Shen Qiyao's lips opened a little, a small sound starting in his throat, but nothing came out. He had no words. His voice felt stuck, old and rusty from too many quiet years. And even if he could talk, what would he say? He did not know how to speak in flute notes. He had no way to answer back.
But deep inside, he knew one thing: the song was waiting for him.
The bamboo trees creaked in the night wind, bending like they felt the same pull. Small waves moved across the pond, messing up the water's picture of the man, but never making him go away. Even the moon up above seemed to stop and watch, holding its light still.
Qiyao pushed his hand harder against the jade stone in his belt. He hoped it would give him some power—or at least make sense of this. But all it did was stay cold, like ice against his skin.
His heartbeat fast in his chest, each thump louder than the one before. The whole grove went so quiet it hurt, like the trees themselves were leaning in to hear better. The tune came back again, playing the same short set of notes, then stopping in a quiet that felt thick, like fog you could touch.
It was waiting. He felt it right in his bones, deep and true.
That thought pushed so hard on him he thought his chest might break open. He wanted to talk—had to—but his tongue felt heavy and slow, his throat dry like old dirt. What words could match a flute? How could he answer a talk he did not know yet?
His lips opened again anyway. For a long time, just shaky air came out, weak and empty. Then, without him meaning to, a soft whisper cut the quiet.
"...What are you saying?"
His own voice scared him. It was too quiet, like a thin string that could snap with one wrong breath. But still—
The flute went still.
Not all the way. A small buzz stayed in the wood, like a last bit of breath hanging on, but the music stopped short, the quiet sharper than before. Like it had heard him. Like it knew.
Qiyao's heart jumped hard. His head felt light, heat building behind his eyes like he might cry or fall. He stared at the man in white, who stood still by the water, flute up to his mouth. But the quiet between them felt different now—full of life, buzzing like air before a storm, holding something big he could not name.
He swallowed, his throat tight. "Who are you?" he whispered next, the words coming out slow and rough, like pulling rocks up a hill.
The answer did not come in talk. It came in sound. One low note, long and slow, curving up like it was drawing the shape of a name Qiyao could not catch yet.
Qiyao stepped back fast, his heel catching in the wet dirt. He almost fell, arms out for balance, but he kept his eyes on the man. Every part of him yelled that this could not be real, that he was a fool running after shadows. But his heart told a different story. It knew.
The music was for him.
All this time—the flower petals that would not die, the jade's cold touch, the dreams that stuck to him like wet cloth—it was not some bad luck without a face. It was a voice, calling out, looking for him.
And tonight, it had waited just for him.
The song started up again, softer this time, bits of sadness twisting through the trees like thin fog. Qiyao's throat hurt, like it was on fire, his hands balling into tight fists at his sides. He wanted to answer back, but all he had were plain words the flute could not hear, and quiet that felt too heavy to carry.
So he stood there and listened, letting the notes sink in, until the last one faded into the dark night air.
The man by the pond blurred with the water's shine. One breath, he was clear; the next, gone—like a lamp blown out by a quick gust. Only the small waves on the water and the shake of bamboo leaves stayed behind.
Qiyao stood still long after the music stopped. His breath came out in white puffs in the cold night, uneven and rough. The grove felt empty now, more than ever, the quiet like a cut that would not close.
He did not know how long he stayed like that. The wind picked up a little, brushing his face with cool fingers, but he barely felt it. His mind kept going back to that note—the one that sounded like a name. It pulled at him, like a hook in his chest, making him want to chase it. Who was this man? Why did the song feel like it knew Qiyao's own sad spots, the ones he hid from everyone?
Back in the village, people whispered about the grove like it was a hungry thing, full of tricks and lost souls. They crossed their arms and turned away when the wind brought flute sounds. But Qiyao had never believed in ghosts. He believed in swords and steps, in fighting what came at you head-on. Yet here he was, talking to air, waiting for answers from a tune.
His hand went back to the jade. It was warmer now, or maybe that was just him—his skin hot from the inside out. He pulled it free from his belt, holding it up to the moon. The green stone caught the light, glowing soft, like it held a secret fire. The flower petal inside looked almost alive, edges curling like it breathed. "What do you know?" he muttered to it, voice low. No answer came, but the stone felt steady in his palm, like a friend's hand.
The path back to the inn seemed longer than before, trees closing in like they watched him go. Qiyao's boots squished in the mud, each step heavy. His mind raced—should he leave Zhuyin at dawn? Pack his things and walk the road until the grove was just a story? Or stay, dig deeper, find the man with the flute?
By the time he pushed open the inn door, the common room was dark, only one lamp burning low. The old wood smelled of smoke and leftover rice. He climbed the stairs slow, legs tired like after a fight. In his room, he lit a candle, the flame dancing shadows on the walls. He sat on the bed, jade in his lap, staring at nothing.
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