was… nothing.
No chairs. No tables. Not even a single teacup. The air smelled like wood and earth. It was so quiet that I could hear the wind outside and my breath inside. I spun around slowly. There was nothing to do there. Nothing to look at or fix or be afraid of. And yet, I didn’t want to leave.
I sat down on the floor and listened.
The longer I stayed, the deeper the silence got. Not the kind that’s lonely, but the kind that feels like being held in a calm hug. My thoughts, which usually jumped and ran like wild monkeys, began to slow down. I thought of Papa. I thought of Mama. And I thought of Tao—the Way I had heard the old storyteller speak of. He once said, “The boat that drifts empty down the river never crashes. It flows with the current.” I understood it for the first time.
I stayed in that house until the sky turned gold. When I walked back down the road, my feet felt lighter. The noise of the village didn’t bother me so much. I even smiled when Uncle Shen waved and called me over for rice cakes.
Since that day, I sometimes go sit in that house after it rains. I don’t bring anything inside. I don’t write or read. I just sit.
In the quiet, I found something that no one could teach me with words.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when things feel too loud or too fast, I remember the empty house—and the empty boat. I take a deep breath and let things be as they are.
And in doing nothing, I find peace.
The rain had stopped an hour before, but the sound of water still dripped from the old roof. I stood at the edge of the village road, staring at a quiet house that had long been empty. People said it was strange—that anyone who went in came out puzzled or changed. Some even said a ghost lived there. But I wasn’t afraid.
My name is Mei. I was eleven years old the summer I wandered into that house, searching for something I couldn’t name. I didn’t know it then, but that day would still live in my heart many years later.
Mama was always busy after Papa passed. Our home was filled with noise and footsteps, with pots clanking and neighbors knocking. Everyone had an opinion, and no one ever stopped to listen. I felt like a leaf in the wind, bouncing about, never sure which way to turn.
One afternoon, after another loud argument between Uncle Shen and Mama, I couldn’t take the noise anymore. I slipped out quietly and followed the road toward the hills. That’s when I saw it—the house no one entered.
It didn’t look scary. The windows were open, the door gently swinging in the breeze. Wild flowers grew between the stones of the porch. Something about it made my heart slow down. I stepped through the doorway.
Inside, there was… nothing.
No chairs. No tables. Not even a single teacup. The air smelled like wood and earth. It was so quiet that I could hear the wind outside and my breath inside. I spun around slowly. There was nothing to do there. Nothing to look at or fix or be afraid of. And yet, I didn’t want to leave.
I sat down on the floor and listened.
The longer I stayed, the deeper the silence got. Not the kind that’s lonely, but the kind that feels like being held in a calm hug. My thoughts, which usually jumped and ran like wild monkeys, began to slow down. I thought of Papa. I thought of Mama. And I thought of Tao—the Way I had heard the old storyteller speak of. He once said, “The boat that drifts empty down the river never crashes. It flows with the current.” I understood it for the first time.
I stayed in that house until the sky turned gold. When I walked back down the road, my feet felt lighter. The noise of the village didn’t bother me so much. I even smiled when Uncle Shen waved and called me over for rice cakes.
Since that day, I sometimes go sit in that house after it rains. I don’t bring anything inside. I don’t write or read. I just sit.
In the quiet, I found something that no one could teach me with words.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when things feel too loud or too fast, I remember the empty house—and the empty boat. I take a deep breath and let things be as they are.
And in doing nothing, I find peace.
