Shen Qiyao looked at the lines on the paper. For a moment, they seemed to carry weight, but the longer he stared, the more absurd they appeared — like the mutterings of a restless dreamer. With a soft exhale, he set the brush aside. "Nonsense," he muttered under his breath. Still, the petal lay quietly on the table, pale and out of season, as if to mock him.
He dressed, tied back his hair, and stepped out into the cool morning. The village was already stirring — smoke rising from chimneys, dogs barking, the chatter of a few women at the well. So On the path near the shrine, Shen Qiyao caught sight of Granny Xuemei returning from the market, her arms full with bundles of vegetables and meat.
He slowed his step. For a moment he only watched, then he inclined his head slightly and said, in a low but clear voice,
"A'po."
It was the first time he had spoken the word aloud.
The old woman blinked, then smiled — not wide, but deep, as if the sound of it warmed her bones.
"Ah… finally, you call me Ap'o. I was beginning to think you would never say it."
She let him, her eyes glinting with quiet amusement. "So. At last, you exchange more than silence with me."
Qiyao's eyes flicked down, then away. Without another word, he reached for the heavier bundle she was carrying. She let him take it, her gaze following the simple motion, her amusement quiet but unmistakable.
They walked side by side. The path was narrow, lined with uneven stones, shaded here and there by drooping bamboo. The morning had grown brighter, though the air was still cool. Their steps fell into rhythm without thought — hers short and steady, his long and measured.
For a time, neither spoke. Only the sound of the bundles rustling against cloth and the distant chatter of villagers broke the silence.
Then she said, as if she had been waiting for the silence to settle before speaking, "You must wonder why I've bought so much today. It isn't my habit, as you may have noticed."
Qiyao didn't answer. His gaze remained ahead, but she went on anyway, her voice unhurried, as though recounting the day to herself.
"Today was my son's birthday. He was born in a spring like this, many years ago… But he went into the forest and never returned."
The words fell gently, without drama, yet they seemed to hang in the air heavier than the baskets she carried.
Qiyao's grip tightened imperceptibly on the bundle in his hands.
Granny Xuemei's tone softened. "Every year on this day, I cook the dish he loved most. Sweet rice dumplings with sesame, just the way he liked them. I cannot say why I still do it. Perhaps out of stubbornness. Perhaps out of memory. Perhaps… because the dead deserve their small celebrations too."
They turned a bend in the path, the shrine disappearing behind them, the low roofs of the village rising in the distance.
She gave a short laugh then, though the sound was brittle. "If fate had been kinder, perhaps I'd have a grandson by now. Someone your age. Someone… like you, Young Master Shen."
Her laugh lingered, softening into something lighter. "Ha… ha… but as it is, I am all alone in that house of mine. I could finish everything myself, slowly, but it would take the whole day. So—if you don't mind, young Master Shen, would you lend me a hand? Only if you are not burdened with other matters."
They walked a few steps more before Qiyao answered. His voice was quiet, deliberate.
"Qiyao. You can call me Qiyao. It is not as if I hold any position, "A'po", that you must address me with such formality. If, as you say, I might be like a grandson… then I think no apo calls her grandson Master."
He did not say yes. But his words themselves were enough.
Granny Xuemei slowed for the briefest heartbeat, taken aback. Not by his refusal, but by the length of his reply. Since the day they had first crossed paths, he had lived in silence — gestures, nods, the rare syllable here or there. Yet now, suddenly, he had spoken to her in a full thought, a sentence that carried warmth hidden under its restraint.
Her lips curved, her eyes narrowing with quiet amusement. A small smile tugged at her face, and she shook her head gently.
"Well then, Qiyao. If you insist. This old woman will call you so."
The sound of his name in her voice settled between them like a small flame, fragile but steady, as their steps carried them further down the path toward her home.
The small path wound them toward the edge of the village, where Granny Xuemei's home stood — a modest wooden house with tiled roof, leaning slightly with age but clean and well-kept. Vines curled up one wall, and wind chimes of hollow bamboo clicked gently with the breeze.
Qiyao stepped inside after her, the low doorway forcing him to dip his head. The air inside smelled faintly of dried herbs and smoke, the fragrance of roots and old wood mingling with something sweet lingering in the walls.
Granny set her parcels on a low table. "Sit, Qiyao," she said, using his name now with a small smile. "This old woman will not order you about, but if you wish to help, wash your hands there." She nodded toward a clay basin.
Without a word, he obeyed. The sound of water dripping echoed softly in the quiet house, his long fingers precise even in so simple a task.
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