"Long ago, before Zhuyin had its name, a young flutist lived at the edge of the bamboo grove," Granny Xuemei began, her voice soft and steady like the night wind through the leaves.
"He was said to have been born with a rare gift — his music could draw lost souls back from the border between life and death. People came from distant villages when grief had stolen their will to live."
She paused, her expression growing more solemn.
"But the flutist carried a secret that the village could not accept. He loved someone deeply.
A quiet soul who used to bring fresh offerings to the small shrine every new moon. In those days, that kind of love was considered a grave sin by many.
The villagers whispered behind their hands, called it unnatural, cursed. Some threw stones at his door and refused to let their children listen to his flute.
They said his music had become tainted by forbidden feelings."
Granny Xuemei sighed softly, the lamplight casting gentle shadows across her face.
"When his beloved fell ill and passed away one harsh winter, the flutist was devastated.
The villagers told him it was punishment from the heavens.
Heartbroken and rejected by his own people, he refused to leave the grove. He played for his lost love every night, believing his melody could guide that dear soul back through the mist.
He poured so much of his own life into those notes that he slowly faded… becoming part of the bamboo itself."
Qiyao listened in silence. Inside his chest, a quiet discomfort stirred. What was so wrong about loving someone? he thought. Why should a heart be punished for choosing another heart?
He looked at Granny Xuemei and asked gently, "Is there any way to connect with that person… or spirit… now?"
Granny Xuemei gave a small, wistful smile. "The old stories differ. Some say sincere offerings and warm food can quiet the melody for a time.
Others warn that if the spirit senses a heart carrying the same kind of waiting… it may answer more strongly than one expects.
The real trouble, they say, was never just the spirit's loneliness — it was the unfinished promise. A love that the world called sin, but death could not sever."
She reached over and lightly patted his hand, her touch warm and grandmotherly.
"Perhaps that old shrine didn't just accept you, Qiyao. Maybe it recognized a familiar kind of waiting in you."
The tea had grown cooler in their cups. A peaceful quiet settled over the small house.
Then — without warning — a single, clear flute note rose from the darkness outside.
It was soft. Intimate. Closer than it had ever been before.
The note trembled in the night air, carrying a quiet, aching question… before slowly fading away.
Granny Xuemei's eyes widened slightly. She turned toward the open window, then looked back at Qiyao, her voice dropping to a near-whisper.
"…It seems the grove has decided tonight is the night for answers."
The tea had grown cool in their cups, but neither seemed in a hurry to move. The soft glow of the oil lamp flickered gently between them, casting long shadows on the wooden walls.
After a comfortable stretch of silence, Qiyao finally set his cup down and rose to his feet. He bowed his head respectfully toward Granny Xuemei.
"Thank you for the tea, Granny Xuemei," he said quietly. "The sun has already set. I should leave now. The offerings might have grown cold… and the shrine itself feels empty when left too long."
Granny Xuemei looked up at him with a warm, understanding smile. The lines around her eyes deepened with quiet affection.
"Go on then, child," she said gently, her voice soft like an old blanket. "Take care on the short path. And remember — sometimes the heaviest things we carry are not the ones in our hands."
She stood up slowly and walked with him to the main door of her small house. The night air outside was cool and carried the faint rustle of bamboo. At the threshold, Qiyao turned once more, bowing deeply to her.
"Thank you again," he murmured.
Granny Xuemei nodded, her smile never fading. "Come back whenever the quiet feels too loud. This old woman is always here."
Qiyao stepped out into the darkness, his arms once again full with the items. Strangely, the weight of all the things no longer bothered him. His steps were steady on the familiar path toward the shrine.
But his mind was heavy.
The story Granny Xuemei had shared lingered like mist over the pond. The flutist's unending melody. The love that the village had called a sin. The unfinished promise that even death could not break.
What kind of love was so unacceptable that people would throw stones?Why should a heart be punished simply for choosing another heart?Was the real curse not the love itself… but the fear of it?
Questions turned slowly in his chest, one after another.
Granny Xuemei seemed to know more than she had spoken aloud.
Perhaps only the grove itself knew the full truth.
Or perhaps the spirit still waited, playing its flute night after night, searching for an answer that had been denied for generations.
With these heavy thoughts weighing on his heart, Qiyao continued walking.
The bamboo grove rose around him like silent witnesses, their leaves whispering softly in the night breeze.
Before long, the familiar roof of the old shrine came into view, its stone steps pale under the faint moonlight.
By the time Qiyao reached the shrine, the moon had risen high above the bamboo grove, bathing the old wooden structure in cool silver light.
He placed all his new belongings neatly on the veranda —And the packet of meat buns he set carefully beside the offering corner.
He stood still for a moment, letting the night air brush against his skin. The summer heat still clung to him after a full day of walking.
"I should bath first," he murmured to himself.
Before entering the house, he turned toward the small altar where the offerings from morning still sat untouched. His voice was low, almost tender, as he spoke into the quiet.
"Just wait a little longer," he said gently. "I bought something from the market today. I think… you will like it."
The words lingered in the air like incense smoke before dissolving into the night.
Qiyao stepped inside, lit a single lamp, and prepared the wooden bathing tub behind the shrine.
He filled it with cool water drawn from the well, then removed his outer robes.
Moonlight spilled through the open window as he lowered himself into the tub.
Shen Qiyao was strikingly handsome — tall and lean with a quiet, refined strength.
His skin glowed pale under the silver light, smooth and flawless.
Long, ink-black hair cascaded down his back and spilled over the edge of the tub like strands of midnight silk.
His sharp jawline, straight nose, and deep, melancholic eyes gave him an almost ethereal beauty, the kind that made one forget to breathe for a moment.
He leaned back against the wooden edge, letting the cool water soothe his tired body. The summer night was still and heavy around him.
His mind, however, refused to rest.
If even death could not end such a bond… then what am I truly waiting for?
Qiyao closed his eyes, his long lashes casting faint shadows on his cheeks.
"I wish you could speak to me," he whispered into the quiet. "There must be so many things you want to say… and so many things I want to understand. Who were you? What did you feel? Why do you still play… even after all this time?"
He exhaled slowly, voice barely audible.
"Are you really here? Have you been watching me all these days?"
The moment the words left his lips, a sweet, haunting melody drifted through the night air.
It was not the sorrowful sound he had once known.
This was lighter — delicate, almost fairy-like — like moonlight woven into sound.
The flute notes wrapped around him, gentle and intimate, as though someone was playing just beyond the bamboo screen.
At the same time, a soft, exquisite fragrance bloomed in the air — faint but deeply immersive, like rare sandalwood mixed with fresh rain and blooming night flowers.
It filled the bathing area, warm and comforting, as if the very presence beside him had taken form.
Qiyao's eyes opened slowly.
He remained loosely seated in the wooden tub, water rippling gently around his bare torso.
His long black hair spilled outside the tub, glistening under the moonlight.
His heart grew strangely, impossibly calm — a deep, wordless peace he could not explain, nor did he want to.
For the first time, the silence no longer felt empty.
A quiet, almost reverent thought rose within him:
You are really real…All this time… you've been here. Watching.
The flute continued playing softly in the background, the beautiful melody weaving through the moonlight and the fragrant night air.
And Shen Qiyao simply sat there — calm, bare, and quietly moved — letting the music wash over him like a long-awaited answer.