Just as I was lost in the tranquil pleasure of the bamboo grove, a sound belonging to the grasslands suddenly pierced through the serene air of the East. At first, it resembled the sharp, resonant call of a Suona, yet upon closer listening, it carried the long, lingering rhythm unique to a shepherd's tune. It was as if the vastness and desolation of the northern plains had been finely ground into dust and gently sprinkled upon the lush greenery of this southern land.
The wind brushed past the tips of the bamboo, the leaves whispering softly — as though responding in hushed harmony to this foreign melody. I had lingered in this place for quite some time, and the elders of the nearby village often warned, "When you hear strange sounds, return at once." But I never took their words to heart. In this quiet corner forgotten by time, what real danger could possibly be hiding?
Unable to resist my growing curiosity, I rose slowly, took Monica in hand, and followed the music deeper into the grove. The further I went, the more the bamboo shadows swayed and danced. Sunlight filtered through the narrow gaps between the leaves, scattering fragments of light and shadow upon the ground. After what felt like the burning of a single stick of incense, the path suddenly opened up — before me lay a meadow hidden behind the grove, bursting with wildflowers of every color, like a painter's palette tipped over, spilling its brilliance across the earth.
A narrow footpath, worn smooth by human steps, wound gently up a sloping hill toward a house with whitewashed walls and gray-tiled eaves. In front of it stood a solitary figure, still and silent, as if she had stepped out from the heart of a painting.
My curiosity, now fully awakened, urged me forward. I stepped onto the earthen path, treading lightly, afraid to disturb the fragile stillness of the moment. As I drew nearer, her features became clear — a young woman, no older than twenty, with dark hair that shimmered with golden hues beneath the glow of the sunset and the burning clouds. She wore a simple white dress that fluttered in the evening breeze, perfectly framing a pair of light brown eyes imbued with the distant charm of the Western Regions. Her skin held the warm tone of sun-kissed wheat, her nose was finely shaped, and her lips, soft and rose-tinted like a wild briar blossom just beginning to bloom, radiated a natural vitality.
Everything about her seemed to embody the simplicity of the earth itself, yet flowing beneath that calm surface was an uncontainable, almost primal energy of life.
She played with complete abandon, her slender fingers dancing gracefully over the holes of her instrument, utterly unaware of my presence. The music rose and fell — at times soaring high like a skylark gliding across the heavens, at times rumbling low like distant thunder rolling beyond the horizon — wandering freely through the dusk between heaven and earth.
And it was in that moment of silent observation that I finally saw it clearly: resting against her shoulder was a finely crafted Scottish bagpipe, its checkered airbag rising and falling with her breath. The sight of it — against the backdrop of white walls and gray tiles in this purely Chinese countryside — formed a vision so strange and beautiful that it seemed to bridge mountains and seas, transcending both time and space.