Zhuyin Village stirred with its usual rhythm — roosters calling from the yards, the clatter of buckets at the well, vendors setting out steaming baskets of buns. The air smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke, touched by the faint sweetness of early rice cakes.
But Shen Qiyao woke with unrest.
The dream clung to him, fragile as mist yet sharp in its weight. He washed, dressed, tied his hair with measured motions — but each gesture was slower than usual, his thoughts straying back to the grove. To the petals. To the flute. To the fingers that had hovered just beyond sight.
He stepped out of the inn and into the morning bustle. The villagers moved about with practiced ease, trading greetings, bartering vegetables, laughing over small matters. Yet to Qiyao, their voices felt distant, dulled beneath the memory of music that had no place in sunlight.
The sound was not there — and yet he searched for it all the same. His eyes lingered on the bamboo ridge rising beyond the rooftops, where the light of dawn caught the tips of the stalks and turned them gold.
He could not say why, but his feet carried him down the dirt path that edged the village, toward the shrine, toward the forest.
Every step felt like the faint chase of something half-seen. A puzzle that lingered just out of reach, waiting to be pieced together.
The jade at his side shifted against his hip as he walked, striking with its quiet chime — as if echoing the flute's unfinished song.
And though he told himself it was foolish, he could not shake the feeling that the forest itself was calling him back.
Yet the call faded when the village's noise reached him again — the clatter of voices, the smell of smoke and chestnuts, the sharp tug of the living world insisting he return.
The path back toward the inn wound past the heart of Zhuyin. Lanterns swayed faintly in the daylight breeze; their paper skins patched with old repairs. Smoke curled from cookfires, carrying the faint bite of millet gruel, roasted chestnuts, and pork fat sizzling in iron pans. Children darted between legs, their laughter chasing each other like startled sparrows.
Qiyao's stride was steady, but his thoughts pressed close. Each sound in the street — a vendor's shout, a child's squeal — seemed distant, muffled, as if the veil of bamboo mist still clung to him. His gaze slid across the faces around him but never lingered. They laughed, bartered, argued, as though the world had no ghosts in it. He wondered, briefly, what it might feel like to be that untouched.
A voice cut through the hum, sharp and familiar in its ordinariness.
"Young master, care for a cup of warming wine?"
The stall stood on the edge of the square, nothing more than a plank balanced on barrels, with clay jugs lined behind it. The owner was broad-shouldered, his apron stained with sweet rice and ash, a red cloth tied loosely around his brow. His smile was easy, the kind meant to catch any passerby, but when his eyes flicked over the jade at Qiyao's waist, the edges of it trembled. Respect shadowed curiosity.
Qiyao paused.
Wine. Its sharpness might burn away the lingering thread of music that wound through him. Or it might make the echo worse. Still, he found himself stepping closer.
The man hurried to pour, his hands not clumsy but too quick, as though service itself were a kind of apology. The liquid caught the light as it filled the small cup, faintly amber. He slid it across the plank, bowing his head slightly.
"Travelers often find our wine rough," he said, voice dropping into a conspirator's tone, "but it chases cold bones well enough. And here…" He leaned in, his eyes darting left, right, "…men say it keeps off spirits too."
The corner of Qiyao's mouth did not move, yet silence seemed to demand an answer. He lifted the cup, tasting. The wine was harsh, more fire than flavor, but it steadied the air in his chest.
The stall keeper's gaze clung to him, half-daring, half-fearing. "Did you hear them last night, honored sir? The flute, from the grove?" His voice trembled more with thrill than terror, like a man afraid of silence more than sound. "They say it calls some people by name, though I've never heard mine." He laughed, but it was brittle.
Qiyao lowered the cup. His eyes did not waver, but his stillness itself was an answer.
The man swallowed his chatter, bowing quickly. "Forgive me. It isn't wise to speak of such things in daylight. But… if you hear it again, sir, best keep walking. Best not turn your head."
The words slipped out like a warning learned by rote, passed down in smoke-filled kitchens and whispered bedsides.
Qiyao left the empty cup on the plank. "Another," he said simply.
The stall keeper blinked, startled, but poured at once.
