Before he could excuse himself, the boy piped up again, his voice rising in excitement. "Then you must stay and eat with us, Master! Please! Pa says rice tastes better when shared, and Ma makes the best radish soup in the whole village."
The mother gave her son a sharp look. "Don't trouble Master Shen."
But the boy tugged at Qiyao's sleeve with the stubbornness only children possess. "Just once? You've walked all day. You'll grow thinner than me if you don't eat!"
The father, who had been silent until now, chuckled—a dry, raspy sound. "The boy speaks the truth. We have little, but little can still be shared. Please, stay."
Qiyao hesitated. His instinct was always to withdraw, to refuse, to return to silence. Yet the warmth in their faces, the boy's eagerness, and the memory of lilies swaying on the mountain… these softened something in him.
At last he inclined his head. "Very well."
The boy clapped his hands, triumphant, and dashed inside to prepare bowls.
The cottage smelled of earth and wood smoke. Its walls leaned slightly, patched where the wind had worn them thin. The family's table was low, made from rough planks smoothed by years of use. An oil lamp burned steadily, casting amber light across the room.
They sat cross-legged on woven mats. The boy eagerly set out bowls—slightly chipped, mismatched, but scrubbed clean. The mother placed rice in the center, steaming gently, and added side dishes: mustard greens with sesame, salted fish cooked with ginger, radish soup fragrant with broth.
"Forgive the plainness," the mother said softly. "It is not much."
Qiyao regarded the table. For him, who had eaten alone on the cold steps of a shrine, this was more than enough. "It is plenty."
They ate in silence at first, chopsticks clicking softly against bowls. Qiyao accepted what was offered, eating with the same quiet dignity with which he walked. The boy watched him shamelessly, studying the way he held his chopsticks, the measured way he chewed, as though trying to memorize it.
Finally, curiosity burst from him. "Master, do you live at the inn?"
The mother hushed him, but Qiyao set down his bowl. His voice was calm. "No. I stay at the shrine."
All three paused.
"The shrine?" the mother repeated. "But… no one has stayed there for years. People say the roof leaks. And…" She hesitated. "…they say a flute is heard at night."
The boy's eyes widened. "Isn't it haunted?"
Qiyao's gaze was steady. "The shrine is old, yes. But the roof still shelters, and the walls still stand. As for the flute…" His eyes drifted briefly toward the dark window. "…it is not a curse."
"Then what is it?" the boy pressed.
Qiyao lifted his cup of soup, watching the steam rise. He did not answer at once. At last, he said, "A guest. A silent one. That is all."
The family exchanged looks, half in awe, half in confusion.
The father leaned forward, voice thin with age and sickness. "Forgive me if I pry, but… why would a man like you, who carries himself with such bearing, choose Zhuyin? Most travelers stay a night and go. Yet you… you live in a shrine no one dares approach."
Qiyao's lashes lowered. His answer was measured, yet carried the weight of truth. "…I was searching for quiet. This village lies at the edge of the mountains. It has silence. That is enough."
"Silence can be lonely," the mother said gently.
"Sometimes," Qiyao admitted.
The father coughed softly, then smiled faintly. "When I was young, I climbed Mount Wen to pick lilies. My father said they carried memory. Burn them, and ancestors would hear your prayers. Perhaps it was only story. But still, I believed."
Qiyao inclined his head. "The lilies you gathered reached further than you know."
The man looked at him a long moment, as though trying to read the shadows behind his eyes.
The boy leaned close, brimming with questions. "Do you have family, Mister? Will they come to visit you in the shrine?"
Qiyao's hand stilled around his chopsticks. His gaze flickered once toward the lamp flame. "…No."
The boy's voice dropped. "Then… aren't you lonely there?"
Qiyao's mouth curved faintly. Not quite a smile, but something softer. "Not all alone. The forest has its voices. The shrine has its breath. Loneliness comes only when one refuses to listen."
The boy considered this as though it were a puzzle. "Then… I'll visit you too, so it won't be lonely."
His mother sighed, exasperated, but Qiyao's gaze softened slightly. "If you wish."
The mother, watching carefully, asked, "Pardon me, but… how should we address you? You are not a common trader. You carry yourself like one schooled in letters. Are you… a scholar?"
A shadow passed through Qiyao's expression. He had once been many things: son, student, soldier. Now he was none.
"You may call me Qiyao," he said at last.
The boy tried the name, stumbling slightly. "Qi…yao." Then he grinned. "It sounds strong."
The mother bowed her head slightly. "Then, Master Qiyao, know that our door is open to you. Whether shrine or inn, it matters little. A guest who brings incense is no ordinary guest."
Qiyao inclined his head in return. "Your kindness is noted."
They ate a while longer. The boy asked about the mountain lilies, about whether Qiyao could teach him to make incense one day. The father spoke of past harvests, of seasons when the river ran high or when bamboo shoots were tender. The mother told small stories—of neighbors, of the flower trade, of how the boy once chased butterflies until he fell into the mud.
Qiyao listened more than he spoke. Yet when he did answer, his words carried weight, as though each syllable had been chosen carefully from a greater silence.
At one point, the boy asked innocently, "Master Qiyao, do you laugh?"
The table fell quiet, waiting. Qiyao looked at him, expression unreadable. "…Not often."
"Then maybe I'll make you laugh," the boy declared. He crossed his eyes and puffed his cheeks, earning a startled laugh from his mother, a cough of amusement from his father.
Qiyao did not laugh. But his eyes, dark and steady, lingered on the boy's antics with something close to warmth.
When the bowls were cleared, the mother quietly wrapped rice and dried vegetables in cloth, pressing the bundle into Qiyao's hands. "You gave us incense when you owed us nothing. Please accept this."
Qiyao wanted to refuse. But her face left no room. He bowed slightly, accepting.
The boy darted forward. "Come again, Master Qiyao! Next time, I'll show you where the butterflies sleep."
"Very well," Qiyao said.
The father raised a frail hand. "May your path be clear, and may the forest show you kindness."
The village was hushed when Qiyao departed. Lanterns had dimmed, dogs lay curled in the dirt lanes. He walked with steady steps, bundle in one hand, the clay manual under his arm.
The road to the shrine was dark, bamboo swaying like black waves. Yet it did not feel hostile. It felt… familiar.
At the courtyard, incense still smoldered faintly, smoke curling into night. Qiyao placed the food bundle on the table, set down the clay book. He did not open it. His hand only rested on its cover.
The shrine was empty, yet not lifeless. The faint scent of lilies lingered, though no petals lay near.
He sat on the veranda, back straight, gaze fixed on the night. Somewhere, far off, a flute note stirred, soft as breath.
Qiyao did not move. The warmth of a shared table still lingered faintly, but now the cool breath of the grove washed over him.
Dawn would come soon. He would open the book then.
For now, he remained awake, silent and steady, a lone figure between two worlds—carrying with him both the memory of human warmth, and the pull of the unseen presence waiting in the bamboo.