The woman did not press him. She simply turned, her small frame weaving with surprising steadiness into the tide of the market. Qiyao followed, his tall figure shadowing hers, not out of obligation but for reasons he did not put into words.
The road ahead was lined with stalls. A fishmonger slapped silver carp onto wet boards, the scent of river water sharp in the air. A pair of women bent close over bolts of dyed cloth, arguing in low voices about price. A child darted past, his sticky fingers clutching a roasted yam, laughter bursting from him like firecrackers.
Amid the noise, the old woman moved without haste, stopping here and there to touch a pear, inspect dried herbs, or greet another villager with a nod. Her presence did not carry the edge of gossip, nor the suspicion that shadowed so many others' eyes. Instead, she walked with the calmness of someone at home in her world.
For Qiyao, that alone was enough.
He thought of the countless gazes he had felt since arriving in Zhuyin—curious, wary, some even fearful. And yet, this old woman's tone never changed. She spoke to him as if he were simply another man on the road, not a stranger marked by jade and silence. That small, ordinary kindness was a warmth he had not expected to find in this village.
The incense seller bowed slightly as Granny placed a few sticks into her basket.
"Best burn them at the shrine," the vendor murmured, eyes flicking toward the bamboo forest. "Folk say the music's grown restless this season."
Her voice trailed off when he noticed Qiyao nearby, as though strangers were not meant to overhear such things. Still, Qiyao had already caught the hesitation — the way fear threaded through even daylight speech.
A woman at the next stall pressed a bead pendant briefly to her lips before tucking it back beneath her collar. Another vendor lowered his voice, muttering about "flute nights" and "wandering souls."
Qiyao said nothing, but he carried the silence differently than the villagers did. Where they shrank, he observed. Where they whispered, he listened.
Granny's gaze flicked sideways, catching his stillness. "Tell me, Master Shen," she said lightly, her tone as casual as if asking after the weather, "do you believe in such stories?"
He didn't hesitate. "Belief is not needed," Qiyao replied, his voice low, even. "If something exists, it exists, whether people name it or not."
The old woman gave a soft chuckle. "Ah, you speak like a scholar, yet also like one who has seen much. It's a rare thing in Zhuyin."
Their path wound past more stalls until Granny slowed, steadying herself with her basket. Qiyao noticed the slight falter in her step. Without a word, he extended his arm, letting her rest her hand briefly on his sleeve.
"You're kind again," she murmured. "Kind in ways you don't even notice."
He didn't answer, only guided her pace until she was steady again. She glanced up at him with that small, unshaken smile. "Come take tea once more, if you will. Old bones grow weary in the market's noise."
Qiyao inclined his head. "If it pleases you."
They walked in companionable silence a while before Qiyao spoke, his tone measured but faintly softer than before. "I have not asked you yet, madam… how should I address you?"
Her smile deepened, lines at the corners of her eyes folding warmly. "Xuemei is the name my parents gave me, though few bother with it now. The village children call me A'po. If it does not trouble you, you may too."
Qiyao bowed his head slightly. "Then, A'po, I will remember."
She studied him a moment, her expression thoughtful, as if weighing something unsaid. Then, with a faint sigh, she added: "There is something about the way you carry silence, Master Shen. It feels familiar… like the hush before a flute begins."
Qiyao's hand brushed the jade at his waist without meaning to. But he did not answer.
A'po did not press further. She only shifted the basket in her arms and set her steps toward the road leading out of the market, her gait slow but steady. Qiyao fell into step beside her without speaking, his long stride shortened so as not to outpace her.
The noise of Zhuyin faded behind them. The calls of vendors grew faint, replaced by the quiet rasp of wind through bamboo fences, the occasional bark of a stray dog, the soft thud of their footsteps on the packed earth path.
A'po glanced sideways once, the corners of her lips tugging upward. "You walk quietly, Master Shen. Quieter than most men I've met."
Qiyao's gaze remained on the road ahead. "Noise is wasted on silence."
