Shen Qiyao stood frozen in place. His boots dug into the wet ground, and the night air wrapped around him like a tight net. He had no idea how long he had been there. Was it just a few seconds? Minutes? Or had time stopped, stretching into forever? The only thing that marked the passing moments was the sound of the flute.
The tune floated through the bamboo grove, soft but strong. It went up and down in a steady beat that felt almost like something he knew from long ago. At first, Qiyao just heard the beauty in it—a deep, sad beauty that pulled at his heart. But as he listened closer, paying attention to every little part, he noticed something hidden underneath.
There was a break in it. A missing piece.
The song did not come to an end. Instead, it went in circles. It repeated parts, stopped for a bit, then started again, only to slow down and stumble. It was like the music was looking for something. Like it was trying hard to reach across a wide gap.
Qiyao's chest started to hurt, a tight ache that grew with each note. He strained his ears, focusing so hard it made his head throb. He closed his eyes tight and played the song over in his mind. He followed the low parts and the high parts, like running his finger along the smooth edge of a sharp knife. The notes were too clean, too exact, to be just random sounds. And each quiet spot between them felt too planned, too on purpose, to be an accident.
The song was waiting for something.
That thought hit Qiyao like a splash of cold water on his face. His breath came out short and quick, like he had run a long way. The tune was not full or complete. It pushed ahead, full of hope, as if it expected someone—or something—to come halfway and meet it. Maybe a word to fill the empty space. Or a step forward. Or even a voice to break the heavy silence.
Without thinking, Qiyao's hand moved to his side. His fingers brushed against the jade stone tucked into his belt. It felt warm under his touch, beating softly like a second heart. As if the jade could hear the music too. He stopped moving, holding his breath. The jade's gentle pulse lined up perfectly with the quiet breaths between the notes. It was like the stone was answering a call that Qiyao himself could not hear or understand.
Deep inside, his old soldier's gut kicked in. This was no ordinary song. It was like a code, a signal begging to be finished. Back in the wars, he had heard breaks like this in the beat of war drums. Those pauses meant an order from the leader—time to reply, time to act, time to fight or run. But here, in this quiet grove under the moon, Qiyao did not know what part he was supposed to play. Was he the one giving commands? The one following them? Or was he something else, caught in the middle of it all?
The question chewed at him, sinking deeper into his thoughts with every new note that floated through the air. It made him feel lost, like a man standing at a fork in the road with no sign to guide him.
He opened his eyes slowly. The man in the white robes had not moved a single inch. He stood firm by the edge of the pond, his head tilted down just a little, his lips pressed to the flute. Only the music seemed alive, shifting and breathing. The man's body was still as a statue carved from stone.
Qiyao stared at him, not blinking, not daring to look away. His own heartbeat so loud in his ears, like thunder rolling close. But his body stayed locked in place, stiff as wood. He was afraid that even the smallest twitch—a finger moving, a foot shifting—would break the thin, fragile thread that tied him to this strange moment. Like snapping a string on a bow, and everything would fall apart.
The song started over again, looping back to that same short part it had played before. This time, the quiet after it lasted longer. Qiyao could feel the weight of it in the air—the waiting, the hope that hung there like mist. It pressed on him, heavy and real. He wanted to shout, to do anything to make it stop. But he could not. The pull was too strong, holding him right where he was.
The bamboo around them rustled softly in the breeze, like old friends whispering to each other. The pond's water lay flat and black, reflecting the moon in a perfect circle of silver light. It made the whole grove feel like a dream, one Qiyao had stepped into without meaning to. He thought about the village back behind him—the simple houses with their lanterns flickering out one by one, the people inside already asleep, dreaming of their daily work. They would cross themselves if they knew he was here, listening to this. They called it bad luck, a ghost's trick. But to Qiyao, it felt different. It felt like a door cracking open, just a little, to show him something he had been missing his whole life.
His mind went back to the road that had brought him here. Long days of walking, sword at his side, dust in his throat. Battles that left scars on his skin and deeper ones inside. Friends gone, family far away. He had learned to keep moving, to not look back. But now, standing here, the song made him want to stop. To listen. To answer, even if he did not know how.
The man's fingers moved on the flute, light and sure. Qiyao watched them, how they danced over the small holes, making the notes come alive. The white robes hung loose on his slim frame, moving just a bit with the wind. His hair fell long and dark down his back, catching bits of moonlight like threads of silver. Qiyao wondered what his face looked like up close. Were his eyes kind? Or full of the same sadness the song carried? The thought made his stomach twist, a mix of fear and something warmer, something he had not let himself feel in years.
Another pause came, even longer this time. The silence rang in Qiyao's ears, louder than any shout on the battlefield. He could almost hear the song asking him: What will you do? Will you turn away? Or will you step closer?His hand tightened on the jade, feeling its steady beat. It was like the stone was urging him on, saying yes, this is for you.
Sweat trickled down Qiyao's back, cold in the night air. His mouth felt dry, words stuck there like dry leaves. He was no poet, no singer. Just a man with a sword and too many regrets. But the pull was real. The song was not just notes anymore. It was a hand reaching out, waiting for his to take it.
Finally, after what felt like hours, Qiyao lifted one foot. Just a small shift, testing the ground. The mud sucked at his boot, but he did not fall. Another step. Then another. The space between him and the man shrank, the air growing thicker, charged like before a storm. His heart hammered so hard he thought the man must hear it, must know how scared and alive he felt all at once.
The man did not turn. He kept playing, but the tune changed a little—slower now, softer, like it knew Qiyao was coming. The pauses grew shorter, the notes fuller, as if the music was happy to have company.
Qiyao stopped just a few feet away. Close enough to see the faint rise and fall of the man's chest, the way his fingers trembled just a touch on the flute. Close enough to smell the clean scent of him, like fresh rain on green leaves. "What... what do you want from me?" Qiyao whispered, his voice rough and low, barely louder than the wind.
The man lowered the flute at last. He turned his head, slow and smooth, and his eyes met Qiyao's. They were dark, deep pools that held no anger, no fear—just a quiet understanding that made Qiyao's breath catch. "Last note. " Played
Qiyao swallowed hard. The ache in his chest eased, just a little. For the first time, the night did not feel like a trap. It felt like a beginning.
© 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.