The morning came pale and cool.
A faint mist clung to the pond beyond the village, turning the water into a sheet of shifting silver. Bamboo rustled in the wind, carrying the scent of dew. From below, the inn stirred awake — bowls clattering, voices rising, the scrape of chairs across the floor.
Shen Qiyao opened his eyes. For a moment, he did not move, letting the remnants of the dream settle. The song of the flute still hummed faintly in his chest, as if refusing to fade with the night.
He rose, tied his robe neatly, and adjusted the jade pendant at his waist. Its weight felt heavier this morning, as though reminding him of the world he had tried to leave behind.
When he descended to the common hall, the villagers were already gathered. Farmers with sun-darkened skin ate their breakfast in quick mouthfuls before heading to the fields. Two merchants argued over grain prices. A pair of children peeked curiously from behind their mother's sleeve, whispering about "the tall man upstairs."
The moment Shen Qiyao stepped down, voices hushed. Only briefly, but enough for him to notice. He neither acknowledged nor ignored it — he simply moved to an empty table near the window.
Madam Xu approached with a pot of tea and a bowl of rice porridge, her smile polite yet edged with curiosity. "Rest well, honoured guest?"
Qiyao inclined his head slightly. "Well enough."
Her eyes flicked to the pendant at his side before she poured his tea. "Few men carry jade like that into Zhuyin Village," she said softly, almost as if testing him. "Most come here with empty hands… or burdens they wish to hide."
He did not answer. His gaze rested instead on the window, where the mist was slowly lifting from the bamboo grove. The faintest shimmer of light seemed to ripple through the stalks, though perhaps it was only the morning sun.
Madam Xu did not press further. She left him to his meal, though he could feel her watching now and then, like the others in the room.
He ate slowly, each bite measured, his posture calm though his thoughts turned elsewhere. Last night's melody returned again and again, curling inside him like smoke. It was not mere music. It was a call.
When he finished, he set his chopsticks neatly across the bowl and rose. His steps carried him beyond the inn, out into the village streets.
The morning in Zhuyin Village unfolded with a quiet rhythm, soft and deliberate, like the stretch of light over bamboo stalks. Smoke rose from clay stoves and wooden stalls, curling in lazy spirals as women arranged steaming rice cakes on woven trays. The scent of sweet dough mingled with the earthy tang of freshly washed vegetables, and the metallic tang of fish glinting on bamboo mats drifted through the air.
Children darted through the paths, their bare feet kicking up clouds of pale dust. One boy tripped over a basket, sending a heap of shiny green beans tumbling across the stones. "Watch where you're going, Dong!" a woman scolded sharply, pulling him upright by the shoulder. His cheeks burned red, and he mumbled an apology, rubbing his knee as he scrambled to gather the scattered vegetables. Nearby, another child tugged stubbornly at a goat, which bucked and twisted, stamping a small cloud of dust into the air. The boy's tiny fists clenched on the rope, his tongue peeking out in concentration as he tried to coax the animal forward.
Vendors called softly, their voices blending with the morning breeze: "Fresh fish! Just caught this dawn!" "Rice cakes, sweet and soft, come try one!" A woman pushed her way past a wooden cart, haggling over a bunch of fragrant herbs. "Two coins," she said, holding the stems close to her nose. "Three," the vendor replied, a grin tugging at his sun-darkened face. She narrowed her eyes, weighed the stalks in her hand, and finally relented with a shake of her head.
An old man sat on a low stool, counting copper coins into a trembling hand. Each clink against the wooden tray sounded like careful footsteps in the quiet market. A young girl watched him, fascinated, as he lined the coins up meticulously, then tapped each with a finger before dropping them back into the pouch. "Grandfather, why do you count them like that every morning?" she asked softly. He looked at her with tired eyes, lips twitching in a ghost of a smile. "So I know everyone," he said simply. "Even when the wind blows, or the bamboo whispers, I know what belongs to me."
The stone paths between the houses teemed with movement. A pair of women, heads bent together, whispered urgently about happenings in the village. "They say the spirit is restless again," one said, glancing toward the distant bamboo grove. "Bah, nonsense," the other replied. "It's just the wind. Always has been." The first woman shushed her suddenly, eyes darting at the children running past, and lowered her voice even further.
From the pond nearby, the water mirrored the sky's pale blue, broken only by a single silver fish that flicked its tail lazily beneath the surface. Occasionally, a breeze stirred, sending ripples across the reflection of the village rooftops and making the reeds bend like dancers caught mid-step. A few petals from flowering trees drifted lazily down, landing on the water with soft plops that broke the stillness for just a heartbeat.
Qiyao moved through this morning scene with the quiet ease of someone who belonged everywhere and nowhere at once. His eyes were calm, steady, taking in the rhythm of the village: the lowered voices at mentions of bamboo, the nervous glances toward the grove, the subtle tension that threaded between ordinary gestures. He did not speak, did not pause to buy or taste, but he observed — each flutter of expression, each hesitant movement.
Children, sensing his presence, stole glances at him from between the gaps in carts and baskets. One little boy, emboldened by curiosity, crept a step closer to Qiyao, then froze, caught by the calm weight of his gaze. The child shuffled back, tugging at his sister's sleeve as if seeking protection. Even in his silence, Qiyao held attention, his quiet authority unspoken but unmistakable.
A woman leaned over her stall, arranging the glistening fish, and murmured to her neighbour, "Do you think he's… one of those men the bamboo keeps?" The neighbour's lips pressed into a tight line, eyes darting to the grove, and she shook her head. The gossip mingled with the scent of steamed rice and the soft clink of coins, weaving the village's unease into the morning air.
Everywhere, Zhuyin Village hummed with life — the clatter of carts, the murmur of voices, the laughter of children, the soft cries of a goat being pulled along. Yet beneath it all, a subtle thread of tension lingered, a whisper of something unseen, threading through the sunlight and dust. The village, vibrant and alive, carried its secrets quietly, waiting for those who dared to notice them.
The whispers began softly, threading through the clatter of the market like a hidden current. Women huddled in small groups, leaning toward each other with hands partially shielding their mouths.
Zhuyin Village, in daylight, revealed more of itself. Narrow lanes wound between wooden houses. Roofs dripped faintly with dew. Women strung herbs to dry beneath the eaves, their sleeves rolled to the elbows. Old men sat smoking long pipes, watching the stranger with half-curious, half-wary eyes.
And always, behind the ordinary bustle, he felt it — the weight of the forest pressing close, its bamboo rising like endless spears.
"Don't stray too far past the pond," a voice muttered as he passed, not quite meant for his ears.
"Especially at night. The flute doesn't play for everyone."
Qiyao's steps slowed, but he did not turn. He simply continued down the stone path, letting the villagers' whispers fade into the wind.
The morning sun had risen higher, warming the air, but the chill inside him did not lift.
Somewhere within that grove, a soul was still waiting.
"Did you hear?" one whispered, her eyes darting toward the distant bamboo grove. "They say...…..
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