They began together. She measured rice into a bowl, washed it carefully, and set it to steam. The rhythm of preparation was almost musical: the scrape of stone pestle as sesame seeds were ground, the gentle stir of sugar and honey over heat, the rustle of leaves as she reached for bamboo strips to tie the dumplings.
Qiyao's hands were steady as he folded the rice dough under her direction, his broad palms clumsy at first with the delicate task. She chuckled. "You are used to holding a sword, not dough, hm?"
He did not reply, but his expression shifted slightly, the faintest crease at the corner of his lips. It might have been amusement — or annoyance — but it passed quickly as he bent his head to the work again.
Outside, the village noise faded; here, time seemed slower. The steam from the pot misted the air, carrying a sweetness that clung to his skin and hair.
When the dumplings were finally finished, their golden-sesame filling rich and glistening, Granny placed a plate before him. "Eat."
Qiyao hesitated only a breath before lifting one. His long fingers held it delicately, almost reverently, before he bit in.
The taste was soft, warm, sweet with honey and faintly nutty from the sesame. He did not speak, but the smallest change in his face betrayed him: the way his eyes softened, the way his shoulders eased, as though something within him had loosened.
Granny Xuemei saw it, and her smile deepened. "Ah. So you do like them."
Still, he said nothing. Only lowered his gaze, silent, but the silence itself was answer enough.
As they ate, she began to talk, her voice carrying the gentle lilt of memory.
"My son was a boy of mischief. Always running into the bamboo, even when I told him not to. He claimed he could hear whispers there — said the forest hummed to him when the wind was still. I scolded him for nonsense, but he would laugh and say, 'Then perhaps the forest prefers me over you, Mother.'" She shook her head fondly, her eyes glassy with the weight of years.
Qiyao lifted another dumpling, chewing slowly. His gaze flicked toward her, steady, as though he were listening more carefully than his silence suggested.
She went on, "The last time I saw him… his mind was no longer steady. He had carved himself a small reed pipe and would sit for hours, pressing it to his lips though no tune ever came. That night, he ran into the forest crying, screaming as though chased by shadows only he could see. I chased after him, but the trees swallowed his voice… and from that night onward, he never returned."
The words hung between them. The only sound was the faint crackle of the fire and the chime outside the door.
Granny Xuemei sighed, but her smile remained, softer now. "Perhaps it is foolish of me, to still wait. But I think the forest does not take without reason. One day, someone will understand its language. Until then, I cook his sweets. I tell his stories. It is all I can do."
Qiyao lowered his eyes to the dumpling in his hand. The warmth of it seeped through his fingers, but in his chest, something colder coiled — like the memory of that flute-song that would not leave him.
He ate in silence, but his silence carried more weight than words.
Granny did not press him. She only smiled faintly, watching him eat, her gaze full of something almost grandmotherly. "Eat, eat. You are too thin. And who knows, perhaps sweet things help the heart hear more clearly."
Her words drifted into the air like smoke, half jest, half riddle.
Qiyao's eyes lifted briefly to hers, sharp and searching. But he said nothing.
Only the bamboo chimes answered, clattering softly in the morning wind.
Dusk had begun to fold over the village by the time Qiyao stepped out of Granny Xuemei's home. The last of the sunlight bled into muted gold along the rooftops, while lanterns flickered awake one by one, their glow soft and amber against the gathering blue.
The road was still alive with voices — women calling their children in from play, the thud of buckets at the communal well, the creak of carts settling for the night. Yet as Qiyao's feet carried him closer to the bamboo grove, the noise thinned.
He noticed it in the smallest ways: how a man carrying grain quickened his step, how two girls whispered a prayer under their breath before darting past the grove's shadow. An old woman even tugged her shawl tighter, muttering as if the very sight of the trees pressed cold against her bones.
None lingered. None looked directly into the forest.
Qiyao's gaze did.
The stalks swayed faintly, though the evening air was still. Their long shadows stretched across the path like bars of ink.
His fingers brushed the jade at his hip. Cold. Always cold, but tonight it felt sharper, as though the stone were aware of something he could not yet name. He held it a moment longer, testing, almost willing it to answer. But it remained silent — or perhaps he simply could not hear.
He moved on, his stride even, the weight of Granny's words trailing behind him like smoke. "The forest does not take without reason…"
The wind shifted. Somewhere between the rustle of bamboo leaves, a sound curled into the air.
Thin, fragile, almost uncertain. Yet unmistakable.
The flute.
It drifted faintly, carried on the dusk wind, slipping between the trees. Not loud, not near — as if whoever played it lingered just beyond sight, daring him to follow.
Qiyao stopped. His eyes narrowed, the lantern glow brushing against the sharp line of his cheekbones. He listened
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