The word seemed to soften her expression. She gestured toward the herbs with a small smile. "Spring teas. They say they ease the heart, though I've lived long enough to know hearts are rarely so simple."
He said nothing. His gaze rested briefly on the herbs, then drifted toward the bamboo rising beyond the rooftops.
Granny followed his glance. "You've heard it again, haven't you?"
Qiyao's brow creased. "…What makes you think so?"
She tapped the side of her cane against the stone rim of the well. "A man does not carry silence so tightly unless something presses from within. I've seen that silence before."
Her words struck like pebbles into still water, spreading ripples he could not ignore.
He lowered his gaze, hands tightening behind his back. "If you know something of the forest… say it clearly."
But Granny only shook her head. "Clearly spoken things are easily forgotten. What clings is what you must wrestle with yourself." She paused, eyes narrowing slightly. "But remember this: the forest does not call every man. It chooses. And when it chooses, the silence around you is not emptiness, but waiting."
Her tone was even, but the words burrowed deeper than he cared to admit.
Qiyao inclined his head again, a gesture of respect that was also dismissal. He turned and left without further speech, but her voice seemed to follow him all the way down the lane.
—
By afternoon, he found himself walking the edge of the grove.
The sun slanted through the bamboo, long shadows stretching like ribs across the path. Villagers avoided this place; even the dogs strayed wide. But Qiyao lingered, his steps measured, his senses keen.
He did not step inside. Not yet. Instead, he stood where the first stalks rose, studying the dark green columns that reached high into the sky. They swayed with no wind. Leaves whispered against one another, carrying sounds that were almost words, almost sighs.
He rested his hand against the jade at his hip. Cold, pulsing faintly as though acknowledging the grove.
Minutes passed. The silence pressed heavier. He should have walked away. And yet—
The faintest sound threaded through the air.
A note. Thin, distant. Like a flute exhaling only half its breath.
Qiyao stiffened, every sense sharpened. He tilted his head, listening. The sound wove itself between rustling leaves, vanishing, then returning again. Not a melody this time — just fragments, as though the player were testing the air.
The back of his neck prickled.
He stepped closer. Only one step. Enough to let the shadows of the bamboo touch his boots. The sound quickened, faint but insistent. Then it stilled, leaving only the hiss of leaves.
Qiyao exhaled slowly, forcing his pulse to settle. His hand left the jade. He turned back toward the village, strides long and deliberate, but his mind did not follow.
All the way to the inn, the ghost of that half-melody clung to him, refusing release.
That night, the inn was wrapped in silence. The lanterns outside had long been doused, and only the faint glow of the moon lit the village roofs.
Shen Qiyao sat by his window, robe loose around his shoulders, hair unbound, a cup of wine untouched at his side. He had tried drinking again, but the bitterness no longer dulled anything — it only sharpened the hollowness inside his chest.
The folded page and the little petal out of the season lay on the table. He had set them there deliberately, as though daring them to explain themselves. They did not. They only waited, patient as stones.
His hand brushed over the jade. Cold, steady. No different from before. Yet it no longer felt like just an object. It felt… aware.
He closed his eyes, leaning his head against his hand.
Granny Xuemei's words had not left him since morning.
The forest does not call every man. It chooses. And when it chooses, the silence around you is not emptiness, but waiting.
Waiting.
His breath caught, unsteady.
And then he heard it.
The flute.
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