Case 5 — Twelve Moons of Persistence #

In the first month, young founder Wei came to the monastery carrying only his laptop and dreams of building a social platform for artisans. Master Ryo observed as Wei worked through the nights, his screen illuminating the temple walls. When the first version launched, only three users signed up - Wei’s mother, his cousin, and a spam account selling herbal remedies. That evening, Wei sat in the garden, ready to delete his code. Master Ryo approached and asked, “Did you expect the ocean to fill with a single raindrop?”

The temple cat watched Wei intently that first month, never leaving his side during the long coding sessions. When Wei would voice his doubts aloud, the cat would simply purr, as if to say that existence itself was enough.

In the second month, Wei added features frantically, like a farmer planting seeds in every direction. His platform now had messaging, groups, stories, and even a marketplace. Yet still, only twenty users came. Most left quickly, leaving the digital halls empty. Wei approached Master Ryo, saying, “Perhaps I should pivot to building enterprise software instead.” The master replied by taking Wei to the monastery’s kitchen, where he showed him a pot of water that had been boiling for hours. “Notice how the water gets no hotter, no matter how much wood we add to the fire,” said the master.

That evening, Wei deleted half his features, remembering the water’s lesson.

The third month brought spring rains, and with them, Wei’s first real users - a small group of pottery makers from a nearby village. They posted daily, sharing their works and techniques. Wei was ecstatic, but by month’s end, even they began posting less frequently. In his despair, Wei spent three days refusing to code, instead watching the monastery’s garden. Master Ryo found him there and asked, “What do you see?” Wei replied, “The flowers bloom at different times.” The master smiled and walked away.

During this time, the elderly monk Shin would bring Wei tea each afternoon, always placing it slightly out of reach, forcing Wei to pause his work to grab it.

The fourth month was cruel. A competing platform launched with venture funding, and Wei’s users began to leave. He worked himself sick, adding features to match the competitor. One morning, Master Ryo found Wei sleeping at his desk, his screen showing forty browser tabs of competitor research. The master closed the laptop and placed a single rice bowl on top of it. When Wei awoke, he understood.

That month, the temple’s youngest monk began sitting with Wei during meals, asking innocent questions about his platform that often led to profound insights.

As the fifth month began, Wei focused solely on his pottery makers. He removed features they didn’t use and deepened those they did. The platform grew smaller, but those who remained began posting more. Master Ryo observed that Wei had stopped checking his analytics hourly, and now took evening walks in the garden. During one such walk, Wei found a small stone that perfectly fit his palm. He placed it on his desk, and from then on, would hold it while thinking through product decisions.

The summer heat of the sixth month brought clarity. Wei noticed that his users had formed genuine friendships. They organized local meetups, shared techniques, and supported each other’s work. Though still small, the platform had become a true community. When Wei showed Master Ryo the activity logs, the master pointed to a spider’s web in the corner, glistening with morning dew. “See how each thread strengthens the others,” he said.

The seventh month was marked by a great storm that knocked out power to the monastery for three days. Wei, forced away from his code, spent time with his users in person, visiting them at their workplace. When power returned, he rewrote his entire onboarding flow based on what he had learned. Master Ryo noted that Wei no longer called it a platform, but rather a community.

The eighth month brought the first organic growth. Users began inviting their artist friends, not because Wei had built a referral system, but because they found value in the connections. Wei excitedly showed Master Ryo the growth charts, but the master was more interested in reading the conversations between users.

During the ninth month, a large tech company launched a similar feature, and Wei’s fears returned. But this time, instead of panic, he wrote letters to each of his power users, asking what kept them on his platform. Their answers became his north star. Master Ryo observed that Wei had finally stopped checking his competitors’ websites.

The tenth month was when Wei first declined a feature request from a vocal user. When asked why by Master Ryo, Wei replied, “It would serve many, yet touch no one.” The master nodded and served Wei an extra portion of rice that evening.

In the eleventh month, Wei’s platform reached one thousand users. The same day, he removed the user counter from his dashboard. When Master Ryo asked about this decision, Wei said, “We need not count the stars to know the sky is beautiful.”

The final month brought both frost and clarity. Wei’s platform had found its rhythm, growing steadily through word of mouth. One evening, a young founder visited the monastery, asking Wei the secret to his success. Wei simply smiled and slowly counted to ten while opening the temple door, just as he had seen Master Hong do so many times before.

Years later, when asked about the platform’s early days, Wei would show visitors the stone on his desk, now smooth from years of handling. “Some things,” he would say, “become more beautiful the longer you hold them.”