For centuries it sat still, green and weathered, believing in the quiet laws of the world: that endurance was virtue, that silence was strength, and that time itself would polish every flaw. People passed by, touching it for luck, whispering prayers they barely understood. Jade absorbed it all—the faith, the fear, the half-belief handed down like a cracked bowl that still held water.
One evening, rain began to fall.
Not the gentle kind that cools the earth, but the hard rain that strikes roofs and stones as if demanding to be let in. The sky darkened early, and the old courtyard emptied, leaving only the jade figure beneath the open air. Raindrops struck its surface again and again, like questions without answers.
Then the baby cried.
The sound was thin at first, nearly lost beneath the rain, but it carried a weight heavier than thunder. A small child lay wrapped in cloth near the edge of the courtyard, left there by someone whose fear had outweighed their courage. The rain did not spare the baby; it soaked the blanket, ran down soft cheeks, and chilled tiny hands that reached for nothing.
The jade watched.
For the first time in its long existence, belief felt insufficient.
All its years of silent witnessing—wars, prayers, departures—had taught it to accept what came. But now, under the rain, the old belief cracked. The rain was “hitting,” yes, but not with intention. Still, the result was the same: suffering without meaning.
The jade felt bad—not because it could feel pain, but because it could feel responsibility. To witness and do nothing suddenly felt like a kind of allowance, a permission granted to cruelty simply because it arrived disguised as fate.
Footsteps approached.
A young woman ran into the courtyard, breathless, hair plastered to her face. She had been searching, heart pounding louder than the storm. When she saw the baby, relief and shame collided in her chest. She scooped the child into her arms, shielding it from the rain with her own body.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, to the baby, to the sky, to herself.
As she passed the jade, she paused. Rain streamed down the stone’s face, tracing lines that looked almost like tears. For a moment, she believed the statue understood. Perhaps it did.
That night, the rain washed the courtyard clean. The baby slept, warm and safe. The jade remained where it had always been, but something had changed. Belief was no longer passive. True believing, the jade realized, was not about standing still and calling it wisdom. It was about knowing when endurance became excuse.
In the days that followed, people returned. They noticed the jade looked different—less polished, perhaps, but more real. Moss grew in new patterns. The stone bore tiny marks from the storm, imperfections left unhidden.
And that was the lesson.
True belief is not old jade that never moves. It is jade that survives storms and lets them change its shape. It is seeing harm and refusing to call it destiny. It is feeling bad not as weakness, but as the beginning of responsibility.
Under the rain, something ancient learned mercy. And because of that, something small lived to grow.
