Threads of Vapor

The monk had climbed for hours to reach the Master’s hut, high on the wind-bitten ridge. His legs ached, his lungs burned, but his thoughts burned hotter still. He could not stop them—the regrets of his youth, the anxieties of what was to come.

When he arrived, the Master was seated on a rock, gazing at the sky. Above them, a lenticular cloud hung like a pale ship adrift in blue—motionless yet shifting imperceptibly, changing shape even as it seemed still.

“Master,” the monk began, bowing low, “I am tormented by the past and terrified of the future. I wish to live fully in the present, but it slips through my fingers. How do I hold on?”

The Master did not look at him. His eyes were fixed on the hovering cloud.

“Tell me,” he said softly, “how long do you think that cloud will last?”

The monk glanced upward. “Perhaps a few hours, Master.”

The Master nodded. “And after it has gone, who will remember it? Will the sky remember? Will the mountain remember? Will even you remember?”

The monk was silent.

“See how it appears so perfect,” the Master continued. “It is born of wind and moisture, unseen forces in the air. It lingers for a moment—perhaps long enough for a wandering monk to notice it—and then it vanishes without a trace.”

The Master turned, his gaze piercing now. “And so it is with you. You are born of forces unseen, you linger here a moment, and then you vanish. The mountain will not remember your steps. The river will not recall your reflection. The sky will not keep your sighs.”

The monk felt a chill as the wind rose. “Then… is there no meaning?”

The Master smiled faintly. “The cloud does not ask why it exists. It forms, it floats, it dissolves. And yet in its brief being, it is utterly complete.”

“Will anyone remember the cloud a thousand years from now? A hundred? Even tomorrow?”

“No, Master.”

“Then why do you expect to be remembered? Even the greatest kings fade to dust, their names lost to the tides of time. You, I, all of us—fleeting shapes in the sky.”

The monk felt his heart sink. “If this is so, then what should I do?”

The Master gestured to the tea steaming in a small pot beside him. “Drink your tea while it is hot. Feel the wind on your face. Watch the cloud before it dissolves. This is all that has ever been given to you. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

As the monk took the cup, he looked again at the lenticular cloud. Its edges were already softening, its shape unraveling into threads of vapor. Soon it would be gone, leaving the sky as empty as before.

For the first time, he felt no urge to hold on.

He drank the tea.

And the wind carried both their names away, as it always had, and always would.