He bowed faintly, a gesture more instinct than thought. Then, without another word, he turned and walked back toward the faint lights of the village.
The moon followed him overhead. The grove still waited in silence.
Until it didn't.
The very instant his foot left the shrine's last worn step, a note rose — low, steady, as if the world itself had exhaled. It stopped Qiyao in his tracks. His breath stilled, his pulse thundered against his ribs.
The flute… again?
But this time, it wasn't drifting, faint, half-lost in the night air. It was near — heartbreakingly near. Clear enough that he could feel the vibration of each note brushing against his skin.
He turned.
Mist had risen while he wasn't looking, coiling in pale ribbons across the ground, wrapping the grove in a silver veil. The pond shone with the reflection of the moon, perfect and unbroken, until the ripples spread from something—no, someone—standing at its edge.
Qiyao's throat tightened.
Through the mist, a figure appeared. White robes swayed like water, catching and breaking the moonlight with every fold. Long sleeves, pale as new snow, brushed against the still air as slender fingers lifted a flute to silent lips.
The music poured out anyway.
Qiyao's breath shivered. His eyes burned with disbelief, and yet he could not look away.
"Is this… real?" he whispered under his breath, words meant for no one. His voice trembled, the sound swallowed by the night.
The grove itself had changed. It was no longer the same lonely, half-forgotten place he had walked through before. little bell shape Lilies had bloomed where bare earth had been, opening their white faces to the moonlight, their fragrance threading through the mist. Fireflies floated upward in glowing arcs, as if the notes themselves had given them life.
And the butterflies—Qiyao almost laughed, almost cried at the sight. Dozens of them, wings translucent and crystalline, glimmered like shards of broken stars. They rose and fell above the flowers, catching glints of silver in every beat, moving as though the flute guided them.
His chest clenched.
He's… beautiful.
The thought came uninvited, raw and startling. The figure in white did not glance up, did not break his concentration. His face was veiled in shadow, but Qiyao could see the sharp line of his jaw, the faint curve of cheek touched by moonlight. A being too unreal, too luminous to belong to the soil and stone of this world.
Qiyao's lips parted soundlessly.
"Who… are you?"
The words didn't leave his chest. He swallowed them, as if even to speak too loud might shatter the vision before him.
The music pressed closer, more insistent, yet never harsh. It didn't feel like a haunting anymore. It didn't feel like a curse. It felt… deliberate. A voice without words.
And for the first time, Qiyao was certain — the melody was not random.
There were pauses. Subtle, but there. Notes repeating as though to make sure he had heard them. Small hesitations, like the space left for an answer.
Qiyao's fingers twitched at his side, clenching as if they longed for something to hold. He wanted to answer. Gods, he wanted to.
But he stood there mute, a man at the edge of something vast, something he could not begin to name.
The pond caught the image more clearly than his own eyes could. The reflection showed everything: the fall of robes, the curve of the flute, the stillness of lips that never moved but somehow played. Qiyao's gaze locked on it, afraid to blink.
Why me?
The thought clawed through him. Why do you play to me? What do you want from me?
His chest heaved once, shallow. His throat tightened with words that refused to form.
"I don't understand…" he whispered, the words shaking, broken.
The melody did not falter, but it shifted — a higher note, then a lingering pause, as though the music itself had tilted its head toward him.
Qiyao froze. His pulse thundered.
"…Can you hear me?"
His own voice startled him. He hadn't meant to speak. Yet when the words fell into the night, the flute's sound softened — one note held longer than the rest, bending under its own weight, like acknowledgment.
Qiyao's knees nearly gave. He caught himself with a hand against the shrine's wooden frame, staring at the figure as if the world had cracked in two.
It was impossible. Foolish. And yet… it was happening.
The butterflies circled once, glinting like silver sparks. The lilies swayed without wind. And the man in white played on, never lifting his gaze, never breaking the flow.
Qiyao's throat ached. His eyes stung. His chest felt too small to contain what was happening inside it.
It's not just music,he thought, wild and certain. It's him. He's speaking to me.
And though he could not understand a single note, the intent was unmistakable.
This was not performance.
This was not haunting.
This was communication.
For the first time, Shen Qiyao saw the ghost in the grove — and for the first time, he realized the ghost was not merely showing himself.
He was reaching for him.
The air around him felt so fragile that even his own breath threatened to shatter it.
Shen Qiyao did not move. His boots pressed into the damp soil, his back stiff, his gaze pinned to the pale figure across the pond.
The flute sang.
At first, he thought it was only beauty — clear, unbroken, the kind of sound one could mistake for the forest itself. But then, beneath the flow, he caught it: a hesitation. A beat held longer than it should have been. A pause where breath should have been taken, but wasn't.
Qiyao's brow furrowed. His soldier's ears — trained to catch the difference between a signal to attack and a signal to retreat — sharpened to every rise and fall. He had lived by rhythm before: the thunder of drums, the whistle of horns, the clanging order of blades. He knew when sound carried meaning.
And this… this carried meaning.
The melody rose again, circling back to a phrase he had already heard. Not once, not twice, but three times. As if insisting. As if repeating a question to a stubborn child.
Qiyao's fingers twitched at his side, curling into his palm. His heart pounded unevenly, caught between awe and dread. The sound was not random. The sound was not for itself.
It was for him.
To be continued...