The rooster had not yet crowed when Zhì Yuǎn opened his eyes. Through the small gap between the bamboo slats that formed the bedroom wall, a ribbon of moonlight spilled across Yù Qíng's face. She slept with her hand resting on his chest, as if afraid he might vanish during the night.
He did not move. He had learned long ago that any attempt to rise before she was fully awake would result in a sleepy murmur and her fingers tightening around his arm. Instead, he let his gaze wander across the room—the bamboo bed he had built himself, the wooden chest in the corner where they kept their few valuables, the flute propped on the small shelf near the window.
The flute was new. He had carved it over the past weeks, using a piece of black bamboo he had found deep in the grove, where the stalks grew densest and darkest. The wood absorbed the moisture from the air and produced a deeper tone than ordinary flutes—a sound that, when he blew into it, seemed to carry the very darkness of the forest with it.
Gradually, the moonlight gave way to the orange hues of dawn. The rooster finally crowed, and Yù Qíng stirred, burying her face in his shoulder before lifting her eyes.
"Is it morning already?" she murmured, her voice still thick with sleep.
"Already," he answered, running his fingers through her hair. "I'll prepare the tea."
She squinted, as if considering a protest, but soon smiled and released his arm.
"I'll wash my face. The stream must be freezing this morning."
"Still better than the tea you made yesterday," he said, rising.
She tossed a cushion at him, laughing, but he had already stepped out to the back veranda, where the running water sang in a constant rhythm.
---
The bamboo house seemed to wake with them. The crackle of fire in the small kitchen, the steam rising from the earthenware pot, the scent of cooking rice mingling with the fragrance of dried tea leaves. Outside, the bamboo grove swayed in the morning wind, producing a dry, rhythmic sound, like wooden castanets.
Yù Qíng appeared on the veranda, her hair still damp, tied in a simple bun. The washing stone was still wet—she had already laundered the previous night's clothes, as she did every day, even before drinking her tea.
"You didn't have to," he said, pouring tea into two ceramic bowls. "We could have left it for later."
"And let the dirt pile up?" She sat at the bamboo table, stretching her hands out to wrap around the warm bowl. "Your adoptive mother taught me well: laziness never made anyone rich."
"Mother-in-law," he corrected with a faint smile.
"Our mother," she repeated emphatically. "You were adopted, Zhì Yuǎn. That makes her your mother too."
She's not wrong, he thought, taking a sip of tea. Yù Chéng and Sū Huì never treated me like a stranger.
"Today is the day to send the quota," Yù Qíng said, breaking the silence. "Father will need you to check the numbers."
"I know. Shall we have lunch there?"
"Agreed."
---
The sun was already high when they reached the main house of the Yù family. The bamboo grove gradually gave way to cultivated fields, where a few women worked bent over rows of vegetables. One of them raised her head and waved; Yù Qíng returned the greeting warmly, while Zhì Yuǎn acknowledged her with a slight nod.
The Yù house was the largest in the village—not out of ostentation, but out of necessity. Besides the family's living quarters, there were storehouses for the collected taxes, offices where Yù Chéng kept the records for the coal mine, and an inner courtyard.
Sū Huì, his mother-in-law, was already waiting for them in the kitchen. She was a woman with firm features and agile hands, who had taught Yù Qíng everything about caring for a home.
"Sit, sit," she said, pushing bowls of soup toward them. "Lunch is almost ready. Méi! Come help!"
Yù Méi came running from the yard, her face sweaty and her hair disheveled. When she saw Zhì Yuǎn, her eyes lit up.
"Zhì Yuǎn! Sister said you were working on a new song!"
"I was," he answered with a smile.
"Play it for me? Right now?"
"After we eat," Yù Qíng interjected, pulling her sister by the arm. "Go help bring the dishes."
Lunch passed with casual conversation. Yù Chéng talked about coal prices in the capital, Sū Huì complained that the hens were laying fewer eggs, and Yù Méi kept looking at Zhì Yuǎn with pleading eyes.
When they finished eating, she wasted no time.
"Now?" she asked, practically bouncing in place.
Yù Qíng started to protest, but Zhì Yuǎn raised a hand.
"Alright. A few songs."
He went out to the veranda, where the wind blew cooler, and sat on a wooden bench. Yù Méi settled at his feet, crossing her legs, while Yù Qíng leaned against the pillar beside him, arms crossed, watching him with a quiet smile.
He played for nearly half an hour. They were old pieces—melodies he had composed in the first years after their marriage: songs about rain in the bamboo grove, about birds in flight at dawn, about the silence of the valley at night. Yù Qíng noticed that they were all tunes she already knew, familiar. He was saving the new song for later.
