Shen Qiyao's eyes opened before the first light had touched the village. The sky outside the shutters was still heavy, tinged with grey, but he knew at once that sleep had abandoned him. His body remained still on the narrow bed, yet his mind stirred restlessly, filled with shadows of dreams.
He lay there, staring at nothing, long strands of black hair falling loose around him. Some strands brushed his cheek, others trailed down the side of the bed until they touched the wooden floor. The cool air of dawn threaded through the room, lifting the finer ends of his hair as if even the wind sought to disturb his quiet.
For a time, he only breathed. In, out. The rhythm should have steadied him, but instead the silence pressed closer.
At last, he turned his body toward the window. Through the faint light he could just glimpse the bamboo forest, a dark silhouette rising beyond the village rooftops. From this distance, the stalks looked motionless, yet his chest tightened all the same. The sight of it was enough to remind him of last night's dream, of the music still lodged inside his ribs.
It was too quiet outside. Not the quiet of peace, but the kind that feels like a held breath — as though the world itself was waiting.
Qiyao's fingers shifted across the blanket and brushed against something soft, cool. He stilled. Slowly, he looked down.
A white little petal .
It lay pale against the dark fabric, so fragile it seemed unreal.
His eyes narrowed slightly, though his expression betrayed nothing. He picked it up, the edge trembling between his fingers. A white lily in the valley petal?
The thought formed in his mind, steady but sharp. Where had it come from? He had checked the room last night — there had been nothing. Only himself, the bed, the wine jar on the table, the ink and paper scattered where he had left them.
Nothing else.
And yet here it was, cool as though it had been plucked only moments before.
He exhaled, slow. His calm never cracked on the surface, but inside, questions rippled one after another.
Rising from the bed, he crossed the small room, bare feet against cold wood. He lowered himself to the floor by the window, the petal still balanced between his fingers. The dawn air flowed in through the shutters, stirring his unbound hair. Strands lifted, brushing across his shoulders and back, a dark curtain that caught in the pale light.
His body was broad, built from years of discipline and travel, but now it curved into stillness — an elbow resting against the small table, one hand pressed against his temple as though to cage his thoughts. Anyone seeing him in that moment might have forgotten to breathe, mistaking him for some half-carved statue, too sharp and too fragile all at once.
But he was not still inside.
The flute. The forest. The silver petals that had followed him since the shrine. And now this, appearing in his room without cause. His thoughts circled and collided, faster than he could still them, like a train that thundered endlessly through the same night.
The jade at his side felt heavier again, pressing cold against his hip. As though it too belonged to this puzzle.
Almost without realizing it, his hand had drifted toward the brush. His gaze lingered on the paper scattered across the table.
He was not a writer. Not in the way of scholars or poets who bent their lives to words. But there had always been something inside him that reached for language when the world twisted too tightly. When thought and silence pressed too close, his hand moved almost on its own, letting lines fall across paper.
It was not art. Not polish. But it was something. A way of breathing.
Now, too, the urge crept over him. His chest was full, too full, and if he did not give it shape it would spill over anyway.
The brush touched ink, dark and glistening. He leaned closer, hair sliding forward over his shoulders, and set the first mark to paper.
The words came haltingly, uncertain at first. Then, like snow falling in the night, they began to gather, one upon the next, silent but unstoppable.
The brush hesitated above the paper, trembling faintly in his grip. He lowered it, leaving the first mark, and the rest followed almost against his will.
He did not yet understand what he was writing. Only that he had to. The ink bled thick into the fibers. He stared at the lines
The flute sings where no mouth moves,
The petal falls though no season blooms.
Is it sorrow, or is it call—
I cannot tell, yet I hear it all.
this words foreign and familiar at once, as though he had not written them but only caught them while they passed through.
His gaze slid back to the pale petal resting on the table. Out of season. Out of place. A piece of a world that should not be here — just like the song that haunted his nights.
He exhaled, slow, and set the brush down.
The room was silent, yet the words and music lingered inside him, knotted together like threads. And The lotus petal rested beside him on the wood, faint and pale in the growing light, as though it was listening too .
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