The room smelled faintly of herbs and old paper. She poured tea with steady hands, sliding the cup toward him without ceremony.
"So tell me," she said, eyes sharp despite their softness, "what does a young man like you find in a ruin where even the spirits no longer linger?" Qiyao lowered his gaze, fingers brushing the rim of the cup. "It doesn't feel so empty. Sitting there… it was quiet. Peaceful. As though it's waiting for someone."
Granny Xuemei gave a soft laugh, not unkind, though it carried a strange undertone. "Waiting, is it? Hm. Perhaps you see things others no longer care to notice." She sipped her tea, eyes sharp though her smile was light. "And now? You said Peaceful?" Granny tilted her head. "Most would say haunted."
Qiyao looked at her, startled. For a moment he thought she was testing, but Granny Xuemei's eyes carried that deep, profound weight of someone who had lived long enough to see truths no one else cared to remember.
He hesitated, then asked softly, "What… was the shrine meant for? Why was it left like this?"
The old woman lowered her gaze, fingers tracing the rim of her teacup. Her voice, when it came, was not the sing-song tone of idle gossip, but something steadier—like a story polished smooth by years of silence.
"It was not a shrine for gods," she said. "It was a shrine for the nameless."
Qiyao frowned faintly.
"Wandering souls," she continued. "The ones who died on roads far from home. Soldiers who fell where no kin could bury them. Children who slipped away before their parents could carve a tablet. Travelers lost in storms, bodies never returned. Souls without name, without incense, without family. The old keeper… he believed they would wither from hunger if no one called them. So every night, he lit a lantern. Every night, he placed rice and water. And he whispered into the dark: 'Come eat, come rest. You are not forgotten.'"
Her words pressed against the silence, and Qiyao felt something stir in his chest.
"Every night?" he asked.
Granny nodded slowly. "For forty years, without fail. Rain, snow, sickness—it did not matter. He tended them as though they were his own children."
Her gaze lifted, thin and sharp. "But kindness frightens people as much as cruelty. The villagers began to fear him. They whispered: if he feeds the nameless, their shadows will follow him home. If he calls them too often, one day they will answer."
Qiyao leaned forward slightly. "And did they?"
The old woman's lips curved, not quite into a smile. "He claimed they did. He said that sometimes, under a full moon, he heard music in the grove—flute notes no living man could play. He swore he saw a figure in white by the pond, and that it was not curse nor demon, but one of those souls come to thank him."
Her eyes glinted, watching Qiyao's expression.
"The others called him mad. But he kept feeding, kept listening. He said he was not tending a shrine at all. He said he was keeping a promise. To whom, he never told."
A faint wind stirred outside, and the paper screen rattled softly.
Qiyao's hand had stilled over his teacup. His chest felt unsteady, as though some chord had been struck.
"What happened to him?" he asked, his voice quieter.
Granny Xuemei sighed. "He died one winter. Alone, without family. No one dared to bury him near the shrine, so they carried him away. And after him, no one continued the offerings. The bowls sat empty. The incense went cold. The bamboo swallowed the place, and soon it became… what you see now."
She tapped her cane against the floor. "Some say the spirits he tended still linger there, waiting for a voice that will never come. Some say the keeper's vow was never fulfilled, and so the shrine itself turned bitter. That is why folk here call it cursed. A place of waiting. A place of unfinished promises."
The word "cursed" made Qiyao's jaw tighten. A pulse of heat flickered in him—swift, protective, unexplainable. Before he could think, the words escaped his lips:
"He is not a curse."
Granny's brows rose. "He?"
Qiyao froze. His throat closed, but it was too late. The word had left him. He forced his gaze away, fingers curling against his knee. "…The shrine. I meant the shrine is not a curse."
But the old woman only chuckled, low and knowing. Her eyes gleamed with that maddening softness of someone who had seen through him without effort
"Mm. Then perhaps it is not you who has chosen the shrine," she murmured. "Perhaps the shrine—and whatever lingers there—has chosen you."
The words sank into him like stones dropped into water. He had no answer, only silence.
At length, he cleared his throat. "Then… it belongs to no one? No one in the village claims it?"
Granny Xuemei shook her head. "No one dares. It is empty ground, forgotten. If you wish to sit there, no one will stop you."
He swallowed, voice low. "I don't wish to only sit there."
Her gaze sharpened again. "Then what do you wish, young master shen?"
Qiyao reached into his sleeve. From it, he drew out a strip of silver, the weight of it glinting in the dim lamplight. He set it gently on the table between them. His voice was steady when he said:
To be continued...