Morning arrived quietly.
Sunlight filtered through the paper windows, spreading pale gold across the wooden floor.
Outside, birds called from the bamboo grove.
The mountain breeze drifted gently through the shrine courtyard.
Everything looked exactly as it always did.
Ordinary.
Peaceful.
Unchanged.
Yet when Shen Qiyao opened his eyes, a strange heaviness lingered within him.
Not exhaustion.
Not quite.
Something softer.
Like waking from a dream that had felt too real.
For several moments he remained still.
The ceiling above him slowly came into focus.
The sunlight.
The familiar wooden beams.
The distant sounds of the village beginning another day.
Everything appeared normal.
Then—
The memory returned.
A whisper.
So close it had seemed to brush against his ear.
I promised...
You would hear it again.
Shen Qiyao frowned slightly.
The words lingered.
Clear.
Unusually clear.
Then came another memory.
The flute.
The sound had been beautiful.
Gentle.
Near.
Far closer than it had ever been before.
And beneath the melody—
A fragrance.
Sweet and delicate.
Lily of the valley.
The memory remained vivid.
Yet the more he tried to hold onto it, the more uncertain it became.
Had it truly happened?
Or had it only been a dream?
The question settled quietly in his mind.
Shen Qiyao slowly sat up.
The blanket slipped from his shoulders.
Across the room—
The sleeping mat beside his own was empty.
A familiar absence.
He blinked once.
Then twice.
No tangled blanket.
No sleeping He Qing.
No evidence of late-morning laziness.
Which was already suspicious.
Very suspicious.
Shen Qiyao stepped outside.
The morning air greeted him immediately.
Cool.
Fresh.
The scent of bamboo filled the mountain breeze.
The shrine courtyard was already awake.
And standing beside the well—
He Qing was drawing water.
Shen Qiyao stopped.
The sight was so unexpected that he genuinely wondered if he was still dreaming.
The bucket rose smoothly from the well.
Water glimmered beneath the sunlight.
And somehow—
He Qing appeared entirely responsible.
The image felt deeply unnatural.
As though the world itself had become slightly unbalanced.
Perhaps sensing his gaze, He Qing looked up.
Their eyes met.
A grin immediately appeared.
"Good morning, Mr. Taller Shen."
The illusion shattered instantly.
Everything returned to normal.
"Hm."
"You look surprised."
"I am."
The answer arrived too quickly.
He Qing placed a hand over his chest.
"You wound me."
"You were awake before sunrise."
"Exactly."
The younger man nodded seriously.
"A miracle."
"..."
"..."
"For once, we agree."
He Qing looked offended.
Then immediately forgot why.
As expected.
Shen Qiyao accepted the cup of water offered to him.
The conversation drifted naturally toward breakfast preparations.
Morning chores.
The weather.
Small things.
Ordinary things.
Yet throughout it all—
His thoughts remained elsewhere.
The whisper.
The flute.
The fragrance.
Again and again.
The memory refused to disappear.
At one point He Qing was explaining a completely unnecessary argument involving two village dogs.
Or perhaps three.
The number seemed to change repeatedly.
Shen Qiyao wasn't entirely certain.
"—and then the black one stole the bun."
"Hm."
"And then the white one chased him."
"Hm."
"And then Old Liu chased both dogs."
"Hm."
"And then he fell into a pond."
"..."
A pause.
Shen Qiyao blinked.
"What?"
He Qing pointed.
"You weren't listening."
"I was."
"You weren't."
The answer came immediately.
Shen Qiyao considered arguing.
Then realized he had absolutely no idea what the story had been about.
Unfortunately.
He Qing was correct.
Again.
The realization was mildly irritating.
The morning continued.
Breakfast eventually appeared.
Simple food.
Simple conversation.
Simple peace.
Yet Shen Qiyao remained distracted.
Even He Qing stopped talking for a moment.
A rare event.
Almost historic.
The younger man tilted his head.
"Mr. Taller Shen."
"Hm?"
"You've been staring at that tea for a while."
Shen Qiyao lowered his gaze.
The tea had indeed been sitting untouched for several minutes.
"..."
"Aha."
The victorious expression appeared immediately.
Shen Qiyao regretted everything.
For a while silence settled between them.
Comfortable.
Unforced.
Then unexpectedly—
Shen Qiyao spoke first.
"I think..."
The words caught He Qing's attention immediately.
The younger man looked up.
"Hm?"
Shen Qiyao hesitated.
The uncertainty felt strange.
Like trying to describe something that existed only halfway between memory and dream.
Then quietly said:
"I think I heard it again."
The bamboo grove seemed to pause.
Only for a moment.
Then the wind continued moving.
He Qing blinked once.
"Again?"
"The flute."
A small silence followed.
Not awkward.
Simply thoughtful.
Shen Qiyao stared into his tea.
"The sound was close."
His voice lowered slightly.
"Closer than before."
The memory returned.
The melody.
The fragrance.
The whisper.
Yet even now he could not determine whether it had been real.
Or merely a dream.
Across from him, He Qing listened quietly.
Then—
A grin appeared.
Dangerous.
Familiar.
Immediately suspicious.
"Maybe it missed you."
The answer arrived so casually that Shen Qiyao almost laughed.
Almost.
Instead he looked up.
"What kind of answer is that?"
"A reasonable one."
"It isn't."
"It is."
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
The argument lasted exactly as long as expected.
Which was not very long.
Eventually He Qing leaned against a nearby pillar.
Still smiling.
The expression remained playful.
Light.
Carefree.
Yet for a brief moment—
Something beneath it felt deeper.
Like the surface of a pond hiding something unseen below.
"If someone waited that long to play the flute again..."
He Qing shrugged.
"Maybe they missed their listener."
The words drifted away on the wind.
Shen Qiyao did not think much of them.
At least not consciously.
Yet somehow they lingered.
The conversation soon shifted elsewhere.
Toward breakfast.
Toward chores.
Toward ordinary things.
As He Qing clearly intended.
The uncertainty remained.
Neither confirmed nor denied.
The whisper.
The flute.
The fragrance.
Dream or reality?
Shen Qiyao could not say.
And perhaps that was what unsettled him most.
Not knowing.
The morning sunlight spilled across the courtyard.
The bamboo swayed softly beyond the shrine.
Nearby, He Qing had already begun another story.
This one apparently involving chickens.
Again.
Shen Qiyao listened.
Or at least attempted to.
And although the confusion remained—
The memory slowly settled into the quiet corners of his thoughts.
Unanswered.
Unresolved.
Waiting.
Like a melody that had not yet reached its end.
[End of Chapter 118]