Qiyao turned slowly.
Granny Xuemei stood a few steps away on the narrow path, a bundle of freshly gathered firewood tied neatly on her back.
Her silver hair was pulled into a simple bun, a few loose strands framing her weathered but kind face.
She carried the quiet strength of someone who had walked these paths for many decades, yet her eyes still held that gentle spark he had come to recognize.
She was the first person in Zhuyin who had looked at him without suspicion or fear. From the very beginning, when others whispered behind their hands,
she had offered him tea, simple words, and a place at her table — treating him like a grandson who had simply been away too long.
"Granny Xuemei," Qiyao greeted her softly, inclining his head with genuine respect. "You've been to the forest again."
The old woman adjusted the firewood on her back with a small grunt and gave him a warm, knowing smile.
"Ai, these old bones still know the good spots for dry wood.
Better than letting the young ones bring back wet branches that smoke up the whole house.
" She eyed the packages in his arms and the packet of buns, her smile deepening.
"Looks like you've been busy in the market today. Come inside, child. I just got back — the kettle should still be warm. We can have tea together."
Qiyao hesitated for only a heartbeat. The invitation felt simple, natural — like the grandmotherly pull he had almost forgotten existed.
He nodded, his voice calm and even. "Alright."
Granny Xuemei's eyes crinkled with quiet pleasure. She turned toward her small house, which sat tucked just beside the shrine's outer wall, half-hidden by bamboo.
Qiyao fell into step beside her, the warm buns and his other purchases balanced carefully as they walked the short distance.
The old woman moved with the steady, unhurried pace of someone who had long made peace with time. As they approached her door, she glanced sideways at him.
"You look like you're carrying more than just things from the market," she said gently, no judgment in her tone — only that familiar, quiet care. "The heart gets heavy sometimes when it starts to settle in one place. But tea helps. Always has."
Qiyao didn't reply immediately, but the corners of his mouth softened just a fraction.
Inside her modest home, the scent of dried herbs and faint sandalwood greeted them.
Granny Xuemei set down her firewood near the hearth and motioned for him to place his things on the low bench by the window.
"Sit, sit," she said, already moving toward the kettle with the easy familiarity of someone who had welcomed him many times before.
"I'll pour the tea. You can tell me about your day… or we can just sit quietly. Either way is fine with this old woman."
Qiyao lowered his packages and the buns onto the bench, the warm paper packet still radiating gentle heat against his palm.
For the first time that evening, the shrine next door no longer felt like the only place waiting for him.
Inside Granny Xuemei's small house, the air was warm and fragrant with dried herbs and faint sandalwood. A single oil lamp cast a gentle glow over the modest room.
Qiyao placed his bundles on the low wooden bench by the window — the rolled sleeping mat, the new clay pot, utensils, paper, brushes, and the book from Grandfather.
Granny Xuemei set her firewood near the hearth and busied herself with the kettle, moving with the quiet efficiency of someone who had done these many times.
"You've bought quite a lot today," she remarked without turning around, her voice light but curious. "New mat… pot… looks like you're planning to stay a while."
Qiyao sat down on the cushion she had indicated. "It was time," he said simply.
She gave a soft hum of understanding. "Good. A person shouldn't live like a guest in their own life."
Water began to bubble softly. Granny Xuemei wiped her hands on her apron and glanced at the large paper packet still resting beside him.
"And what's that? Smells warm."
Qiyao picked up the packet of meat buns. He hesitated for only a moment before offering it to her.
"Meat buns. Would you like some?"
Granny Xuemei's eyes crinkled with surprise and pleasure.
She accepted the packet with both hands.
"You bought these for me?" she asked, a gentle smile spreading across her face.
Qiyao shook his head slightly. "I bought extra… thinking I might offer them."
She raised a thin eyebrow, her expression turning playful yet knowing. "Offer them? To whom? The spirits?"
He met her gaze calmly. "To the shrine."
The old woman was quiet for a moment, carefully unwrapping one bun and breaking it in half.
Steam rose between them. She handed one piece back to him and kept the other.
"So you still set out two bowls every day," she said softly. It wasn't really a question. There was no judgment in her tone — only quiet curiosity, the kind that wanted to understand rather than accuse. "Even now."
Qiyao took the offered piece but didn't eat immediately. "Yes."
Granny Xuemei took a small bite, chewing thoughtfully. The warm filling seemed to soften something in her expression.
"I've lived in Zhuyin long enough to know that some offerings are made out of habit," she continued gently, "and some… are made because the heart still hopes for an answer."
She looked at him directly, her eyes steady and kind, yet carrying the weight of someone who had lost much herself.
"Tell me truthfully, child. Are you still waiting for someone who left… or are you starting to wait for someone who might return?"
The question hung in the warm air between them, simple but piercing.
The kettle whistled softly in the background, but neither moved to pour the tea yet.
Qiyao remained silent, the half-eaten bun warm in his hand.
Granny Xuemei didn't press further. She simply waited, her gaze patient and full of that quiet grandmotherly understanding.
Outside, the bamboo grove had grown darker.
And somewhere in the deepening night, a single, faint note — soft as breath — seemed to drift through the air for the briefest moment…
…before vanishing again.
Granny Xuemei poured tea into two simple cups and handed one to him. Steam curled upward in lazy spirals.
After they had taken a few quiet sips, she asked softly, "You still set out two bowls every morning at the shrine, don't you?"
Qiyao's fingers tightened slightly around the warm cup. "…Yes."
She nodded, her voice kind and unhurried.
"Why that old shrine, child? Most people in Zhuyin avoid it. They say the air there carries too much sorrow. Yet you chose to make it your home."
Qiyao stared into his tea for a long moment before answering.
"It didn't feel empty when I first entered.
The village feared it… called it haunted. But to me, it felt like something was waiting.
I light incense every day. One bowl for the altar.
The second… for someone who isn't there anymore. At first it was only habit. Now it feels like keeping a small promise."
Granny Xuemei listened in silence, her eyes full of quiet understanding. She took another sip, then asked gently, "And the flute you've spoken of before… the one that sounds at night. Has it changed?"
Qiyao met her gaze. "It answered me recently. Not like before. It felt closer. Deliberate."
A thoughtful silence stretched between them. Granny Xuemei set her cup down and folded her hands in her lap.
"You know," she said, her voice lowering into the cadence of old village stories, "the elders here still speak of the spirit that dwells in the bamboo grove behind the shrine. Not the fearful tales the young ones tell… but the older ones."
Qiyao looked at her. "How did the story begin?"
Granny Xuemei's eyes grew distant, as if gazing into the past.