Morning sunlight spilled gently across the shrine courtyard.
The mountain air carried the scent of bamboo and warm earth.
Birds sang somewhere beyond the trees.
Everything felt peaceful.
The kind of peaceful that arrived only after many ordinary days had quietly stacked themselves together.
Near the edge of the courtyard, Shen Qiyao crouched beside a small patch of soil.
His sleeves were rolled neatly to his forearms.
A wooden bucket rested nearby.
The earth had been carefully tended over the past several weeks.
Watered. Protected. Waited upon. Patiently.
As though waiting itself carried meaning.
Footsteps approached.
Or rather—
A series of completely unnecessary sounds announced He Qing's arrival long before the footsteps did.
Shen Qiyao did not look up. He continued to gently loosen the soil.
"You stepped on the bucket," he stated, his voice calm.
There was a slight pause, then a theatrical sigh.
"It attacked me," He Qing declared. "A surprise ambush from an inanimate object. Truly, this shrine is full of peril."
"The bucket?" Shen Qiyao asked, a hint of amusement in his tone.
"Very aggressive. It lay in wait, perfectly still, until my foot was precisely positioned. A master of stealth, that bucket."
Shen Qiyao remained silent, a small smile playing on his lips. He Qing took that as encouragement, as usual.
The younger man leaned forward curiously, his gaze landing on the small patch of earth. Then his eyes brightened.
"Ah! The flowers!"
"Hm."
"The very stubborn flowers," He Qing corrected, poking a finger at the soil.
Shen Qiyao glanced at him. "The flowers are not stubborn. They are merely taking their time."
"They absolutely are stubborn!" He Qing insisted. "They refuse to appear. It's been weeks! Any other flower would have sprung forth with enthusiasm by now."
A pause. He Qing tapped his chin thoughtfully.
"Perhaps they dislike you."
Shen Qiyao stopped his work, looking at He Qing. "I helped plant them."
"Exactly!" He Qing exclaimed, as if this proved his point beyond all doubt.
"..."
"..."
He Qing looked entirely pleased with his own logic. Unfortunately, there was no cure for that.
The morning breeze drifted through the courtyard. For a while neither spoke. The silence felt comfortable. Familiar. The kind that had slowly grown between them over countless shared days.
Eventually He Qing crouched beside him. A dangerous decision. Whenever He Qing became interested in helping, disaster usually followed shortly afterward.
Shen Qiyao prepared himself mentally.
"Can I water them?" He Qing asked, his eyes wide and innocent.
"No," Shen Qiyao replied instantly.
"Why not? I'm perfectly capable of watering a few seeds."
"You'll drown them. You have a heavy hand with water."
"I would never! I am a gentle soul when it comes to delicate flora."
"You nearly drowned the vegetables last week," Shen Qiyao reminded him.
He Qing waved a dismissive hand. "That happened once! A minor miscalculation."
"It happened three times. And you flooded the kitchen on two of those occasions."
He Qing looked offended, dramatically clutching his chest. "You're keeping count? My own companion, meticulously cataloging my gardening mishaps!"
"Someone has to," Shen Qiyao said dryly. "Otherwise, we'd have a shrine full of waterlogged plants and a perpetually damp kitchen."
The younger man stared dramatically at the sky, clearly wounded, deeply misunderstood.
A tragic figure, indeed.
The performance lasted less than a minute.
Then curiosity won. Again.
He leaned closer to the flower bed. "The shop owner said they wouldn't grow this season. She was very firm about it."
"Hm," Shen Qiyao acknowledged, continuing to loosen the soil.
"I remember. She looked very certain. Almost... challenging."
"Mn."
"So why did you plant them anyway?" The question arrived casually. Without suspicion. Without deeper meaning. Just curiosity.
For a moment, Shen Qiyao's movements slowed. Only slightly. Then resumed. "I wanted to."
The answer was simple. He Qing blinked. Then nodded, somehow completely satisfied.
"As expected."
"What is that supposed to mean?" Shen Qiyao asked, a faint frown creasing his brow.
"It means you're the type of person who would plant impossible flowers simply because someone said they wouldn't grow," He Qing explained, a knowing smile on his face. "You like a challenge, even if it's just against a pessimistic shopkeeper and the laws of nature."
The words drifted away on the wind.
Neither spoke afterward.
Yet Shen Qiyao found himself quietly remembering them.
The mountain remained peaceful.
The bamboo whispered softly overhead. The morning slowly passed.
