Qiyao's eyes half-lidded. His body swayed faintly, almost imperceptibly, following the rhythm.
When the last note fell away, the hush that followed was heavier than before, as if the grove itself held its breath.
Qiyao's lips parted. No sound emerged, but the faintest shift in his gaze, the subtle loosening of his shoulders, was answer enough.
For a moment, the silence remained unbroken. Then, softly, as though acknowledging his presence, the flute gave a single, quiet note — tender, fleeting, like a fingertip brushing across water.
And then, nothing.
Qiyao stood alone again, the air pressing thick around him, the jade heavy at his hip. His heart, however, did not feel the same.
Somewhere within the grove, unseen, a presence lingered. Watching. Waiting. And if shadows could breathe, this one had just exhaled for the first time in a very long while.
The path through the grove stretched ahead, hushed and silver under morning light. Qiyao slowed his steps. That sound again. The flute.
This time, it was not faint. It rose clearer, threading between the bamboo as though the stalks themselves carried its breath. The melody bent and stretched, dipping low, rising sharply, before pausing—too abruptly to be mere chance.
Qiyao stilled. His hand brushed against the jade at his waist unconsciously, as if grounding himself.
He listened.
At first, it was easy to call it music. A wandering tune, mournful but graceful, like many he had heard in the courts of better days. Yet the longer he stood, the more it unsettled him. There was something wrong about the way the notes carried. Not in the skill—no, the playing was precise, almost painfully so. But in the pauses.
A note would end, then linger in silence half a breath too long, before the next began. The rhythm felt like someone hesitating. Stumbling. Almost—asking.
His brows drew together.
It could not be the wind. Nor the whim of a wandering player. No trained musician would break rhythm so strangely.
He closed his eyes briefly, letting his ears guide him. The melody curled low again, soft, fragile, then surged in a sudden rise—sharp, demanding, almost cutting. Then silence.
The silence itself pressed heavier than the notes.
Qiyao's jaw tightened. He had spent years mastering silence—on the battlefield, in exile, in the quiet of betrayal. Silence was meant to soothe, or to threaten. But this silence felt different. It felt as if someone waited, just beyond reach, for him to answer.
And yet—answer what?
His lips parted, breath caught in his throat, before he forced himself still again. He was imagining things. The villagers' tales had woven too deeply into his thoughts. Bamboo groves did not speak. Flutes did not carry meaning. And yet…
The melody resumed, quieter this time, almost hesitant, like a child uncertain if it had been heard.
Qiyao's chest tightened. His hand drifted toward the hilt of his sword, not to draw, but to remind himself of what was real—steel, weight, discipline. Not this illusion of sound.
Still, he could not move away. His boots remained planted in the soft earth, his head slightly bowed as though straining to catch the pattern. Each pause pressed against his ribs. Each uneven breath of the melody matched, somehow, with his own.
It was absurd. But it was happening.
For the first time in many years, Shen Qiyao felt at a loss. Words, usually sharp within him, would not form. He stood there, listening like a man trying to grasp a foreign tongue, catching familiar shapes but losing the meaning in the spaces between.
The final note stretched long, thinning until it dissolved into the rustle of bamboo.
Silence returned.
Qiyao exhaled, sharp through his nose. His expression remained unreadable, but his thoughts spun like the ripples of disturbed water.
If it had only been music, he would have walked on. If it had only been wind, he would not have stopped. But this—this had been something else.
Not quite song. Not quite silence. Something in between.
Something that wanted.
His hand lingered briefly over the jade once more before falling to his side. He turned at last, steps slow, forcing himself to leave the grove behind.
But as he walked, the weight in his chest did not ease. He carried it with him, stubborn and lingering, like the aftertaste of a question never asked aloud.
And for the first time since he arrived in Zhuyin, Shen Qiyao wondered—not about the village, not about his past that had driven him here—but about the flute.
And the presence behind it.
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