The village came back into view with the same hum as the morning before—carts rolling, hens clucking, voices carrying over open doors. Yet for Qiyao, the sounds felt distant, as if muffled beneath the echo still lodged in his chest.
He crossed the stone bridge into the square. A pair of children dashed past him, barefoot and laughing, but their giggles died when they noticed him. They slowed, whispering behind small hands before darting off toward the stalls.
Qiyao ignored them, though his ear caught snatches of their daring words.
"...he came from the grove again…"
"...maybe he saw it…"
"...idiot, don't say that out loud…"
The market square was fuller now. Women bent over baskets of greens, bargaining sharp and quick. Men stacked firewood, their sleeves rolled high. The air smelled of frying cakes and fresh herbs, yet beneath it, the whisper of rumour flowed just as steadily as trade.
Near the herb-seller's stall, two old men leaned close, speaking in tones meant to be secret but loud enough to carry.
"Did you hear? The flute was heard again last night. Right under the moon."
"Aye. And who was seen walking back at dawn? That tall stranger. Don't tell me it's not linked."
"Pah. You and your tales. The grove's been cursed for years—why would it wait until he arrived to stir?"
"Why indeed? Unless the dead fancy noble faces."
Qiyao passed without so much as a flicker in his expression, though their words chased at his heels.
Madam Xu's inn loomed at the edge of the square, its painted sign swaying gently. He might have gone inside—retreated from the noise, the eyes, the whispers—but a voice tugged him back.
"Master Shen!"
It was the old woman again, the one he had helped by the shrine. She stood near a stall selling tea bricks, her thin frame wrapped in faded brown. Her smile deepened the wrinkles at her cheeks.
"You walk early again," she said warmly. "Do you not rest enough?"
Qiyao inclined his head. "I walk," he answered simply.
She chuckled as though that explained everything. "Men who walk too much always carry something heavy inside." Her gaze flicked to the jade at his waist but lingered only for a heartbeat before moving away. "Come, have some tea later. My kettle is always ready."
He gave a faint nod, not promising, but not refusing either.
When she turned away, the circle of gossip tightened again. He could hear it plainly now, in between the clatter of chopping boards and the crackle of roasting chestnuts.
"Why does she talk to him so easily?"
"She's old. Old folk see differently."
"But mark my words, no man carries jade like that unless he hides more than his name."
"And what if the flute has chosen him? Would you still speak so boldly?"
The words slipped under the noise of the market like a second current. He did not break stride, but his hand brushed against the jade once more, a quiet, automatic gesture.
When he reached the far end of the square, where the stalls gave way to open road, Qiyao paused. The bamboo grove stretched beyond the fields, faint but visible in the distance. Even from here, he thought he felt it—the pull, the quiet weight of music that refused to leave him.
He looked once over his shoulder. The villagers had already turned away, resuming their chatter, their trade, their endless weaving of fear into story.
He set his jaw and moved on, steps steady, though inside, the question lingered:
Why did the flute feel less like a curse and more like a call?
The inn was quieter in the daylight than it had been the night before. Morning guests had already left, and Madam Xu's voice drifted from below as she scolded an apprentice for spilling water. The clatter of bowls came faintly through the paper-thin walls.
Qiyao sat at the small desk by the window, posture straight even in solitude. A cup of tea cooled at his side, its steam long faded, but he had not touched it. His hand rested on the desk, fingers brushing absentmindedly against the silk cord at his waist.
The jade pendant shifted, knocking lightly against the wood. Its sound was soft, but in the stillness of the room, it seemed sharp as a bell.
He stared at it without truly seeing. The carved dragon's coils gleamed pale, catching threads of sunlight that slipped through the paper lattice. A mark of lineage, of weight, of chains not easily cast off. In Zhuyin, the villagers looked at it with unease; elsewhere, it had once commanded respect. To him, it was both shield and burden.
Outside, voices carried from the market street. Children laughed as they chased one another, women haggled over bundles of greens, and a cart creaked past on old wheels. The ordinary rhythm of life, untouched by the forest's whispers.
Yet in his chest, there was no such ease.
The flute's echo had not left him. Even now, in the broad light of day, he swore he could hear a thread of sound weaving between the market's noise. Not enough to be certain — perhaps no more than memory — but it unsettled him all the same.
Qiyao's brows drew faintly together. He had traveled far, through cities and across rivers, and nowhere had silence been so persistent, nor music so restless. This was no drunken villager's tale.
His hand moved at last. He drew a scrap of parchment toward him, dipped a brush into ink, and paused. For a moment, the ink pooled on the tip, ready to bleed. Then, with sharp, deliberate strokes, he wrote a single line:
"What voice is it that refuses to let the living rest?"
He set the brush down, the words drying quickly on the page. They were not meant for anyone else's eyes. Not yet. But the act of writing steadied his thoughts, even as his jaw tightened.
A knock sounded on the door.
"Guest Shen," Madam Xu's voice called politely. "Shall I bring you your meal here, or will you eat below?"
Qiyao's gaze flicked to the door. He considered ignoring it, but after a breath, he replied, "Below." His voice was quiet, but firm enough to carry.
He heard her footsteps retreat, light against the creaking floorboards.
Qiyao rose, his hand brushing the jade once more, and turned to the window before leaving. From here, he could see the bamboo grove in the far distance — dark green stalks swaying as though the wind whispered secrets only they understood.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
The sound he thought he heard again — faint, almost mocking — curled at the edge of hearing. A single note, soft as a sigh.
By the time he opened the door to leave, the corridor was empty. But the echo remained with him, refusing to fade.
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