The lamp burned low through the night. Qiyao had meant only to sit for a while, to let his thoughts quiet themselves before returning to the inn. Yet, somewhere between the shifting bamboo shadows and the steady glow of the flame, his body grew heavy. His head tipped against the wooden post of the veranda, his breath slowed, and without realizing it, Shen Qiyao fell asleep.
The shrine held him in silence, its broken walls keeping watch.
When dawn came, it was not the noise of roosters or village chatter that stirred him awake. It was the first touch of sunlight, spilling gently over the roof and brushing his face. The warmth startled him — golden, soft, as though the day itself had leaned close to kiss him awake.
His lashes lifted slowly. The courtyard swam into view, washed in morning light. The old stones gleamed faintly, the moss dew-touched, the beam above him glowing where the sun had struck it. And in that moment, as he blinked at the sight, his chest tightened with a strange wonder.
He had not dreamed. He was still here. The shrine had held him through the night.
Qiyao pushed himself upright, rubbing his sleeve across his eyes. His gaze swept the place again, but this time it was not with the detached calm of an outsider. His eyes lingered — on the cracked bowls, the slant of the gate, the dust-laden floorboards. Somehow, it all seemed brighter now, less abandoned.
He exhaled, a small sound escaping him. "So… it seems I've already stayed."
The words surprised him, but they felt true. His heart, which once sought to leave Zhuyin, no longer strained for elsewhere. Instead, it thudded with a quiet certainty: this was where he was meant to be.
By the time the sun rose fully, he was already making his way back toward the village market. His steps were lighter than they had been in days, almost hurried.
At the inn, he collected what belongings he had left and asked the keeper for simple supplies: mats for sleeping, cloth for cleaning, a broom, a pot, rice, oil. He purchased writing paper, candles, a small brazier for warmth. The villagers watched from doorways as he moved about, their whispers trailing after him.
"Is he… moving out?"
"Where's he taking all that?"
"You haven't heard? The stranger lives in the cursed shrine ."
"Ai, foolish man. That place will eat him alive."
Qiyao ignored them.
By late morning, he returned to the shrine, arms full, the weight of new beginnings pressing down on his shoulders but never bending his back. He pushed open the crooked gate and stepped inside.
The air was musty, thick with years of neglect. Dust stirred as he set down his bundles. But instead of heaviness, he felt resolve.
He began at once.
Sweeping the floor with steady strokes, the dust lifted and swirled, caught in the sunlight before vanishing. He shook old cloths over the courtyard, watching fragments of decay scatter like ash. Broken objects, he gathered and set neatly aside; fallen stones, he propped back into place where he could. Each small act was both care for the shrine and care for himself — a silent agreement between them.
When the floor was cleared, he laid a mat in one corner, smoothing it carefully. He set a low table nearby, placing his ink brush across it, then arranging the jade pendant and pressed petals beside sheets of blank paper. It became, in an instant, more than furniture — it was an altar of his own making, part work, part memory, part promise.
At the back, he hung a thin cloth to mark a sleeping space. He boiled water in the pot, letting the steam curl upward through the beams, chasing away the dampness. Soon, the smell of rice rose from the brazier, weaving warmth into the cracks of the old walls.
The shrine had been lifeless. Now, with each movement, it breathed again.
He sat cross-legged on the veranda to eat his meal, the bowl warm in his hands. From beyond the grove, the wind stirred the bamboo, the sound bending like faint music.
For the first time in years, Shen Qiyao felt something close to belonging.
To be continued...