This time, Qiyao did not drink immediately. He let the cup rest between his fingers, cool clay against his skin. Around him, the square moved on: a boy tugging at his mother's sleeve for sweets, a man bargaining for straw sandals, two girls giggling with their sleeves half-covering their faces. Life continued, mundane, unaware.
And yet, to him, it all felt like an echo chamber — each laugh, each shout bouncing back toward the memory of a single sound.
The flute.
He drank again. The burn rolled down his throat, sharp as a blade. For a moment, it quieted the weight in his chest. But when he set the cup down, the silence pressed heavier, as though the music had only drawn deeper into the marrow of his bones.
Qiyao kept the clay cup aside and rose to leave. But as he passed the counter, the owner leaned forward, voice low and almost companionable.
"Why not take a jug with you, traveller? Wine keeps better company than silence. And here in Zhuyin… silence lingers too long."
Qiyao paused, his shadow falling across the stall's counter. The words lingered, carrying more weight than the seller likely intended.
Silence lingers too long.
His gaze lowered, catching the reflection of his own hand resting near the clay jug. The faint chime of jade at his waist punctuated the moment, as though agreeing.
"How much?"Qiyao's voice was low, clipped, but it made the vendor straighten.
"Not much, not much at all," the man said quickly, bustling behind the counter. He wrapped a small jug in twine, setting it before him. "Strong enough to warm the bones. Keeps the night from feeling too empty." His eyes darted toward the bamboo forest in the distance before he added, softer, "Sometimes it even keeps dreams quiet."
Qiyao's expression did not change, though his hand lingered on the jug a breath longer than necessary before he paid. The coins clicked against the counter, sharp in the hush of midday.
The vendor tried to smile, but it faltered. He muttered a blessing under his breath — not to Qiyao, but perhaps to himself — as though even speaking to this man in black felt like touching the edge of a shadow.
Qiyao took the jug and left without another word.
The streets of Zhuyin stretched before him, but he barely saw them. Vendors still called, children still ran, women still traded gossip under the shade of their doorways. Yet all of it blurred, distant, as though he were walking through a dream made too bright.
The jug was cool against his palm, solid, grounding. Still, his thoughts wandered back to the bamboo grove, to the silver thread of melody that had wrapped around him in the night.
It was not just sound.
It was voice.
And though he did not understand it, something in it understood him.
The path wound back toward the inn. A breeze passed through the eaves, carrying with it the smell of chestnuts and smoke, and beneath it .
He walked with steady strides, shoulders broad beneath the sunlight. His long robe billowed with the wind, strands of dark hair dancing loosely across his face. In that moment, he seemed almost otherworldly — like a figure carved from heaven itself. Women passing by could not help but turn their heads, eyes drawn shamelessly toward him, caught by a beauty that demanded no attention yet commanded it all the same.
But Qiyao felt none of it.
His mind circled only the memory of the night before — the sound, the shadow, the forest that clung to him still. He tried to push it aside, but the thought refused to leave, echoing as he walked.
It was then, through his wandering silence, a voice called out from behind:
"Young master Shen! Master Shen—!"
His steps slowed, and he turned his head slightly toward the familiar sound. The old granny was there, her hand lifted in greeting, her voice bright despite the years that weighed on her frame.
Qiyao inclined his head, a small bow of respect in return.
The old woman's smile deepened as she saw Qiyao bow his head in respect. In a place where most only stole glances and whispered behind their hands, his quiet courtesy was like a breeze cutting through the heaviness of rumour.
"It's rare to see you in the bustle of Zhuyin's market, Master Shen," she said warmly, her voice carrying above the hum of vendors and clattering baskets. "I wonder what brings you here today?"
Qiyao's tone was even, his expression unchanged.
"Nothing. I was just passing by."
"Ah, just passing by?" she chuckled, eyes glinting with both amusement and patience. "Well then, why not pass with me? I was on my way to buy a few things.Perhaps your eyes will catch something you didn't expect. After all, didn't you walk away with that wine jug the other night, even though you hadn't planned for it? Fate is like that, Master Shen. We walk without direction, and before we know it, our feet carry us where we were meant to be. The heavens love such tricks."
Her laugh was soft, unhurried, more like the creak of an old door than the chatter of the market.
Qiyao said nothing in return. His silence was not brusque, but weighted—like a stone dropped into a still pond. Yet the words she spoke threaded through him, settling deeper than he cared to admit
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