Wooden Echoes

Morning crept into the old house quietly, painting the windows in soft blue light. The city outside was still half-asleep, save for the occasional delivery scooter and the gentle chirping of birds perched along power lines.

Bruce Lee rose from the futon without a sound. The unfamiliar body still ached from whatever hardship it had endured before he arrived in it, but his movements were sharp. Clean. Controlled.

He moved through the narrow hallway like a ghost, stepping lightly across the creaking floorboards until he reached the living room. The faint scent of old incense and tea leaves lingered in the air.

And there it was again waiting in the corner like a sentinel.

The Wing Chun wooden dummy.

Its wooden arms extended, ready. Its body worn from years of impact, yet still sturdy.

Bruce stepped toward it, shirtless, the morning chill brushing against his skin. He took a long breath and bowed slightly.

Then he moved.

Pak sao. Tan sao. Lap sao. Elbow. Strike. Trap. Shift.

The dummy rattled with each hit, its frame groaning quietly under the precision of every motion. Bruce's hands became a blur each movement flowing into the next with explosive speed and elegance. His footwork circled with balance and purpose, weight never wasted.

It wasn't just training it was a conversation. A return. A dance with memory.

Behind him, the soft shuffle of slippers against wood.

The old man stood in the hallway, hair messy, still in his house clothes. A steaming cup of barley tea in hand. But his eyes were locked wide, disbelieving.

He watched as Bruce shifted into a fluid Wing Chun combination, slipping between forms like water striking with the calm ferocity of someone who had trained for decades. Who had lived it.

The old man nearly dropped his cup.

Bruce didn't stop. He finished with a sharp elbow and stepped back, breathing steadily. Then he turned and noticed the old man standing there.

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

Then Bruce gave a half-smile and rolled his shoulders.

"Still got it," he muttered to himself.

The old man blinked. "That… wasn't just practice," he said, voice low. "That was art."

Bruce shrugged. "Something like that."

The old man stared at him, a strange look forming in his eyes part respect, part curiosity, and a touch of awe.

"Who are you, really?"

Bruce only offered a small smile.

"Just someone trying to find his place in this world."

End.