The night grew quiet once more.
Neither of them hurried to speak.
The bamboo answered the wind in soft whispers, as though the mountain itself wished to listen.
The little silver bell resting against Shen Qiyao's wrist gave another delicate chime.
He Qing's gaze followed the movement.
"...So..."
he asked softly,
"...you stayed."
Shen Qiyao nodded.
"I stayed."
"Not because of the village."
"Not because of the shrine."
His eyes drifted toward the dark bamboo grove.
"I stayed because..."
"...I thought the flute would return."
Another silence.
He Qing smiled faintly.
"And if it never had?"
Shen Qiyao considered the question.
"I think..."
"...I still would have waited."
He Qing lowered his eyes.
"...Even if you never found them?"
"Yes."
"Even if they never appeared again?"
"...Yes."
There wasn't the slightest hesitation.
His answer was calm.
Certain.
As though it had always been true.
He Qing looked away.
His heart, which had remained quiet for a thousand years, suddenly felt strangely full.
...
He had believed—
for so very long—
that he had been the only one waiting.
"You asked me earlier..."
Shen Qiyao said.
"...whether I would still wait if the flute belonged to something that wasn't human."
"Hm."
"My answer hasn't changed."
He turned the bracelet gently.
"I already knew."
He Qing blinked.
"...Knew?"
Shen Qiyao nodded.
"The villagers were afraid."
"They all believed it was a ghost."
"I never believed otherwise."
He Qing stared at him.
"You..."
"...weren't surprised?"
Shen Qiyao smiled quietly.
"No."
"I simply wondered..."
"...what kind of ghost..."
"...could play with such sadness."
The wind stirred.
White bamboo leaves drifted across the veranda.
"I never wanted to chase it away."
"I never wanted to destroy it."
"I only..."
He searched for the words.
"...wanted to understand."
He Qing's fingers tightened slowly around the edge of his sleeve.
"Understand..."
"...what?"
Shen Qiyao's gaze remained upon the grove.
"What kind of life..."
"...would leave someone with a heart like that."
He spoke without fear.
Without prejudice.
"I wondered..."
"...how long they had been alone."
"Whether anyone had ever listened."
"Whether..."
"...anyone had ever asked if they were lonely."
The mountain fell silent.
Even the wind seemed to pause.
He Qing slowly closed his eyes.
Every word struck somewhere impossibly deep.
For centuries...
people had feared the flute.
Priests had called him an omen.
Villagers had prayed for him to disappear.
Cultivators had searched for him with drawn swords.
No one—
not once—
had wondered whether he was lonely.
Only this man.
This quiet, awkward, gentle man sitting beside him.
Shen Qiyao laughed softly.
"...Perhaps I sound foolish."
He Qing opened his eyes.
"No."
His answer came immediately.
"You don't."
Shen Qiyao looked at him.
For the first time that evening...
He Qing wasn't smiling.
His expression was calm.
Quiet.
Almost unbearably gentle.
"You know..."
He Qing said.
"...I think the person playing that flute..."
"...would have been happy..."
"...to know someone heard it that way."
Shen Qiyao smiled.
"I hope so."
Another breeze wandered through the veranda.
The tiny silver bell answered with a clear little chime.
Shen Qiyao looked down at it.
"I never found them."
"No."
"I waited."
"I planted lilies."
"I listened every night."
"But eventually..."
"...the flute began appearing less often."
His fingers rested lightly against the bell.
"And then..."
"...you arrived."
He looked toward He Qing.
"There hasn't been much flute since."
He said it almost absentmindedly.
Like a passing thought.
Not suspicion.
Not accusation.
Simply an observation.
He Qing met his gaze.
"...Do you regret that?"
The question was almost too quiet to hear.
Shen Qiyao looked genuinely surprised.
"No."
The answer came so naturally that neither of them had expected it.
"I don't."
He smiled.
"The flute..."
"...helped me survive."
"It reminded me..."
"...that somewhere..."
"...someone else understood loneliness."
His eyes softened.
"But now..."
He looked directly at He Qing.
"...I don't think I'm waiting alone anymore."
Silence.
The words settled between them.
Simple.
Honest.
Without hidden meaning.
Yet they reached He Qing more deeply than any confession ever could.
He Qing lowered his head.
A quiet laugh escaped him.
Barely louder than the wind.
"...Mr. Taller Shen."
"Hm?"
"...You're frightening."
Shen Qiyao blinked.
"I am?"
"You keep saying things..."
"...without realizing what they do to people."
Shen Qiyao frowned in honest confusion.
"I wasn't trying to."
"I know."
He Qing smiled.
"And that's exactly why."
He stood slowly.
The night had grown late.
Moonlight silvered the bamboo beyond the shrine.
He looked toward the grove one last time.
Then back at Shen Qiyao.
"...You were wrong about one thing."
Shen Qiyao looked up.
"Hm?"
"You said..."
"...that no one answered the person who played the flute."
He Qing's smile was almost imperceptible.
"But they weren't waiting forever."
"They were only waiting..."
He looked at Shen Qiyao for one lingering moment.
"...for the right person to finally listen."
Neither of them spoke again.
The little silver bell stirred gently in the wind.
Far beyond the shrine—
deep within the endless sea of bamboo—
the white lilies swayed beneath the moon.
He Qing slowly rose to his feet.
For a long moment, he stood with his back to Shen Qiyao, looking toward the endless darkness beyond the veranda.
He never turned around.
"...Xièxie." (谢谢.)
The word was so soft that it almost disappeared into the night.
Before Shen Qiyao could ask what he meant, He Qing smiled to himself.
"...Wǎn'ān, Mr. Taller Shen." (晚安.)
Then he quietly walked toward his room.
Shen Qiyao watched his retreating figure for a long time, unconsciously touching the tiny silver bell wrapped around his wrist.
He still didn't know why...
...but hearing that single, quiet "thank you"
made his heart feel unexpectedly warm.
As though, after a thousand years...
someone's waiting had finally begun to come to an end.