Her laugh was a hushed thing, like leaves rustling. "Spoken like a man who keeps his words close. Perhaps that is why you notice things others miss. The village sees only shadows and rumors. But you—" She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly as though she weighed the risk of her words. "You see where the silence bends."
Qiyao's jaw shifted, but he remained wordless. Still, in his chest, the echo of the flute stirred faintly, as if agreeing with her.
They walked on, passing narrow lanes where chickens darted, wings fluttering, and children called after each other with unrestrained laughter. Yet each time the road opened wider, Qiyao could see the bamboo grove in the distance, swaying like a dark sea at the village's edge. His gaze lingered there longer than he meant to.
A'po noticed. She spoke lightly, though her eyes held quiet knowing. "The shrine sits beyond those stalks. Few villagers walk that way now, save when duty forces them. They leave incense at its threshold but dare not linger. Too many swear the sound of flute follows them back."
"Their fear makes them careless," Qiyao said at last.
"Fear always does." A'po's voice softened. "But there are other kinds of listening than fear. Some sounds are not curses, only calls that no one dares answer."
Qiyao's grip tightened imperceptibly around the wine jug in his hand. His mind circled her words, but he let them fall silent between them.
At last, their path curved toward a small rise. At its crest stood a modest wooden house tucked against the slope, half hidden beneath the shadow of an ancient tree. Its tiled roof sagged slightly with age, but the walls were swept clean, the courtyard neat with rows of herbs and vegetables. Behind it, faint smoke curled from a stove chimney.
"Here we are there," A'po said, her tone carrying both apology and pride. "It is nothing fine, but it has stood as long as I have. Come, Master Shen—rest a while. Tea tastes better when shared."
Qiyao halted at the threshold, his tall figure casting a long shadow across the courtyard. His gaze swept once over the home: simple, unadorned, yet carrying the weight of years lived in quiet resilience.
When he inclined his head in acceptance, A'po's smile deepened. She pushed open the wooden gate with a small creak and led him inside.
The garden air carried scents of earth and wild ginger. Qiyao's boots brushed the flagstones as he followed, the faint clink of the jade at his hip punctuating the silence.
As they crossed into the yard, A'po spoke once more, her tone almost casual. "Strange, isn't it? The way fate folds paths together. You helping me that day with the water, and now again. Sometimes, Master Shen, Heaven writes its patterns in silence before we hear the song."
Her words lingered in the air between them, settling like invisible threads.
And though Qiyao said nothing, his gaze followed the bamboo grove in the distance once more.
"Sit, Master Shen," A'po said, setting down her basket. She moved with slow precision, each gesture deliberate. From a cupboard she drew out a teapot, its glaze chipped, and placed it on the brazier. The water inside began to hum, steam unfurling into the cool air.
Qiyao lowered himself onto the mat without a word. His eyes swept the room, pausing on the bowl of ashes, then on the incense sticks bound with red thread.
"You tend the shrine often?" he asked at last, his voice low, steady.
A'po smiled faintly as she poured the water into the pot, letting the leaves bloom. "Every few days. Some say it is wasted effort, lighting incense for restless spirits. But I have found that silence grows heavier if we do not speak to the unseen."
She poured the first cup and set it before him. The tea was pale, faintly green, the steam rising like a ghost.
Qiyao accepted it with a slight incline of his head. His fingers lingered briefly on the warmth of the cup, though his gaze never left hers.
"And the flute?" he asked, almost as though testing the words aloud.
A'po's hands stilled for a moment over the pot, then resumed. Her voice, when she answered, was softer. "The forest has carried that sound since before you came. At times mournful, at times sharp as if cutting through bone. The villagers call it cursed, say it belongs to the dead. Children whisper it is the voice of one who cannot rest."
Her eyes lifted, sharp despite the wrinkles at their corners. "But I wonder. Is every song of sorrow meant as a curse? Or is it sometimes a prayer?"
The words slipped between them, quiet but heavy.
© 2025 Moon (Rani Mandal). All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.