The midday sun filtered gently through the gauzy veil of clouds, casting a golden shimmer across *Xinyue Pavilion*. The open-air structure, nestled at the heart of Yulan Park, was flanked by neatly trimmed flowerbeds and surrounded by the idle hum of passersby. Children ran laughing along the paths, couples strolled hand-in-hand, and joggers passed with earbuds in, oblivious to the quiet storm brewing in the center of the pavilion.
Bai Zhiqi stood at the edge of the stone platform, veiled in a *flowing pale blue hanfu* that fluttered lightly in the breeze. Layers of soft silk hugged her form with elegance, the embroidery on her sleeves capturing the sunlight like water over moonstone. A thin veil covered the lower half of her face, her eyes the only visible part of her — calm, cold, unreadable.
Beside her stood *Xiao Lin*, holding the carved wooden case that carried the *guqin*.
"Are you sure you want to do this here, Miss Bai?" Xiao Lin whispered, her gaze flitting to the growing crowd on the nearby benches. "There are too many people. What if…"
"She's watching," Bai Zhiqi murmured, eyes scanning the space beyond the pavilion. "If not today, then tomorrow. But someone will film this. And eventually, it will reach her."
Xiao Lin hesitated, then gave a quiet nod and placed the instrument carefully on the stone table at the center of the pavilion. Bai Zhiqi followed, her steps graceful, every movement deliberate. There was no rush. Revenge was never in haste.
People began to pause — curious at first. A woman in hanfu, serene as a painting, laying her fingers gently on an ancient instrument? Phones were raised, cameras clicked.
Bai Zhiqi lowered herself to the seat and straightened her back, the guqin now resting before her like an old friend. Her fingers hovered above the strings, breathing in the silence before the storm.
Then — she played.
The first note resonated like water rippling across a lake — low, mournful, beautiful. It was a melody that didn't beg for attention but *demanded* it. A lament threaded with longing and grief, yet tinged with the strength of someone who had endured far too much to be broken.
Conversations hushed. Footsteps slowed. One by one, people stopped to listen.
Even the wind seemed to still.
The notes rose and fell like sighs from another world. Children tilted their heads. Old couples looked at each other with furrowed brows, as if remembering something half-forgotten. A few began to record. The view count on live streams started to tick up — first in dozens, then hundreds.
Xiao Lin stood silently behind her, shielding her from too much direct sun and casting occasional glances at the growing crowd. She didn't need to understand music to know something extraordinary was happening. This wasn't just a performance — it was a statement. A quiet resurrection.
Bai Zhiqi kept her gaze on the strings, never lifting her eyes. Her fingers moved with precision, born of years of mastery now sharpened by pain. The music wasn't merely skillful. It was haunting.
And somewhere in the crowd — someone whispered:
"She plays like Bai Lanyue…"
"No… not like her. Deeper. Sadder."
"Who is she?"
No one answered. Only more cameras clicked.
At the final note, the air stood still for a heartbeat — and then applause broke like a wave.
Bai Zhiqi slowly lifted her hands from the instrument. She didn't bow. She didn't speak.
She simply stood, veil still in place, and turned away.
Xiao Lin immediately stepped forward to close the case and sling it over her shoulder. "They loved it," she whispered. "The livestream is already spreading."
"They're not who I want to see it," Bai Zhiqi murmured.
As they left the pavilion, whispers followed them.
"Who is she?"
"Did you record the whole thing?"
"She's going viral…"
But Bai Zhiqi didn't care about fame. Her music wasn't for them.
It was a *message* — and the right person would soon hear it.
Back near the edge of the park, Bai Zhiqi paused and looked toward the distance, a soft, calculating smile behind her veil.
"Now we wait," she said softly.
Xiao Lin looked at her. "For what?"
"For my sister," Bai Zhiqi said. "To come chasing the shadow she thought she buried five years ago."