Days passed, each one a quiet repetition. The leg pain eased into a faint stiffness, but the incense remained elusive. He ground more petals, adjusted the resin, tested the heat of the brazier. Each failure left a bitter taste—ash on his tongue, smoke curling into nothing. Yet he persisted, the manual's words a mantra in his mind. Let it rest, as all things must rest. One evening, as the sun dipped low, he prepared the mixture again. The powder was finer this time, the resin warm and pliable. He shaped it into a thin stick, placed it in the brazier, and lit it with a trembling hand.
The flame caught, and for a moment, he held his breath. The smoke rose, pale and steady, carrying the lily's scent—sweet, pure, alive. It did not falter into ash. A warmth spread through his chest, not from the fire but from something deeper. I've done it, he thought, his lips curving into a rare, fleeting smile. This is for you. The fragrance filled the shrine, wrapping around him like a memory he couldn't place. He sat back, watching the smoke drift toward the window, and whispered, "If you hear this, come to it."
Days turned to weeks since he had shifted to the shrine, his aim clear yet unfulfilled—to hear the flute again, to understand why its sound drew him like a thread through his soul. He had come seeking knowledge, escape, but now it was the flutist who haunted him. Each night, he waited by the veranda, the incense burning, the silence pressing against his ears. Nothing. The grove remained still, the moonlight cold. Doubt crept in—had he imagined it? Was the ghost lost forever?
The incense smoke curled into the air, a delicate thread of lily-scented memory rising from the brazier. Shen Qiyao sat still, the shrine's silence pressing against his ears, when a faint note trembled through the bamboo. His heart stilled. The flute's sound was softer than before, hesitant, as if testing the air. He rose, stepping outside, his eyes searching the shadows. The melody grew, weaving through the stalks, a fragile thread of sound that seemed to pull at something deep within him. And with it came a realization—a scent lingered in the notes, faint but familiar. Lily-of-the-valley. Not the white lilies he had gathered, but a kindred flower, delicate and poisonous, its fragrance a whisper of the grove's heart.
He stood at the veranda's edge, the cool night air brushing his skin, the flute's song wrapping around him like a question he couldn't answer. The moonlight spilled silver across the bamboo, casting long, trembling shadows that danced with the melody. His breath caught as the notes dipped lower, mournful yet curious, as if the player lingered just beyond sight, listening for a response. Qiyao's hand rested on the jade at his waist, its cool weight grounding him, yet his chest tightened with an ache he couldn't name. Is this a call? he wondered. Or a plea? The incense smoke drifted toward the grove, mingling with the night, and for a moment, he thought he saw a flicker—a pale shape wavering among the stalks—before it dissolved into the mist.
Time stretched thin. The flute's melody softened, fading into a sigh that hung in the air, reluctant to leave. Qiyao remained, rooted to the spot, the night wrapping him in its quiet embrace. His leg throbbed faintly, a reminder of the mountain's toll, but he ignored it, straining to hear more. The grove seemed to hold its breath, the bamboo rustling only when the wind dared to stir. He whispered into the darkness, "I'm here," his voice barely a breath, carried away by the breeze. No answer came, only the echo of his own words, but the silence felt different now—less empty, as if something had heard.
Hours slipped by, the moon climbing higher, its light sharpening the edges of the shrine. Qiyao finally sank to the veranda's step, his back against the wooden frame, the incense stick burning low. The flute's absence left a hollow space, yet the scent of lily-of-the-valley lingered, teasing his senses. He closed his eyes, letting the night settle around him, the sound replaying in his mind—soft, searching, alive. Who are you? he thought, the question a quiet pulse beneath his exhaustion. Sleep came slowly, pulling him into dreams where silver light danced on water and a figure in white played a song he couldn't reach.
When morning arrived, it crept in gently, like a breath drawn after a long silence. The first light seeped through the bamboo, pale and tentative, brushing the shrine's walls with a golden hue. Qiyao stirred, his body stiff from the night's vigil, the ache in his leg a dull companion. He opened his eyes to the soft chirping of birds, their calls weaving through the grove's rustle. The air felt cooler now, carrying the earthy scent of damp soil and the faint sweetness of the lilies inside. He sat up slowly, his hair falling loose across his face, and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, the memory of the flute still humming faintly in his chest.
The veranda was quiet, the incense stick reduced to a thin line of ash. He rose, wincing as his leg protested, and stepped inside to check the brazier. The lily bowl glowed in the morning light, its petals undisturbed, their fragrance a steady presence. He touched the cloth on his shin, adjusting it with care, and moved to the small garden outside. The soil was soft under his fingers as he knelt, turning it with a quiet rhythm, the night's mystery blending into the day's routine. Yet his mind lingered on the flute, on the lily-of-the-valley scent, and an idea began to form—slow, like the dawn itself, promising something new.
He worked the garden with a steady hand, the cool earth grounding him as the sun climbed higher. The patch was small, no more than a few paces wide, tucked against the shrine's side where the bamboo thinned. He had planted radishes and a scattering of wild greens, their leaves pushing bravely through the soil. Today, he loosened the earth with a wooden trowel, his fingers brushing against roots and pebbles, the texture familiar yet alive. A worm wriggled free, and he paused, watching it curl into the shade, a small life thriving in this quiet corner. The lilies from the mountain still rested nearby, their fragrance mingling with the garden's dampness, and he added a handful of compost, letting it sink into the soil. This could grow more, he thought, picturing tiny lily-of-the-valley bells swaying here, their scent calling back the flute's player.
The morning deepened, the sun warming his back as he worked. He cleared weeds, their roots snapping softly under his fingers, and smoothed the soil into gentle mounds. His leg ached with the kneeling, but he ignored it, lost in the rhythm of the task. A breeze carried the distant sound of the village—children's laughter, the clatter of a cart—and he glanced toward the grove, half-expecting the flute to rise again. Nothing came, only the rustle of leaves, but the silence felt like a promise.
By midday, sweat beaded on his brow, and he sat back on his heels, wiping his hands on his robe. The garden looked fuller now, a patchwork of green and brown, the lilies a silent hope at its edge. As he brushed the mud from his fingers, a clod clung stubbornly, its weight cool against his skin. He turned it in his hand, the texture rough yet pliable, and an idea sparked—slow at first, then growing clear. The incense had drawn the flute, its scent a bridge. What if a bowl, shaped by his own hands, carved with lily-of-the-valley, could hold that connection? If the scent calls him, he thought, his pulse quickening, a vessel might keep him near.