Dawn crept slowly over the grove. A pale light filtered through the cracks in the shrine's wooden walls, laying soft stripes across the floor. The faint smoke from last night's fire had cooled to nothing, leaving only the smell of ash and damp wood.
Shen Qiyao stirred on his mat. The cloth had bunched beneath him during the night, but he did not mind. He lay still for a moment, listening. The first sound was the bamboo. The stalks swayed against each other with a hollow knock, a low whisper that rose and fell. Somewhere beyond, a bird gave a short, sharp call. Another answered.
He opened his eyes. For a heartbeat, he did not know if he was awake or still inside a dream. He thought he heard the tail end of a note, thin as a thread, fading with the light. He sat up, waiting for it to return. But the shrine only held silence, and the sound of his own breath.
He did not chase it. Instead, he rose. His movements were slow, but each one sure. He folded the mat neatly, set it against the wall, and stepped out onto the veranda.
The morning air was cool. Mist drifted low across the ground, curling between the bamboo stalks. The dew on the leaves caught the light and made it glimmer as if tiny shards of glass had been scattered over the grove. Qiyao drew in a breath and let it out again, steady.
The shrine looked different in daylight. Where last night it had seemed heavy and shadowed, now it looked open, touched with pale gold. Dust no longer clung so thick to the corners. The mat, the table, the pendant resting on it — all of it looked as though it belonged here, as though it had been waiting for him.
He stepped down from the veranda and crossed the small courtyard. Fallen leaves had gathered in uneven piles, pressed flat by rain long past. He bent and began to gather them into his hands. His palms brushed damp earth. The smell of it rose, rich and grounding. He carried the leaves to the edge of the courtyard and let them fall.
When he straightened, a movement caught his eye. Between the bamboo stalks stood two children, half-hidden, watching him. Their clothes were rough and patched, their eyes wide. One whispered to the other, but the wind carried the sound away before it reached him. When Qiyao looked fully at them, they gasped and darted back into the grove. Only the shifting of leaves marked their passing.
He did not follow. He simply stood there for a while, letting the silence return. Then he went back inside.
In the shrine, he set water to boil again. The pot whistled softly, steam rising in white coils. He rinsed a bowl with the hot water, watching it swirl and cloud before pouring it out. He measured rice with care, each grain sliding like sand between his fingers.
While it cooked, he pulled out his brush and set it to paper. At first, he drew the lines of bamboo, quick and steady — the same shapes that surrounded him on every side. He let the ink run long and dark, then lightened his hand until the strokes looked like shadows in mist.
When he paused to breathe, he noticed it. His brush had strayed. The lines no longer formed stalks and leaves. Instead, there was the curve of a sleeve, the faint outline of a hand holding a flute. He set the brush down slowly. His gaze lingered on the shape, then slid away. Without a word, he folded the page and placed it beneath the others.
The rice was ready. He ate simply, sitting cross-legged at the low table. The jade pendant lay beside him, cool and silent. He touched it once, lightly, before finishing his meal.
By the time the sun reached higher, the mist had lifted. The shrine stood clean and quiet. Birds wheeled above the grove, their wings catching the light. Qiyao sat in the doorway, bowl empty in his hands, and let the day pass gently over him.
There was no music yet. But he felt no rush. The shrine had claimed him. The flute, if it wished, would come in its own time.