Shen Qiyao pushed open the inn door with a creak that sounded too loud in the quiet night. The common room lay dark and empty, just one small lamp flickering on the counter. Its weak light threw long shadows across the wooden floor, making the place feel even bigger and lonelier. The air smelled of old smoke from the evening fire and leftover rice from dinner, a mix that stuck in his nose like a memory he did not want.
His legs felt heavy, like they had after a long day of training or a hard fight on the road. Each step up the stairs groaned under his weight, the wood old and worn from years of feet just like his. He held the rail tight, knuckles white, as if it could steady the shake inside him. At the top, he turned down the narrow hall to his room, the door sticking a bit when he pushed it open. Moonlight slipped through the thin window paper, painting the floor in pale stripes.
Inside, the space was small and plain—a low bed with a thin quilt, a wooden table with a washbasin, and a stool that wobbled if you sat too hard. Qiyao shut the door soft, not wanting to wake anyone. He fumbled for the candle on the table, striking flint until a spark caught the wick. The flame popped to life, small and yellow, dancing in the draft from the window. It threw jumping shadows on the walls, making the room feel alive in a way that set his nerves on edge.
He sank onto the bed, the mat creaking under him. His robe hung loose, dirt from the grove still clinging to the hem. He pulled the jade from his belt and held it in his lap, turning it over in his hands. The green stone felt smooth and cool, like river water frozen in time. He touched it lightly, and it pulsed once—cold and steady, like a heartbeat reminding him that none of it was a dream. The flower petal inside glowed faint in the candlelight, edges curled as if it breathed.
Qiyao closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall. The whisper he had let out in the grove still echoed in his head. "...What are you saying?" It sounded silly now, weak and small, like a child's question to the wind. But out there, under the moon, it had felt real. Fragile, yes, but strong enough to stop the music. To make the night listen back.
For the first time, the truth hit him clear and hard, like a stone dropping into still water. The flute's song was not just floating through the trees by chance. It was not some old curse, spilling out forever into the empty air, trapping anyone who heard it. No. It was aimed right at him. Calling his name in notes he could almost understand.
His chest tightened with the thought. He had no flute of his own, no skill to play back. He stood there in the grove like a dumb animal, quiet and helpless, with nothing to give. But knowing it was for him—that alone shook him deep, right to his bones. It made his skin crawl and his heart race all at once. Who was he to catch such a thing?Just a traveler with a sword and scars, passing through a village that wanted nothing to do with him.
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the window like fingers tapping for entry. Qiyao opened his eyes and looked around the room. The shadows from the candle twisted like bamboo stalks reaching out. He thought of the grove, how the trees had seemed to lean in, holding their breath. The pond's water, black and still, mirroring the man in white. That single note—the low one that curved up like a question. It had felt like an answer, or the start of one.
He set the jade on the table and stood, pacing the small space. Three steps one way, three back. His boots left mud prints on the floor mat. What now? Run at dawn, leave Zhuyin behind like a bad tale? Or go back tomorrow, chase the sound until it showed its face?The idea scared him. The village folks whispered of the grove like it ate men whole. Granny Xuemei with her sharp eyes and half-said warnings—she knew something, but she would not spill it easy.
Qiyao blew out the candle, the smoke curling up in a thin line. The room went dark, moon the only light now, soft and cold. He pulled off his outer robe and lay on the bed, quilt pulled high. Sleep did not come quick. His mind kept playing the night over—the flute's rise and fall, the pause that waited for him, his own voice breaking the quiet. When his eyes finally shut, dreams took him back.
In the dream, he stood by the pond again, but the water glowed soft, like it held stars. The man in white turned slow, face clear this time. Eyes dark as night pools, lips full and still. Hair loose, waving in a wind that touched only him. "You spoke," the man said, voice like the flute—low, pulling. Qiyao reached out, hand shaking, but the man stepped back, fading into mist. "Speak again," he whispered, gone before Qiyao could try.
He woke with a start, heart pounding, sheet damp with sweat. The room was gray with early light, rain tapping light on the roof. Dawn had come, wet and gray, washing the world clean. Qiyao sat up, rubbing his face. The jade lay on the table, waiting. He picked it up, slipping it back into his belt. It felt heavier today, like it carried the night's weight.