After Granny Xuemei's visit, the shrine no longer felt like a place cut away from the world. Her laughter still lingered faintly in the beams, her words in the air. Qiyao kept the jar of wine on the low table, unopened, but its presence reminded him: someone had stepped into his silence and left warmth behind.
The next days settled into a rhythm both steady and quiet. In the mornings, he swept the courtyard, the broom scratching against stone as bamboo shadows danced across the ground. The seedlings pushed higher each day, their green brighter, leaves trembling whenever the wind slipped through the grove.
One morning as he knelt among them, trimming away weeds, a child's voice piped from the road.
"Grandma says ghosts still live there. But if there are ghosts, how come beans grow?"
Qiyao glanced up. Two children stood at the bamboo edge, one clutching a basket. Their eyes were wide but curious, not fearful.
He wiped soil from his hands. "Ghosts do not plant beans," he said quietly.
The younger one blinked, then whispered to the older, "See? I told you!" They darted off, laughter scattering down the path.
By afternoon, Qiyao walked to the market for oil and a small bundle of flour. The market still buzzed with voices, but the stares seemed less sharp now, more shaded with curiosity than suspicion.
At the flour stall, the woman wrapped his purchase, eyeing him sideways. "You're really making that place your own, aren't you?"
Qiyao tucked the bundle beneath his arm. "It gives me shelter."
Her hands paused on the cloth for a moment. Then she nodded, almost grudgingly. "Well, better to see it cared for than falling apart."
That night, Qiyao made flapcake's on the brazier, the scent of toasted flour filling the shrine. He ate slowly, dipping each piece in broth. Outside, the seedlings swayed in the night breeze. He placed one flatcake in a bowl by the incense burner, lighting a stick. The smoke rose, curling pale and steady. The bowl remained untouched by dawn, but still he placed another each evening, steady in his gesture.
On the fifth day after Granny's visit, the rain came again. Heavy and silver, it beat on the roof in a steady rhythm. Qiyao patched leaks quickly with new straw mats, then sat by the brazier to warm his hands. He boiled mushroom broth, the steam fogging the air, and listened to the storm.
A knock startled him. Few ever came to the shrine. He opened the door to find the farmer who had sold him seedlings, shoulders dripping rain. The man held out a small bundle of fresh greens.
"Had extras," he said gruffly. "Figured you'd make better use of them than letting them rot."
Qiyao accepted them with both hands .[ xièxiè ]"Thank you."
The farmer shifted, uncomfortable under his steady gaze. "Hmph. Don't thank me too much. If your plants take root, maybe the soil there isn't as cursed as folks think." With that, he stomped back into the rain.
Inside, Qiyao laid the greens gently on the table. He cooked them into his meal that night, setting aside a bowlful as offering. Again, nothing was touched by morning, but he felt no disappointment. Each gesture was part of the rhythm now, no less meaningful for its silence.
Days passed like this. Repairing loose stones, mending broken beams, tending to the sprouts. He walked to the stream for water, the weight of the jar grounding his steps. In the evenings, he sat with a brush, sketching the bamboo in rough strokes, ink bleeding soft across the page. Sometimes the drawings became faces — not clear, only shadows — but he did not tear them away.
The whispers in the village softened. He heard less of "curse" and more of "stranger who tends the shrine." Some still eyed him warily, but the sharp edge of suspicion had dulled.
On the ninth day, an old man selling chestnuts called out as Qiyao passed. "You, boy! Try one. First roasted batch of the season." He pressed the warm nut into Qiyao's hand before he could refuse.
The chestnut's shell cracked beneath his fingers, steam curling into the cool air. Qiyao tasted it, sweet and earthy. The old man grinned. "See? Even the cursed shrine-dweller can enjoy a chestnut."
A faint sound escaped Qiyao's throat — not quite laughter, but close enough. He bought a small bag, carried them back, and ate them slowly on the veranda as night fell. A few he placed in the offering bowl, lit incense, and watched the smoke rise.
By the 20th day, the shrine no longer felt only like shelter. It felt like a place breathing again — beams patched, earth tended, air warmed by incense and meals. Still, the silence after each offering pressed on him, heavy but not hopeless.
That night, he sat with his back to the wall, watching smoke trail upward in the lamplight. His gaze lingered on the bowl.What is it that you will accept?
The flute did not come. Yet in the quiet, the shrine felt less like emptiness — and more like waiting.
The days folded into one another, marked by small gestures — sweeping, planting, mending, lighting incense. The shrine, once hollow, now carried the sound of footsteps and the faint fragrance of smoke. Though silence still answered each offering, it no longer felt empty.
It felt like waiting.
And sometimes, in the quiet between breaths, Shen Qiyao wondered if the grove itself was listening...