Yù Méi listened entranced, her eyes fixed on his fingers moving over the flute. When he finished, she sighed.
"You could play every day."
"He does," Yù Qíng said, with a smile that held a touch of possessiveness. "For me."
Her sister made a face, but did not reply. Yù Chéng called Zhì Yuǎn to go over the records, and he excused himself from the women with a nod.
---
The records took the rest of the afternoon. There were hundreds of sacks of coal to inspect, each weighing approximately fifty kilograms. Zhì Yuǎn examined the bindings, tested the moisture content on a few samples, and noted the numbers on a wooden board using a piece of charcoal.
"The third sack is underweight," he said after a few minutes. "By about two kilograms. And the hundred-ninth has excess moisture. If we send it like this, the steward will deduct the value for ten kilograms, not just the two that are actually missing."
Yù Chéng frowned.
"Are you certain?"
Zhì Yuǎn did not answer with words. Instead, he led his father-in-law to the sacks in question and showed him the difference in the tension of the ropes, the appearance of the fabric. To anyone else, they would have been insignificant details. To him, the tension and rhythm of those details told the whole story.
"I'll have them repacked," Yù Chéng said, scratching his stubble. "Ever thought of becoming a steward, son? With your eye for detail, no one would ever cheat you."
"I prefer the silence of the bamboo grove," Zhì Yuǎn replied, with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes.
Yù Chéng observed him for a moment, then nodded.
"Wise. As always."
---
When he stepped out of the storehouse, the sun was already slanting toward the west, painting the mountains in shades of gold. That was when he saw the grandmother.
Yù Lǎo Tàitai was leaning against the wooden pillar supporting the veranda roof, her eyes half-closed. Despite her completely white hair and trembling hands, her posture still held something of the dignity of a woman who had once been a full-fledged matriarch.
"Grandmother," he greeted, giving a slight bow.
"Zhì Yuǎn," she answered, her voice hoarse but steady. "Come. Sit with me."
He obeyed, settling on a low stool beside her. For a long moment, the old woman merely observed him in silence. Her eyes, though clouded with age, held a gleam that reminded him of an ancient bird—always watchful, always calculating.
"You are different," she said at last.
"Am I?"
"Your eyes." She raised her hand and touched his temple with her fingertips. "When you first arrived, boy, your eyes were like two dark stars. Deep. As if you were looking at something we could not see. Now… there is a new spark in them."
In recent weeks, something had indeed changed. A restlessness. Not a sound, but the rhythm of the world, whispering to him. It was the Wisdom, urging him to feel the flow of things, gradually moving toward a path he had not known existed.
"I know I am different," he admitted. "But I do not know why."
"Perhaps you do not need to know yet." She smiled, and her wrinkles deepened like the markings on an old map. "But when the time comes, do not be afraid."
Before he could lose himself in thought, a soft voice called from the entrance:
"Zhì Yuǎn."
Yù Qíng stood there, just back from the house, her hair tied in a simple bun and her eyes shining with a light he knew well.
"Let's go to the peak. I want to hear the new song."
He rose to bid farewell to his grandmother, but before he could speak, a sharp voice cut through the air:
"I'm coming too!"
Yù Méi came running from inside the house, her face lit by a smile so wide it seemed to take up half her face.
"The new song! I want to hear it too!"
"Tomorrow," Yù Qíng said without hesitation. Her voice was calm, but there was a firmness that brooked no reply. "Today, he will play only for me."
"But I—"
"Tomorrow, Méi."
The younger sister opened her mouth to protest, but something in Yù Qíng's gaze made her stop. With a grumble, she turned and went back inside.
Yù Qíng extended her hand to Zhì Yuǎn.
"Let's go."
He took her hand, feeling her fingers intertwine with his with their usual strength.
"Let's go."
---
The path to Setting Sun Peak took about half an hour, winding through slopes covered in grasses and small flowering shrubs. As they climbed, the village fell away behind them, shrinking to a handful of dark rooftops scattered across the green valley.
Yù Qíng walked beside him, her fingers interlaced with his. Every so often, she would squeeze his hand, as if needing to confirm he was still there.
"You're quiet," she said after a long stretch of silence.
"Grandmother said something strange today."
"My grandmother always says strange things. That's what grandmothers do."
He smiled but did not reply. Yù Qíng stopped walking, forcing him to stop as well.
"Zhì Yuǎn." She lifted her face, and her dark eyes fixed on him with an intensity that, even after so many years, still surprised him. "What did she say?"
