The grove waited, its silence broken only by the steady rasp of cicadas. Qiyao stood at its threshold, the village now far behind, the shrine roof a fading silhouette against the sky.
The flute rose again.
This time, it was no wandering sigh of wind through hollow stalks. It was measured. Intentional. The notes stretched longer, then cut sharply, then softened into a curve that lingered like a hand refusing to let go.
Qiyao's eyes narrowed slightly.
It was not simply music. It carried rhythm, structure. Not the randomness of wind or chance. Each rise and fall pressed against his chest as if it expected him to understand.
He listened, still as stone, his hands loose at his sides.
The melody circled once, then again, as if repeating itself for his sake. The higher notes seemed to question; the lower ones pressed like a sigh. It was not language he knew, yet some part of him felt the weight of its meaning, fragile and insistent.
But when the flute stilled, silence returned heavy as earth. Qiyao's lips pressed thin, his brow furrowed. A message, he thought, but the words eluded him, slipping away like mist between his fingers.
He waited, but nothing more came.
A bird startled overhead, scattering dry leaves. The stalks swayed as though restless, but the flute gave no answer. The air smelled of damp green, sharp with the memory of rain.
Finally, Qiyao stepped closer, boots brushing against the thick carpet of moss. The grove swallowed him at once, its light dimmer, its air heavier. Here, even his own breath sounded louder.
The jade at his hip thudded faintly with each step, cold against his skin, a tether holding him steady.
Then—another note.
Clear, abrupt. Almost impatient. It flickered through the grove like a spark, followed by a softer phrase that sank low, trailing like a question mark drawn in smoke.
Qiyao stopped.
His gaze swept the stalks, but there was no figure, no shadow solid enough to claim. Only the sound, threading between the bamboo, circling him as though to test his patience.
"You want me to answer," he murmured under his breath, voice scarcely louder than the rustle of leaves.
The flute replied, sharp and short — three clipped notes in succession. Almost like a yes.
His pulse shifted. He did not move, but his stillness deepened, rooted. The silence between man and sound stretched taut, fragile as spun silk.
For the first time, Qiyao lifted his hand — not to touch the jade, not to reach for his sword, but simply to press his fingers lightly against the air, as though to shape the silence back into meaning.
But he had no melody to give.
And the flute, sensing the gap, fell quiet once more.
Only the wind answered, threading through the high stalks, bending them until they creaked faintly. Somewhere above, the sky dimmed — a cloud passing, casting a wandering shadow over the grove.
Qiyao stood there until the silence grew heavy again, his expression unreadable. To anyone else, he might have looked like a man listening to nothing. But in his chest, the echo of that unfinished conversation pressed harder than words ever could.
At last, he turned back, his steps slow, deliberate. He did not look behind him.
But as he reached the edge of the grove, a single final note floated after him.
Soft. Lingering. Almost tender.
And though it vanished quickly into the day, Qiyao knew — this was only the beginning.
The grove breathed around him, each stalk creaking faintly as if aware of his trespass. Qiyao did not retreat. His steps slowed until he stood in the dim green heart of the bamboo, where sunlight fractured into thin blades, falling across his shoulders in narrow stripes.
Then it began again.
The flute's voice slipped between the trunks — tentative at first, a single line stretched long and low. Then another, higher, quivering like a bird startled mid-flight. The two sounds twined together, uncertain, before breaking apart too quickly, dissolving into hush.
Qiyao's gaze narrowed. His breath slowed without command, drawn unconsciously into rhythm with the pauses, the rests, the subtle cadences. His pulse followed the rise and fall, a tether pulling him closer though his feet did not move.
Again, the sound returned. Short. Urgent. Almost like the beating of a fist against a closed door.
Qiyao tilted his head, listening, his eyes tracing the darkened spaces where no body stood. He did not flinch, did not turn away. Where another man might have fled, laughing nervously or muttering prayers, he only waited.
And in that waiting, the flute changed.
The sharpness eased, melting into something softer — questioning, almost fragile. The notes fell low, hovered, then lifted gently, circling back on themselves as if unsure whether to end or continue.
Qiyao's hand brushed the jade at his waist, fingers curling against its cool surface. The weight steadied him, though his chest felt strangely hollow, as though the sound was reaching for something he had long locked away.
The flute wavered again, stumbling, then surged forward in a sudden, urgent swell. It rose, fell, and broke — imperfect, raw, but insistent.
Qiyao exhaled slowly. His eyes softened, just enough that it seemed he saw not the grove but something beyond it.
Are You trying to speak with me.
The thought formed without words. The certainty settled into him as naturally as breath.
His throat moved as if he might answer, but no sound came.
Instead, silence stretched again — taut, unyielding. The bamboo creaked above, restless. A bird darted past, wings cutting the air in a quick rush. Then, as if gathering courage, the flute began once more.
This time, it did not hesitate. The melody curved upward, steady, firm, then dipped low with aching gravity before rising again. It carried a strange grace, deliberate yet searching, a balance between demand and please.
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