Qiyao considered her quietly, then gave the smallest of nods. Together, they left the bustle of the market behind, taking the narrow path that curved uphill.
The air grew quieter the farther they walked. Birds stirred in the trees, and the fragrance of wet earth rose stronger where moss clung to stone. The old woman walked slowly, leaning on her cane, but her voice carried without weakness.
"Tell me, young master… why did your road end here, in Zhuyin? Few pass this way unless they're lost — or searching."
Her words hung in the air like a gentle test. Qiyao's gaze remained forward, his profile carved in restraint. After a pause, he said simply, "Perhaps both."
The woman's lips curved faintly. "Lost men often find more than they seek. Searching men… sometimes find what they should not."
They walked in silence for a stretch, the shrine's small rooftop soon appearing between the trees. It was humble, its paint faded, but incense smoke curled from a bronze burner at the steps.
As they approached, she added softly, almost as if speaking to herself:
"And yet, perhaps fate has a hand in such wanderings. I've lived long enough to see that much."
Qiyao's hand brushed the jade at his side, the cool stone pressing against his palm. He said nothing, but his silence carried weight.
The shrine bell rang faintly in the breeze, as though answering her words.
The shrine bell's soft hum faded into the rustle of leaves. The old woman set her bundle of herbs upon the small stone table; her movements slow but steady. She lit a fresh stick of incense, bowing once before the altar, and whispered words too quiet to catch. Qiyao stood respectfully behind her, his presence tall and still, the faint glow of sunlight cutting around him.
When she finished, she turned with a small smile. "The gods here do not ask for much," she said, dusting her hands together. "But I have always believed they appreciate a visitor who carries sincerity. You seem such a man."
Qiyao inclined his head, though he said nothing. His silence did not seem to disturb her; if anything, it drew a gentle laugh.
"You don't waste words, do you? That's fine. Quiet men are easier to trust than those who chatter too much." She lifted her cane, steadying herself. "My house is close. Come — I'll brew tea for you. You must not have eaten since morning."
Without waiting for refusal, she led him down the slope. The path wound past a grove of apricot trees and opened into a small clearing. A modest farmhouse stood there, roof tiles patched with care, its garden blooming with cabbages, spring onions, and rows of leafy greens.
"This is where I've lived since my husband passed," she explained softly. "and My son missing " years ago. Only I remain. But an old woman learns to make peace with solitude."
Her tone was matter of fact, not sorrowful, yet something in Qiyao's gaze shifted — the faintest flicker of recognition, as though the word "solitude" had brushed against him too closely.
The woman moved toward the well beside her house, balancing the cane awkwardly as she lifted the rope. Before she could heave the bucket, Qiyao stepped forward.
"I'll do it."
His voice was quiet, but firm. Taking the rope in one hand, he drew the water effortlessly, the bucket rising in a smooth, steady pull. He carried it to the basin without strain, pouring with care so not a drop spilled.
The old woman blinked, then chuckled. "So the young master has strength as well as height. I was beginning to think you were a scholar — all fine robes and jade, but no hands for work."
Qiyao did not answer, though the faintest crease touched the corner of his mouth.
She beckoned him toward the porch. "Sit. I'll fetch some tea and cook us a simple lunch. Don't expect grand feasts in this house."
Qiyao obeyed, seating himself on the wooden bench by the low table. From his spot, he could see the hills rolling beyond the village, the bamboo forest faint at the edge of his vision. The breeze carried faint scents of soil and growing things, different from the smoke of inns or the perfume of noble courts.
Inside, pots clinked, and soon the smell of rice and boiling broth drifted out. The old woman returned with two steaming bowls and a plate of pickled vegetables, her steps careful but sure. She placed them on the table, then lowered herself opposite him.
"It isn't much," she admitted. "But food made with your own hands always tastes different."
Qiyao lifted his chopsticks, his motions precise as ever, and began to eat. The rice was plain but warm, the broth light yet fragrant with ginger. He did not praise it, but neither did he hide the fact that he finished every bite.
The woman smiled faintly, watching him. "Most travelers only stay here a night, sometimes two. They're restless, chasing after coin or gossip. But you…" Her eyes narrowed, curious yet kind. "You don't seem like a man who moves without purpose."
Qiyao set his bowl down, his gaze steady. For a long moment, he said nothing, then answered with quiet restraint. "Purpose is a heavy word. For now, I am only passing through."
The woman studied him, her gaze dipping briefly to the jade that caught sunlight at his waist. Its pale glow shimmered against the dark silk cord, the carving so fine it looked alive. She did not ask outright, but her expression carried the weight of recognition.
"That piece…" she said softly, almost as if to herself. "It is not something a common man carries."
Qiyao's hand brushed against it lightly, as though out of habit. His voice lowered. "Some ties cannot be cut, even when one wishes to."
The old woman nodded, understanding more than his words revealed. She did not press further. Instead, she poured more tea into his cup. "Whatever your ties are, young master, know this: the world may be cruel, but sometimes strangers become family when fate wills it. If you ever find yourself needing a place to rest, my door is open."
Her kindness was simple, unforced. For the first time in years, something in Qiyao's chest loosened, though his face showed little of it. He lifted his cup in silent acknowledgement.
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