"Did you hear?" one whispered, her eyes darting toward the distant bamboo grove. "They say the spirit is restless again."
"Hah," another scoffed, though her voice carried a nervous edge. "It's just the wind. Always has been. You watch too many shadows, Old Mei."
"But Lin's boy… last summer," the first woman said, lowering her voice even further. "He didn't come home. Not for weeks. Not ever, and no one knows why."
Old Mei's hands tightened around a basket of greens. "Hush. Children are listening. You don't know what you're saying."
Indeed, the children were listening. They crouched behind stacks of baskets and between the legs of passing villagers, peering cautiously toward the bamboo grove. One boy, bold despite his small size, poked his friend with an elbow. "I bet you won't go there tonight," he whispered, eyes shining with excitement and fear.
"I'll not go! Don't push me!" the friend hissed back, shrinking behind a cart. His knees scraped against the stone path, leaving faint streaks of dust as he pulled himself away. A stray dog barked somewhere, and both boys jumped, hearts hammering. They glanced at the grove again, its green stalks swaying gently in the morning breeze, shadows weaving tightly between them, and felt the tug of something unseen.
Nearby, an old man shuffled past, cane tapping the stones with a soft but deliberate rhythm. "Nonsense," he muttered to another elder, voice low. "Just the wind. Always has been. Bamboo whispers, yes, but no spirit wanders the earth without reason." He glanced over his shoulder at the grove, his brow furrowed. There was caution in his eyes, a shadow of doubt beneath his gruff dismissal.
"Reason?" the neighbor replied, voice shaky. "Men disappear. Children vanish. You call that reason?" He tugged at his sleeve nervously, glancing at the younger women clustered around the stalls. "Sometimes, the wind carries more than leaves. You've seen it yourself."
The first man mumbled, shaking his head, but didn't press the point. He knew the stories had roots older than any of them, and though he would never admit it, even the wind in the grove made his stomach tighten.
From the corner of the market, a small girl peeked through the gaps in baskets and barrels. She had heard the whispers all her life, tales carried on the wind, and yet they fascinated her. Every rustle in the grove, every creak of bamboo, made her heart jump in anticipation. Her older brother elbowed her forward. "Go on," he whispered. "I dare you. See if the spirit is real."
Her eyes widened. She shook her head and took a cautious step backward, only to find another child beside her already daring the first to go further. A playful shove, a whispered challenge, and they froze, staring at the bamboo like it held both promise and danger. Their tiny fingers clutched at the edges of their shirts, hesitant to move yet unwilling to retreat entirely.
The women whispered again, softer now, voices threading into the sounds of the village. "I heard she leaves offerings sometimes," one said, nodding toward the shrine by the pond. "Fresh fruit, incense, paper charms… as if trying to keep it appeased."
Another mocked, but her laugh was brittle. "Appeased? Spirits don't need fruit or incense. They take what they want, or they leave nothing behind. You talk like you've seen it yourself."
"I've seen… strange things," the first woman said, eyes narrowing. She leaned closer, voice trembling slightly. "A petal floating on the pond… silver, like it came from the moon. And a note, faint as a breeze, like a flute… calling."
The scoffing woman stiffened. "A note? You mean… the ghost?"
A hush fell over the small group, broken only by the clatter of baskets and a goat bleating in the distance. Children pressed closer to one another, wide-eyed, imagining the ghost moving silently through the bamboo, its presence woven into the shadows.
Even Qiyao noticed, though he remained distant. His gaze flicked over the whispering women, the daring children, and the cautious old men. Each glance, each murmur, each tiny gesture told him more about the village than their words could. The fear was not loud; it was in the lowered voices, the sideways glances, the half-hesitant steps toward or away from the grove.
A sudden gust stirred the bamboo stalks, and the shadows seemed to dance more densely, as if reacting to the market's life. The children froze mid-step, the women stiffened, and even the old men's gruff expressions faltered for a heartbeat. The wind carried a faint note, almost lost among the chatter, a single flute's sound teasing the edge of perception.
No one stopped to acknowledge it. But each felt it, a subtle tug at the edge of consciousness, a reminder that the grove held its own watchful eyes. And in that instant, Zhuyin Village, alive with gossip and daily bustle, became something more — a place where whispers mattered, where shadows carried weight, and where even the smallest flicker of superstition could draw all eyes toward the silent bamboo.
Qiyao moved quietly through the throng of the morning market, his tall frame weaving past baskets, carts, and the hurried steps of villagers. He noticed everything: the way a woman's hand trembled slightly as she adjusted a cloth over her produce, the quick glance of an old man toward the grove whenever the conversation drifted near it, the children daring each other with whispered challenges while keeping one wary eye on him.
The jade around his waist caught the morning sun in fleeting flashes, glimmering faintly with each step. It was not a gaudy display, but it carried presence. Villagers unconsciously shifted away from him, a subtle acknowledgment of his quiet authority, though none spoke a word. He didn't seek attention; he didn't need it.
Beyond the market, the pond lay still, its surface mirroring the soft morning light. At its edge, nestled beneath the drooping boughs of an ancient willow, was the shrine. Its stone was darkened by age, rough to the touch, but meticulously cared for. Fresh offerings lay upon it: bowls of shiny fruit, folded paper charms swaying gently in the breeze, incense sticks sending thin curls of smoke into the air.
A crude image of a flute had been painted across the front of the stone, lines wavering as though brushed hastily by a trembling hand. Qiyao's eyes lingered on it longer than was strictly necessary. He did not bow. He did not speak a prayer. But his gaze carried quiet respect, as if he could feel the weight of something unseen pressing lightly against the edges of the shrine.
A faint ripple passed over the pond, and Qiyao noticed a single silver petal drifting across the water. It was out of place—nor its season has been around —and it shimmered oddly in the sunlight, catching the corner of his eye. He paused, letting it float past. For a moment, the world felt fragile, suspended in a thin, delicate line between normal and something else.
From deep within the bamboo grove, a note floated faintly into the morning air—a single flute notes, clear and soft, almost hesitant. Qiyao's chest tightened slightly, though his expression remained unreadable. He tilted his head, as if listening for an echo that might confirm whether it was real or memory. The villagers continued their routines obliviously, but he knew better. The grove was aware, and it had already taken notice of him.
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