The words made the room fall still. The old woman studied him, as though she wished to unravel the meaning but knew better than to ask. Instead, she rose slowly, joints cracking faintly, and reached for a small bundle on the shelf. From it, she pulled a handful of dried herbs, their scent sharp and earthy, and tucked them into a pouch.
"Take these," she said, setting the pouch beside his hand. "Steep them in hot water before sleep. They ease the heart and calm restless dreams. Whether you believe in curses or not, every traveller needs rest."
Qiyao looked at the pouch, then at her. His lips parted as though to refuse, but in the end, he accepted it with a quiet nod. "Thank you."
She waved a hand dismissively, though her eyes softened. "No need. In this village, we take care of those who wander to us. Besides—" she gave him a teasing smile "—it has been long since this old house welcomed a guest worth pouring tea for."
A faint crease touched Qiyao's lips, almost like the ghost of a smile, though it vanished as quickly as it came. He rose, bowing his head slightly. "I'll remember your kindness."
The woman walked him to the door, lantern light spilling into the night. The air outside was cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant bamboo. She watched him step onto the path, his tall figure cutting a solemn silhouette against the moonlit road.
"Shen Qiyao," she called softly before he disappeared from sight.
He paused, glancing back.
Her voice was gentle, almost motherly. "No matter what burdens you carry, remember this—Zhuyin may be small, but it has room for weary hearts. You don't always have to walk alone."
Qiyao's eyes lingered on her, unreadable in the shadows. Then he inclined his head once more and turned away, his footsteps fading into the hush of the village night.
Behind him, the bamboo forest whispered again. And if one listened closely, very closely, the faintest echo of a flute carried on the wind.
The night folded itself into silence once more. The flute's echo faded into nothing but memory, and the forest stood still under the weight of moonlight. Qiyao walked back through the narrow lanes until the inn came into view, its lanterns dimmed for the night. Sleep claimed him slowly, though never fully — each dream seemed to tremble with silver notes he could not escape.
By the time dawn arrived, he was already awake.
The sky blushed faintly at the horizon, soft streaks of rose and gold slipping over the tiled rooftops of Zhuyin Village. The mist clung low to the ground, curling around the bamboo fences and stone wells as though reluctant to leave. Roosters crowed, their calls echoing across the hills, while the faint crackle of wood fires stirred the morning air with smoke and warmth.
Qiyao stepped out of the inn just as the first wave of villagers began their day. He carried himself with quiet poise, his long sleeves falling neatly, the jade at his waist glinting once when the sun touched it. For a brief moment, the chatter of the street faltered as eyes turned to him.
Some looked away quickly, whispering into their sleeves. Others lingered, curiosity plain on their faces. The whispers rose again, half-hidden beneath the bustle:
"That's him, the stranger from last night…"
"So tall, like he's not made for these narrow streets."
"…did you see the jade?"
"Hush, hush—don't let him hear!"
Qiyao's expression remained unreadable. He did not quicken his step, nor lower his gaze. Instead, he moved as though the whispering of villagers was nothing more than wind against bamboo — present, but unimportant.
The market stalls were beginning to fill the square. Women laid out baskets of bright vegetables: glossy eggplants, green beans still wet with dew, bundles of scallions tied with twine. Steam rose from a stall where rice cakes were being pressed, their sweet scent curling into the air. Children darted through the crowd, their laughter sharp as sparrows.
Qiyao stopped by a stall selling steamed buns. The vendor, a short man with a round face and sleeves rolled to his elbows, blinked up at him nervously.
"Would the young master like… pork filling? Or sweet red bean?"
"Pork," Qiyao said, his voice calm, clipped.
The man wrapped the bun quickly in a strip of paper, his eyes darting once to the jade before he handed it over. "That will be two coins, young master."
Qiyao placed the coins down with precise motion, neither generous nor stingy, and accepted the bun. He did not eat it immediately, only held it in his hand as his gaze drifted across the square.
By the well, a group of old men had already gathered, their beards white and voices low. One tapped his cane against the stones as he spoke:
"I tell you, that music ain't no ghost. Just the wind. Wind whistles through bamboo all the time."
"Nonsense," another snapped. "My grandson swears he saw a figure by the pond. White robes. No feet on the ground."
"Bah. Children see shadows and call them spirits."
Their debate rumbled like distant thunder, drawing curious ears, though none dared to laugh aloud.
Near them, women clustered with baskets balanced on their hips, gossip flowing faster than water from the well. Their words were softer, but not soft enough:
"They say the stranger came from the forest itself."
"No, no, he stayed at Madam Xu's inn last night. I heard it from her niece."
"Still, to walk from that direction… could it be he saw the flute-player?"
Qiyao's brows lowered slightly, though his stride did not falter as he moved past.
At the edge of the market, an old voice called out.
"Young master Shen!"
He turned. The old woman from the shrine — the one he had helped the night before — stood beneath the shade of an apricot tree, a small bundle of herbs balanced in her hands. Her figure was stooped, but her eyes gleamed with a warmth that cut through the villagers' suspicion.
"You're up early," she said, her smile kind. "Did the inn's bed treat you well enough? Some travellers say the quilts there smell too strongly of smoke."
Qiyao inclined his head faintly. "It was… sufficient."
The old women chuckled at his dry answer. "That's high praise from a man like you, I suppose."
She shifted her bundle and beckoned him closer. "Walk with me, if you have no hurry. The shrine needs its morning incense, and these old hands are not so steady anymore."
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