It was a misty morning. The day had not yet dawned and the mist, coming from the valley, went up the mountain to reach the sky. At the top, a temple plunged in the fog. Its pointed roof stood like a snowdrop in the middle of the clouds. The moon was slowly waning behind the terraced Zen garden.
A Japanese lantern illuminated the darkness. Its light reflected on the Master's leaves. As the papers fell, they splashed on the ground, like small impressionistic touches. The Master was there, resting on the ground, smiling forever at the stars.
The lantern watched over him and observed the surroundings. Was she the only one who was aware of what was happening? Some birds came to warm up next to her and heard the news. They immediately went to warn those who were preening their feathers on the Japanese steps.
The Master's presence radiated in everything, even the gently rising mist was permeated with it. Soon the whole garden began to whisper. The stones whispered to each other. Only the lantern could push back the darkness and see what was hidden from others. The lantern knew the truth, and the news of the Master's death spread quickly through the garden, the mountain, the valley.
A long silence followed, not even a rustle of leaves. Then a few birds came to gather in front of the Master, until the sunrise. The temple came to life. One heard the sound of hurried footsteps, then nothing more, a complaint, some crying. For the common man the garden was as usual. Everything was in its place.
The younger monk picked up the Master's leaves and saw the lantern still lit. He bowed to the lantern that still reflected the light of the Master, as the moon did with the sun.