Together they watered the garden. Or rather—Shen Qiyao watered the garden. While He Qing attempted to help. The difference was significant.
At one point, water somehow ended up on He Qing's sleeve. Then his shoes. Then somehow on Shen Qiyao's robe. Nobody understood how. Least of all He Qing.
"This is your fault!" He Qing exclaimed, pointing an accusing finger at Shen Qiyao's damp sleeve.
"It absolutely is not. I was holding the bucket perfectly still."
"You handed me the bucket! Therefore, you are responsible for its trajectory!"
"That isn't how responsibility works, He Qing."
"I disagree! The chain of command, you see. You initiated the water transfer. Ergo, any subsequent splash is your doing."
"As expected," Shen Qiyao sighed, but a small smile played on his lips.
The younger man laughed. Bright and easy.
The sound filled the quiet courtyard. For a moment, Shen Qiyao found himself smiling as well. Small. Brief. Yet real.
The day continued.
The sun climbed higher.
The mountain breeze grew warmer.
Eventually He Qing wandered away after spotting something interesting near the shrine gate.
What it was remained unclear.
Possibly a butterfly. Possibly a leaf.
Possibly absolutely nothing.
Shen Qiyao did not investigate. Experience had taught him certain mysteries were better left unsolved.
The courtyard grew quiet again. Only the sound of birds remained.
Shen Qiyao reached for the bucket.
Then paused.
His gaze drifted downward.
Toward the flower bed.
For a moment he thought he had imagined it.
The morning light shifted gently across the soil.
The breeze stirred nearby leaves.
Everything appeared normal. Yet—something was different. Very small. Almost invisible.
Shen Qiyao leaned closer.
The earth remained dark from watering.
Tiny stones rested along the edges.
The seeds had been buried weeks ago.
Far too recently for anything to happen. Especially according to the shopkeeper. Especially according to reason.
And yet—
There. Near the center of the flower bed.
A fragile green shoot pushed through the soil.
Tiny.
Delicate.
No larger than the tip of a finger.
The kind of growth most people would overlook completely.
Shen Qiyao stared. The mountain breeze moved softly around him.
The world remained quiet.
For several moments he did not move.
Did not speak. The tiny shoot swayed almost imperceptibly. Alive. Growing. Impossible.
The memory surfaced immediately.
These flowers will not bloom this season.
The certainty in the shopkeeper's voice.
The confidence. The impossibility. Yet the evidence stood before him. Small. Fragile. Undeniable.
The flower should not have grown. Not yet. Not now. Not according to any reasonable expectation. And still—It had.
Footsteps approached from behind. Rapid. Unsteady. Definitely He Qing.
Shen Qiyao straightened immediately. The expression on his face disappeared. Returning to its usual calm.
"What are you looking at?" He Qing asked, appearing beside him, his voice full of curiosity.
Shen Qiyao's gaze lingered briefly on the tiny green shoot. Then moved away. "Nothing."
The answer came smoothly. Naturally. As though he had not just witnessed something impossible.
He Qing narrowed his eyes.
Clearly unconvinced. "'Nothing'? You were staring at the ground like it held the secrets of the universe. Don't tell me you've found a particularly interesting pebble."
"It was just... a patch of earth," Shen Qiyao said, trying to sound nonchalant.
"A patch of earth that captivated you so thoroughly? Fascinating. Perhaps I should study it too. Maybe it's a portal to another realm!"
But after several seconds, a bird flew past. And whatever investigation He Qing had intended immediately vanished from his mind.
The younger man pointed dramatically toward the sky. "Look! A bird!"
Shen Qiyao did not. "Hm."
"A very impressive bird! Look at its wingspan! Do you think it's migrating? Or just very lost?"
"Hm."
He Qing accepted the response without complaint. The conversation moved elsewhere. The day continued. The mountain remained peaceful.
Yet later that evening—
As sunset painted the bamboo grove gold—
Shen Qiyao found himself returning to the flower bed alone.
The tiny shoot remained exactly where he had left it. Small. Silent. Patient. Waiting.
The same way the flute had returned. Quietly.
Without explanation.
Without announcement.
Something that should not have been.
Yet was.
The evening breeze drifted gently through the courtyard. The bamboo whispered overhead. For a long moment, Shen Qiyao stood there. Watching.
Then without a word, he turned away.
The flower remained behind.
Small against the darkening earth.
A fragile sign of something impossible beginning to grow.
And the silence around it held the secret carefully. As though the mountain itself had chosen not to speak.
[End of Chapter 120]