The path curved away from the market, narrowing between stone walls and low roofs until the houses thinned and fields stretched wider. The chatter of villagers faded behind him, replaced by the hum of cicadas and the dry whisper of leaves brushing against each other.
Qiyao had not meant to walk this way. His steps were measured, deliberate as always, yet each turn seemed to guide him toward the far end of Zhuyin — where tiled roofs gave way to an old moss-dark shrine and the shadowed line of the bamboo grove beyond.
He slowed when the scent of incense drifted faintly through the air. It was aged and brittle, not like fresh offerings but like smoke clinging to stone long after prayers had burned out. The shrine stood small, its red paint dulled, its wooden beams weathered by rain. Grass grew high around its base, and the path that led to it was half-swallowed by earth.
And yet, despite its neglect, it felt… awake.
The stillness pressed against him. The same stillness he had felt in the grove, beneath the flute.
Qiyao's hand brushed the jade at his waist without thought. The cool weight grounded him, though his gaze lingered on the shrine. Something about it held memory — not his, but someone else's.
"Ah, young master."
The voice came soft and warm. The old woman he had once helped stood nearby, a basket looped over her arm, her figure small against the shrine. She smiled as though she had expected him. "I see the forest draws you, too."
Qiyao did not answer at once. His eyes flickered back to the shrine before he inclined his head.
"Will you walk with me a while?" she asked gently. "It is not good to linger alone there."
Without speaking, Qiyao stepped forward, letting her fall in beside him. The two moved past the shrine, toward the edge where the first stalks of bamboo stirred.
The old woman's voice lowered, as if even the breeze might overhear. "Do you know, child, they say that once, a boy waited here every night with his flute. He played until the moon set, waiting for someone who never returned. When he died, his soul stayed behind, bound to the grove he loved."
Her eyes softened, but her tone held weight. "The young ones now call it a curse. But I…" She glanced toward Qiyao. "I think it is a longing too deep to die."
The woman's steps slowed, her basket shifting against her arm. "It grows chilly here in the shade," she said after a pause, glancing at him with the kind of insistence only age can carry. "Come with me a while, young master. A cup of tea will warm the bones, and I can share what little I know. Even wanderers need rest."
Qiyao regarded her for a moment, unreadable as ever. But when she turned toward a narrow footpath that wound behind the shrine, he followed.
Her home
"Sit," she urged, setting her basket aside. She poured hot water into two cups, the steam rising pale between them. The cracked porcelain rattled slightly against the tray as she carried it to the low table.
Qiyao took the cup, his movements precise, silent.
The old woman settled across from him. "You've heard the whispers already, I'm sure," she said, her tone somewhere between curiosity and sympathy. "Every tongue in Zhuyin is quick to wag. The flute in the grove. The spirit that lingers."
Her eyes grew distant as though following threads of memory. "I was a small girl when I first heard it. My grandmother told me it was no curse at all. She said there was once a scholar's son — sickly, but gifted with music. Every night, he played beneath the bamboo, waiting for someone dear to him. He played until his hands grew weak, until one winter stole his breath."
The woman's voice lowered, softer still. "They say he could not rest because his promise was never kept."
Qiyao's gaze lowered to the cup in his hand. The steam curled upward, blurring his reflection in the tea's surface.
"The villagers only see danger," she continued, "but longing can bind just as tightly as hatred." She looked at him steadily, as though weighing his silence. "What do you think, young master? You've been near the grove, haven't you?"
Qiyao did not answer directly. His fingers brushed once against the jade at his waist, an unconscious gesture, before setting the cup down with quiet care. "Whoever played…" His voice was low, edged with restraint. "It did not sound like hatred."
The old woman's eyes brightened faintly, as though pleased by his words. "No. It never has."
Silence fell again. Beyond the porch, cicadas sang, and the bamboo swayed faintly against the wind, though no storm stirred.
Qiyao sat still, but inside his thoughts tightened — the villagers' fear, the old woman's tale, and the sound that refused to leave his chest. Like fragments of a pattern he could not yet see, they pressed together, leaving behind a sense of something missing.
A puzzle.
One he had not meant to begin, yet one he could not easily ignore.
When Qiyao rose to take his leave, Granny pressed a small bundle of dried herbs into his hand.
"For your rest," she said gently. "You carry the look of one who does not sleep easily. Burn these in hot water, and dreams may come lighter."
He accepted without a word, only lowering his head in the faintest bow. Her smile followed him as he stepped out into the pale light of dusk, the shrine's shadow stretching long behind him.
The path back toward the village was quiet. A cicada's cry clung to the air, rising and falling like an old chant. Each crunch of gravel beneath his boots sounded too loud, too sharp against the silence. Yet beneath it, the tune returned—soft, steady, as though the forest itself hummed.
The flute.
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