Children huddled near a wall, stealing glances at him as he studied the shrine. Their whispered dares faltered under the quiet weight of his presence. One boy's mouth opened to speak, but he shut it again, swallowing a gulp of fear. Even from a distance, Qiyao commanded attention without needing to raise a hand or voice.
A woman rearranging fruit at a stall muttered to another, her eyes flicking toward him. "Do you think he… belongs to them?" she asked, voice low and tinged with awe. The other woman shook her head, though the tremor of uncertainty in her hands betrayed her.
Qiyao's gaze travelled slowly over the shrine, taking in every detail. The incense smoke twisted upward, catching stray rays of sunlight and casting fleeting shadows across the stone surface. The fruit bowls were simple but carefully arranged. Paper charms fluttered faintly as the wind shifted. Even the painted flute, shaky and imperfect, seemed to pulse faintly with life.
A soft breeze rustled the willow's branches, and the silver petal drifted again, this time brushing against the water's edge. It hovered for a heartbeat, glinting, before being carried away. Qiyao's eyes followed it with quiet precision, noting the almost deliberate nature of its movement.
Something stirred in the bamboo grove—a shadow slipping between stalks, too slight to be human. Qiyao's attention sharpened, though he made no move to pursue it. The note of the flute came again, a fraction clearer this time, teasing the edge of his senses. He inhaled slowly, chest steady, letting the morning scents of fruit, incense, and wet stone fill him.
Villagers walked past, some bowing briefly to the shrine, others hurrying along, unwilling to linger. Their eyes occasionally flicked toward Qiyao, a mixture of curiosity and caution. A few muttered under their breath, words he did not need to hear. He already knew the stories—the missing children, the warnings, the unease that clung to every whisper about the grove.
Yet, in his silence, he acknowledged something deeper. The shrine, the silver petal, the delicate flute note—they were all small threads connecting him to something older than the morning, older than the village itself. Qiyao understood, with an almost imperceptible tightening in his chest, that this was not chance. The grove, and whatever dwelled within, had begun to reach for him.
He lingered just long enough for the incense smoke to curl fully into the air, then stepped back from the shrine. His stride carried him past the pond, past the whispering villagers, back into the market's rhythm. Yet even as he moved, the memory of the silver petal and the faint, teasing flute note clung to him, echoing quietly in his mind.
The day continued around him—market cries, clinking coins, children's laughter—but Qiyao's focus remained partially hitched to the grove. Something was waiting there. Something that had already begun its song.
The sun climbed higher, painting the stone paths of Zhuyin Village with warm light, but the grove beyond the pond remained a patch of green twilight, dense and whispering. Even from a distance, the bamboo seemed alive, each stalk swaying with a movement that wasn't entirely caused by the breeze.
Qiyao walked along the edge of the pond, boots silent on the stones, eyes sweeping every ripple, every shadow. He had paused at the shrine that morning, but the faint tug in his chest—the pull of the grove—had not left him. It called quietly, insistently, threading through the ordinary sounds of the village: children laughing, carts creaking, women calling for fresh vegetables.
A silver petal drifted across the water again, moving with an almost deliberate grace, hovering for a heartbeat as though hesitating before continuing its path. Qiyao's fingers twitched slightly, not in fear but in recognition, the tiny pulse of something otherworldly brushing against the edges of his awareness.
Then came the flute. Not the teasing hint from before, but a slightly longer note, wavering, fragile, as if testing him. It came from deep inside the grove, and yet somehow it brushed against the edges of the pond, fluttering like a reflection on water. Qiyao stopped, chest steady, letting the sound reach him fully. The note carried a strange familiarity—as though it remembered him, or he it.
A shadow flickered between the bamboo stalks. At first, it seemed nothing more than the sun playing across the leaves. But it moved too deliberately, sliding smoothly between gaps where no villager walked, too light and fluid to belong to any ordinary creature. Qiyao's gaze followed it, unblinking, calm yet focused, like someone reading the wind.
He crouched slightly, letting his hand brush the surface of the pond. The water was cool, unremarkable, yet the silver petal floated closer, circling his fingers as though drawn by some invisible tie. He did not reach to grasp it; he did not need to. Recognition alone sufficed.
The flute played again, faint but distinct, a melody threading through the grove with hesitant precision. It twisted around him, weaving through the reeds and willow branches, curling into his ears like smoke. It was not loud; it did not demand attention. It simply existed, aware of him, aware of his presence at the pond's edge.
From the corner of his vision, another shadow moved. A flicker of white slipped between bamboo stalks, vanishing before he could fix it fully in his gaze. And yet, the air shifted, charged with something unspoken—an invitation, a warning, a message carried in the subtle influence of leaves and the delicate curl of smoke.
Qiyao remained still, letting his senses absorb every detail. The villagers, busy in their daily routines, were unaware of the delicate tension threading the grove. Even the dog barking at a distant cart seemed oblivious. Only he noticed the silver petals, the faint flute notes, the almost imperceptible movements of light and shadow.
The air grew heavier as the notes lingered, stretching longer, winding around him. It was no longer a single sound, but a melody, soft and hesitant, weaving patterns he could almost understand. Each repetition seemed to respond to him, ebbing and flowing with his presence, testing boundaries.
A small ripple ran through the pond as if the water itself acknowledged the music. Qiyao inhaled slowly, the calm control in his chest never breaking, though a subtle tension had threaded through his muscles. He did not need to rush. The grove was patient; it had been waiting longer than any human could measure.
Another silver petal appeared, this one catching the sunlight like a shard of moonlight. It floated closer to him, circling at the edge of his reflection before drifting back toward the grove. The shadow of white appeared again, a fleeting shape between stalks, too fast, too fluid to be ordinary. Qiyao's eyes followed it carefully, noting its patterns, its timing, the way it seemed almost aware of him.
The flute played a longer sequence now, rising slightly and falling, delicate but insistent. It carried a weight of memory, of presence, as though it remembered someone long gone—or perhaps it remembered him. Each note seemed to reach for him specifically, brushing against his chest, threading through his thoughts.
Qiyao remained calm. He did not flinch. He did not speak. His steady presence seemed to anchor the grove itself, as if his silence and focus created a buffer against whatever curiosity or intent the bamboo held. The silver petals floated and twirled, the shadows flitted and vanished, the flute's song hovered in the air—but he did not retreat. He simply observed, attentive, patient, knowing that whatever waited for him was already aware he had noticed it.
Minutes passed like this, suspended in tension, before the wind shifted again. The petals drifted back toward the grove, the shadows faded between stalks, and the flute's notes quieted, leaving only a faint echo. Qiyao straightened, chest still steady, but the pull remained—the quiet insistence that the grove was alive, aware, and that it had begun its song specifically for him.
He turned back toward the village, boots silent on the stones, carrying the weight of something older than the morning, older than the market, older than the whispering villagers. And yet, even as he moved among the clattering baskets and hurrying villagers, the grove's subtle, persistent presence lingered at the edges of his senses, a quiet promise that it had not finished speaking.
The village path narrowed as Qiyao moved past the stalls, the clatter of morning slowly giving way to quieter stone-paved alleys. A man stepped forward from the edge of the path, broad-shouldered and weathered by years of labor under the sun. His sleeves were rolled high, forearms dusted with soil, and his eyes were sharp, flicking nervously toward the bamboo grove.
"You," the man said, voice low but firm, carrying the weight of warning. "Stranger. Best you don't linger near that grove. Too many men have gone missing."…..
© 2025 Moon (Rani Mandal). All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.