Qiyao did not drink immediately. His thumb pressed against the rim of the cup, thoughtful. In his chest, the memory of the flute stirred, threading itself through the silence of the room.
A'po sipped her tea, unhurried. "You wear jade, Master Shen," she said suddenly, though not unkindly. "Such pieces are seldom carried without reason. Yours… it has the look of something that has seen many hands before yours."
Qiyao's hand shifted instinctively to his side, where the jade rested beneath his robe. His expression did not change, but the silence that followed was its own answer.
The old woman did not press. Instead, she leaned back slightly, her tone lighter, as though smoothing over what she had revealed. "Drink. Tea cools too quickly when left untouched."
He lifted the cup then, drinking in silence. The taste was faintly bitter, grounding.
Yet even as the warmth slid down his throat, his thoughts returned to the bamboo grove, to silver light across still water, to the echo that seemed to breathe within his bones.
Granny's voice was steady, worn smooth like river stones, yet her words carried a weight that pressed against the walls of the little house.
"They say the grove was not always like this," she began softly, eyes half-lidded as steam curled from her cup. "Long ago, it was a place of vows. Lovers would carve their names into bamboo, tie red ribbons to the stalks, and play flutes beneath the moon. A song could carry a promise, a prayer, even a farewell."
Her thin fingers tightened slightly on the porcelain. "But grief… grief lingers longer than joy. And when love was broken, when vows were torn, the grove began to remember. The flute that once carried devotion now carries sorrow. A gift turned into a chain."
She said no more. The words thinned into silence, as though even speaking them too boldly might wake something listening.
Shen Qiyao watched her carefully, dark eyes steady, but his hand brushed unconsciously against the jade at his side. He felt the familiar weight of it, cold and unyielding.
The old woman's gaze flicked toward it once, then away, as if she had already read what she needed to.
Later, back at the inn, Qiyao found no rest. The villagers' laughter drifted faintly from the common hall, muffled by paper walls. Yet even with food and wine before him, his thoughts strayed only to the grove.
When he finally lay down, sleep pulled him under like water.
The dream returned.
Bamboo whispered in a night without end. A pond rippled silver, petals gliding across its surface though no blossoms grew nearby. And through it all, the flute sang — not loud, not sharp, but steady, threading through the darkness like breath.
Each note carried him deeper. Yet no matter how far he walked, the figure at the heart of the song remained hidden — pale robes vanishing between stalks, a presence always just beyond reach.
He woke before dawn, his chest tight, the echo of music still trembling in his ribs. The jade at his side felt heavier than ever, as though the stone itself carried part of the song.
For the first time, Shen Qiyao wondered if what lingered in Zhuyin's forest was waiting not for the villagers' fear… but for him.
{ "Thus, the days in Zhuyin moved like ripples over still water. Villagers busied themselves with markets and gossip, yet beneath their laughter, unease throbbed like a hidden drum. And Shen Qiyao — stranger with jade at his waist and silence in his heart — walked those narrow streets as if caught between two worlds. Each step drew him closer to the grove, to the song that refused to fade. For though the village feared the flute, the forest seemed to know his name…"}
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