"That my eyes have changed. That there is a new spark in them."
She studied his face for a moment, then raised both hands and touched his temples, just as his grandmother had done.
"She's right," Yù Qíng murmured. "There is something different about you. But…" her fingers slid along his jaw, "…it doesn't frighten me. Nothing about you frightens me."
"Even if I don't know what's happening?"
"Even then."
She stretched up on her toes and touched her lips to his, a brief but firm kiss, like a promise. Then she pulled back and resumed walking, tugging him by the hand.
"Hurry," she said without looking back. "I want to hear your song before the sun sets."
---
The peak was a tongue of stone jutting westward like an accusatory finger. The wind blew steadily there, but not strong—just enough to make their clothes ripple and carry the scent of damp earth and wildflowers.
Yù Qíng let her hair down from its bun, letting the dark strands fall over her shoulders, and sat at the edge where the rock sloped gently before plunging into the valley below. From up here, the world looked like a relief map: green mountains, a silvery river cutting across the plain, low clouds clinging to distant peaks like cotton caught on branches.
Zhì Yuǎn sat beside her, his shoulder touching hers. He took the black bamboo flute from the cloth pouch he carried and brought it to his lips.
The first note was deep, drawn-out, like a sigh of relief. Then the melody began to unfold—slow at first, like water dripping from a cave, then more fluid, more expansive. It was the new song. The one he had composed on nights when he could not sleep, when thoughts accumulated in his mind like dry leaves in a corner of the yard. And it was for her.
Yù Qíng closed her eyes. The wind blew through her loose hair, and the setting sun tinted her face in shades of gold and orange. She was not merely beautiful—there was a quality in her that he had never been able to name, something that transcended form. It was as if, when he looked at her, he also saw what she felt, what she desired, what she feared.
She feared losing him. This he had known since adolescence, when jealousy had first shown itself in small outbursts—a sharp glance when some village girl laughed at his jokes, a tighter grip on his hand when he lingered too long in conversation with someone. At the time, he had thought it was immaturity. Later, he understood it was fear.
The fear of someone who loves too deeply and knows that love is a rope stretched over an abyss.
He kept playing. The sun descended slowly, painting the sky red and ochre. The peak's shadow stretched across the valley, and the first stars began to appear in the east.
Then it happened.
Zhì Yuǎn noticed, first as a peripheral thought, that the rays of sunlight passing through a crack in the rock formation to the left created a pattern. The beams of light were not static; they moved in a cycle, like breathing. In… pause… out… pause.
He continued playing, but his mind began to fixate on that rhythm. His own breathing, without his awareness, began to synchronize. Inhaling as the light expanded. Holding as the light hovered. Exhaling as it contracted.
A strange sensation began to form in his chest. Not pain, not heat—it was subtler, as if a new sense were awakening. The notes of the flute grew softer, more spaced out, as he focused on that invisible flow.
Yù Qíng must have noticed something had changed, because she opened her eyes and looked at him. But he no longer saw her entirely. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, but it was not the sun he was seeing.
It was something beyond.
The air around him seemed to thicken. The particles of dust suspended in the twilight light began to glow with a radiance that did not belong to the sun. And in his mind, something stirred—not a sound heard, but a sensation, a word, a memory that was not his, yet surfaced as if it had always been there, dormant:
Absorption… first stage…
The voice was his. Yet it was not. As if an echo of himself, coming from a place he did not know, whispered in his ear.
The world seemed to stop. For an instant, Zhì Yuǎn felt—not saw—a web of light within himself, empty, waiting. And at the same time, a comprehension: there was something he could do now. A path opening.
The flute slipped from his fingers, falling onto the rock with a dull sound. Beside him, Yù Qíng called his name, her voice coming from very far away:
"Zhì Yuǎn? Zhì Yuǎn, what is it?"
He looked at her. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with concern. The setting sun still tinged her hair, but to him now there was also something more: a faint glow, an aura surrounding her body, which he had never seen before.
It was no accident. Nothing was an accident. Not the abandonment. Not the adoption. Not the wisdom the elders said they saw in my eyes. I had been placed there. And now, something had begun.
Yù Qíng grabbed his hand, squeezing hard.
"Answer me," she whispered, and there was a tremor in her voice he rarely heard. "What happened?"
Zhì Yuǎn looked at the sky. The sun had already set; the first star of the night shone with unusual brightness, as if it too were watching.
"I don't know," he answered finally. "But I think… I think we are going to find out together."
And in the growing darkness of the peak, he felt her hand tighten around his with a strength that said: wherever you go, I go. Always.
---
End of Chapter 1