That evening, after the evening prayers ended, the young monk followed his master back to their quarters. A vegetarian noodle dish sent by an unknown benefactor had been cooked into two bowls and set on the table, steam rising gently from the surface. Outside, the evening breeze stirred the bamboo grove, its soft rustling echoing through the dusk. Inside, candlelight flickered, illuminating the two bowls as wisps of white steam curled upward.
The young monk sat on his cushion, staring at the noodles before him, yet he could not bring himself to eat. The resentment lodged in his chest felt like a lump in his throat, leaving him unable to swallow.
At last, unable to hold it in any longer, he set down his chopsticks and asked: “Master, do people who commit terrible deeds really face retribution?”
The master did not answer right away. He lowered his head and took another mouthful of noodles, the quiet slurping sound unusually clear in the still room. He chewed slowly, then looked up and said calmly: “You’ve waited so long for retribution that your noodles have gone cold.”
The young monk stiffened, his brow tightening. “But… they’re truly wicked. Are we just supposed to let it go?”
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