The shadow followed him everywhere.
Even in the sunlight, when others rested and smiled, he scrambled to get away. His name was Liang, and he was known in the village as “The Man Who Feared Shadows.” Every morning, he would run through the fields, trying to shake the dark shape behind him. Sometimes he screamed. Other times, he cried. But the shadow never left.
People whispered, “He’s not right in the head,” and they would laugh a little. But Liang didn’t hear them. Or maybe he just didn’t care. His fear was louder than their words.
One morning, as the sun peeked over the hills, Liang ran into the forest. Deeper and deeper he went, branches scratching his arms and the cool mist hugging his feet.
That’s when he found her.
An old woman sat beside a quiet stream, stirring a pot. The air smelled like wild ginger and soft mushrooms. She wore robes made of willow leaves, and her smile was calm, like the waters behind her.
“Are you lost?” she asked, without looking up.
Liang looked behind him. The shadow was still there, clinging to his heels.
“I’m trying to escape,” he said quickly. “My shadow… it won’t let me go.”
The woman nodded and kept stirring.
“Why do you run from it?” she asked.
Liang blinked. No one had ever asked him that before.
“Because it follows me,” he whispered.
She lifted the spoon to taste the soup. “But it only follows when you move. Sit. Eat.”
Liang hesitated, but the smell tugged at his hunger. He sat. For the first time in many years, he didn’t run.
They ate in silence. The soup was warm and earthy. Nothing fancy. Just roots, herbs, and water. But it felt like a hug.
After a long while, the woman pointed to the clear stream.
“Do you see how the water flows?” she said. “It doesn’t fight the rocks. It goes around them. That is the way of Tao.”
Liang gazed at the water. It had no plan, no rush, but it reached the ocean all the same.
“What if my fear is the rock?” he asked softly.
“Then be the water,” she answered.
That night, Liang slept beside the stream. The moonlight cast a pale shadow beside him. But he didn’t run. Instead, he watched the leaves dance in the wind, and he listened to the soft gurgle of the water.
In the morning, the old woman was gone. But the soup pot remained, and so did her words.
Liang returned to the village, a little slower, a little calmer. He still saw his shadow—but now, he understood it was part of him.
He no longer sprinted from it. When people whispered, he smiled.
He took up cooking, making hearty soups from simple things: wild onions, clean water, and laughter. And sometimes, when villagers sat by the fire, he would say, “The best recipe is to let things be. Stir gently. Taste often.”
He never saw the old woman again. But every time he watched water flow or mushrooms grow on soft earth, he remembered that day. And he knew he was free.
Not because his shadow was gone—
But because he stopped chasing the light.
The shadow followed him everywhere.
Even in the sunlight, when others rested and smiled, he scrambled to get away. His name was Liang, and he was known in the village as “The Man Who Feared Shadows.” Every morning, he would run through the fields, trying to shake the dark shape behind him. Sometimes he screamed. Other times, he cried. But the shadow never left.
People whispered, “He’s not right in the head,” and they would laugh a little. But Liang didn’t hear them. Or maybe he just didn’t care. His fear was louder than their words.
One morning, as the sun peeked over the hills, Liang ran into the forest. Deeper and deeper he went, branches scratching his arms and the cool mist hugging his feet.
That’s when he found her.
An old woman sat beside a quiet stream, stirring a pot. The air smelled like wild ginger and soft mushrooms. She wore robes made of willow leaves, and her smile was calm, like the waters behind her.
“Are you lost?” she asked, without looking up.
Liang looked behind him. The shadow was still there, clinging to his heels.
“I’m trying to escape,” he said quickly. “My shadow… it won’t let me go.”
The woman nodded and kept stirring.
“Why do you run from it?” she asked.
Liang blinked. No one had ever asked him that before.
“Because it follows me,” he whispered.
She lifted the spoon to taste the soup. “But it only follows when you move. Sit. Eat.”
Liang hesitated, but the smell tugged at his hunger. He sat. For the first time in many years, he didn’t run.
They ate in silence. The soup was warm and earthy. Nothing fancy. Just roots, herbs, and water. But it felt like a hug.
After a long while, the woman pointed to the clear stream.
“Do you see how the water flows?” she said. “It doesn’t fight the rocks. It goes around them. That is the way of Tao.”
Liang gazed at the water. It had no plan, no rush, but it reached the ocean all the same.
“What if my fear is the rock?” he asked softly.
“Then be the water,” she answered.
That night, Liang slept beside the stream. The moonlight cast a pale shadow beside him. But he didn’t run. Instead, he watched the leaves dance in the wind, and he listened to the soft gurgle of the water.
In the morning, the old woman was gone. But the soup pot remained, and so did her words.
Liang returned to the village, a little slower, a little calmer. He still saw his shadow—but now, he understood it was part of him.
He no longer sprinted from it. When people whispered, he smiled.
He took up cooking, making hearty soups from simple things: wild onions, clean water, and laughter. And sometimes, when villagers sat by the fire, he would say, “The best recipe is to let things be. Stir gently. Taste often.”
He never saw the old woman again. But every time he watched water flow or mushrooms grow on soft earth, he remembered that day. And he knew he was free.
Not because his shadow was gone—
But because he stopped chasing the light.
