He stopped once, turning slightly toward the bamboo grove. Its stalks swayed in the evening breeze, green shadows trembling. The sound was distant, almost swallowed by the wind, yet it reached him all the same. The same pull, the same haunting echo.
By the time he re-entered Zhuyin, the streets were thinning. Lanterns were being lit, vendors packing away the remains of the day. Yet the whispers had not gone.
"…always at night, they say…"
"…a promise, broken, that keeps the sound bound…"
"…but who dares near, except fools?"
Their words tangled with Granny's. With the stories of the market. With the whispers that had followed him since he first set foot here.
The inn welcomed him with its familiar creak of wood, the faint aroma of stewed meat clinging to the air. Madam Xu nodded at him from the counter, but he said nothing as he mounted the stairs to his chamber.
Inside, the room was as it had been: the desk by the window, the quilt folded neatly over the bed, the faint scent of oil and paper. Yet Qiyao did not light the lantern immediately. He stood at the window instead, the herb bundle resting loosely in his hand, his gaze fixed on the line of bamboo swaying against the twilight.
Piece by piece, the fragments pressed together:
Whispers of a curse.
A promise broken.
A song that would not fade.
He closed his hand around the herbs, then set them aside. His other hand fell to the jade at his waist. Its surface was cool, steady, grounding. But unlike the flute's echo, the jade gave no answers.
For the first time, Qiyao's brows knit—not from confusion, but from a rare flicker of curiosity. The kind that would not let him rest.
When he lay down that night, the silence was not empty. It was full—of voices, of half-truths, of a melody that lingered like a riddle waiting to be solved.
And in the stillness before sleep, he thought, fleetingly:
What if it was not only a curse? What if someone… really just kept waiting till now?
Sleep did not come easily. When it did, it came like water seeping through stone — slow, uneven, heavy.
And in its depths, the world shifted.
He stood once more at the edge of the bamboo grove. The stalks loomed tall, endless, their leaves trembling though no wind moved them. Shadows stretched long across the ground, bending and twisting like ink spilled across parchment.
A sound wove through the silence — the flute.
Not distant now. Not faint. But near. So near that it trembled in his bones.
He turned, but the grove offered no figure. Only the shifting green, only the moonlight dripping silver across the pond's still surface. Yet the song continued. Notes rose and fell like questions, each one striking deeper than words could reach.
When he moved forward, the ground blurred. The pond widened, its ripples bending into patterns he could not understand. The bamboo leaned toward him, as if listening, as if urging him closer.
Then — a flash.
Lotus petals, pale as snow, scattered across dark water. A ribbon of white silk caught in the branches, fluttering without wind. Fingers — slender, pale — pressing a flute to lips he could not see.
And then silence.
Qiyao's breath caught in his sleep. His brow furrowed faintly, as though the dream demanded more than it gave. But before the image could sharpen, before the song could return, the sound fractured like glass under strain.
He woke with a flinch.
The lantern on the desk had burned low, its flame a faint ember clinging to life. Outside, the night was still, yet the echo of the flute clung to him as surely as if it had been played at his bedside.
For a long while, he sat at the edge of the bed, unmoving. His hand brushed the jade at his waist, then fell back into his lap.
The dream was already fading, but the feeling remained — unfinished, waiting, like a melody cut short.
Dawn came quietly.
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