The notes were softer this time, not mournful but searching — rising, pausing, returning again, like footsteps circling in the dark.
His hand tightened against the jade. The chill bit deeper.
He stayed like that for a long moment, poised in stillness, the flute-song threading around him like a whisper meant for no one else.
Then, as suddenly as it came, the sound thinned, vanished, leaving only the steady hiss of wind through bamboo.
The villagers' voices returned in the distance — ordinary, untroubled — but Qiyao remained rooted for a breath longer, his chest heavy with a weight he could not explain.
Finally, he turned, continuing toward the inn. Yet the faint echo of the melody clung to him, following like a shadow that refused to let go.
The inn was quiet, its walls breathing only with the creak of old wood and the low hum of night insects beyond the shuttered window. Shen Qiyao sat alone at the small table, his long hair loose over his shoulders, a clay jug of wine by his side.
The lantern burned low, casting a wavering circle of light that deepened the shadows in every corner.
He poured himself another cup. The liquid was sharp on his tongue, bitter with the tang of earth, yet he drank it as though chasing silence down his throat. One cup, then another. The edge of his thoughts dulled, but his chest did not loosen.
The jade lay before him on the table, pale in the flickering light. Sometimes it seemed no more than stone. Other times, like now, it seemed to pulse faintly, as though echoing a heartbeat not his own.
He set the cup down and leaned back, closing his eyes.
Sleep came unevenly.
First was sound: faint, like wind through hollow reeds. Then clearer, shaping itself into a line of notes, fragile but deliberate. The flute again.
His dream opened around it.
He stood by a river of silver water, its surface rippling without a sound. Bamboo bent above him, tall and endless, their leaves gleaming under the cold glow of the moon.
White lily in the valley petals drifted along the water. Dozens of them, though he knew it was not the season. They glowed faintly as they floated past his feet, as if each one carried its own secret flame.
The flute-song wove between them, neither sorrowful nor joyous — but insistent, inviting. It drew him deeper, step by step, into the grove where moonlight broke into fragments between the stalks.
And there — between shadow and silver light — was a figure.
He could not see the face. Only the outline: robes shifting like mist, hair long and black, a flute raised to unseen lips. The melody poured from that unseen mouth as though the very forest were its lungs.
Qiyao tried to move closer. The petals swirled around him in answer, brushing his hands, clinging wetly to his robes. The water deepened, yet the sound pulled him forward, forward, as though his own breath now followed its rhythm.
For the first time, it did not feel like the music was haunting him. It felt as though it was waiting. Calling.
His pulse quickened.
The figure tilted its head — not quite toward him, but almost. He thought he glimpsed pale skin, a glint of eyes — but then the notes wavered, the petals scattered, and the vision tore away.
Qiyao gasped awake.
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