The Man Who Feared the Echo

One evening, as the lanterns flickered softly in the tea house, a traveler arrived, his face tight with worry. He sat before the Daoist master, barely touching the tea poured for him.

“Master,” the traveler said, “I fear what others say about me. Their words follow me like a shadow. If I act, they judge. If I stay silent, they still speak. No matter what I do, their voices echo in my mind. How can I silence them?”

The master took a sip of tea, then pointed toward the mountains. “Have you ever shouted into the valley?”

The traveler nodded. “Yes. My voice comes back to me.”

“And have you ever tried to chase the echo away?”

The traveler frowned. “That would be foolish. The more I shout, the more it returns.”

The master smiled. “Then why do you chase the echoes of others’ words? The more attention you give them, the louder they become.”

The traveler was silent. A breeze stirred the leaves outside, carrying with it the faint murmur of distant voices from the village below.

The master refilled his cup. “Let the valley speak as it will. It does not change the mountain.”

The traveler exhaled, as if releasing a burden he had carried for too long. He picked up his tea and drank, no longer hearing the echoes.

Outside, the night stretched vast and quiet.