The old woman hummed, neither pushing nor prying further. She poured herself more tea, her movements unhurried. "And where are you staying? Madam Xu's inn?"
He gave a short nod.
"Mm. She'll feed you well enough, though she's quick to scold. Don't mind her tongue." The woman smiled, her eyes crinkling. Then, as if remembering something, she leaned a little closer. "But tell me, young master, how long will you stay? A night? A season? Men who arrive with jade like yours don't usually linger in small places like this."
Her eyes flickered, briefly, toward the pale carving at his waist.
Qiyao's hand brushed the jade unconsciously, then stilled. His reply was quiet, firm: "As long as the forest allows."
The woman tilted her head at his strange words but did not pry. Instead, she asked gently, "And what may I call you?"
There was a pause, like the weight of silence had settled between them. At last, he spoke: "Shen Qiyao."
Her lips shaped the name, repeating it softly. Then her smile widened, warm as the tea in their cups. "Shen Qiyao… Strong. Dignified. A name that carries mountains in it. Very well. If ever you grow weary of Madam Xu's temper, come here. This old woman will always have tea for you."
The cicadas sang faintly beyond the walls. Somewhere in the distance, the wind slipped through bamboo — carrying with it, just for a heartbeat, a note of flute-song that made Qiyao's hand linger at his jade once more.
The old woman noticed the way his fingers brushed the carving but said nothing. Her smile was small, wise, as though she had seen men guard their burdens many times before. Instead, she poured more tea, filling his cup to the brim. The steam curled upward, softening the sharpness of the evening.
"You hold yourself like a man used to walking heavy roads," she said, her voice gentle, "but you speak like one who longs to rest. Perhaps this village is a kind of refuge for you?"
Qiyao's gaze lowered to the cup. He did not drink immediately. The silence stretched, broken only by the pop of wood settling in the brazier. At last, he purred, "Refuge is not always found where one searches for it. Sometimes… it is simply where the road ends."
The old woman tilted her head at his words, as though tucking them away. "Even so, fate has a strange way of bringing the weary to Zhuyin. My house, this shrine, even the bamboo forest itself—none of them draw the eyes of travellers. Yet here you sit."
Qiyao raised the cup, taking a slow sip. The tea was faintly bitter at first, then left a lingering sweetness, like medicine that healed after it stung. He set it down with quiet care. "Perhaps the forest called."
At that, the woman's smile faltered just a little, replaced with a shadow of thought. Her wrinkled hands smoothed the fabric of her sleeve. "Ah… the forest," she repeated. "Most here avoid it after dark. Children are warned not to wander. Mothers burn incense to keep the music away from their doors. And still… it plays."
Her eyes flicked toward the window, where moonlight traced the edges of bamboo swaying gently. "You heard it too, didn't you?"
For a long moment, Qiyao did not answer. The memory of that sound pressed against his chest, delicate yet unyielding, like the thread of destiny itself. Finally, he inclined his head once. "I heard it."
The old woman drew in a quiet breath. Her voice dropped lower, almost like a confession. "Then be wary, young master. Music is a gift, but in this village, it is also a chain. Too many have tried to follow it, thinking it only a song. None returned the same. Some returned broken. Some… never returned at all."
Her words carried no malice, only sorrow worn smooth with years. She lifted her cup, sipping slowly, as though washing down memories.
Qiyao's face remained unreadable. He leaned back slightly, shadows cutting sharp lines across his features in the lantern glow. "And you, madam? Have you heard it yourself?"
Her eyes met his, steady despite their age. "Yes." A pause. "Many years ago. My son…" Her voice faltered, but she steadied it again. "He was young, bold, and foolish.The sound of the flute reached him one night. He followed it, certain that no ghost or curse could influence his will. He returned by morning—but never smiled again. His eyes looked at us, but his heart… it was lost in that forest. Days later, he left, and he did not come back."
Her hands trembled as she set the cup down. "So when I tell you to be careful, young master, it is not from superstition. It is from the weight of loss."
For the first time, Qiyao's expression shifted. His brow softened, the edge of his silence easing into something almost human. He inclined his head slightly, an unspoken gesture of respect.
The old woman gave him a thin smile, as if grateful for the acknowledgment. Then, as though to chase away heaviness, she changed her tone. "But enough of curses and sorrow. You have not told me how long you mean to stay in Zhuyin."
Qiyao's gaze lingered on the tea before him. His fingers brushed the rim of the cup. "That depends," he said.
"On what?"
His eyes lifted at last, dark and unyielding. "On whether the forest lets me go."
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