Every morning, Uncle Wei rolled his old wooden cart to the edge of the village yard, right where the geese liked to gather. The cart creaked and groaned, but it had carried him for years, and it knew the way.
He leaned back, eyes half-closed, holding a scoop filled with grain. The geese surrounded him like a noisy white cloud, their orange beaks tapping and honking impatiently. Uncle Wei smiled without opening his eyes. He knew them all—the brave one that always stepped first, the shy one that waited, and the troublemaker that tried to steal extra food.
“Slow down,” he murmured, tipping the grain into the bowl.
As the geese ate, the sun warmed his face, and the sounds of the village faded into soft background noise. For a moment, everything felt perfectly balanced: the steady breathing of a tired man, the rustle of feathers, and the simple joy of being needed.
When the grain was gone, the geese stayed anyway, as if guarding him while he rested. Uncle Wei finally opened his eyes and laughed.
“Alright, alright,” he said. “Same time tomorrow.”
And the geese honked, agreeing.