The noon sun spilled across the farmhouse, touching both of them with its warmth. Outside, the fields swayed gently in the breeze, and from far off — faint but unmistakable — came the haunting echo of a flute.
Qiyao's fingers stilled on the rim of his cup. The old woman glanced toward the hills, her brows furrowing.
"There it is again," she whispered. "That cursed sound."
But Qiyao said nothing. His gaze was fixed beyond the fields, where bamboo shadows swayed, as if waiting for him to follow.
The old woman finished her tea and sighed, her gaze drifting out to the vegetable rows swaying in the light. "It has been many years since I've had company at this table," she said softly. "When my children were young, the house was always loud with their laughter. Now…" She gave a little chuckle, though her eyes grew distant. "The only voices left are the sparrows and the cicadas."
Qiyao set his cup down gently. "Solitude," he whispered, "is heavier than silence."
The old woman looked at him for a long moment, and though he had spoken so few words since arriving, she seemed to understand them well enough. "Then you know it too."
For the briefest instant, something unspoken passed between them — a thread of shared loneliness, woven quietly across the table. Then, as if refusing to linger on sorrow, the woman smiled again. "Come. Walk with me to the field. I must gather herbs before the sun grows too strong."
They left the porch together. The path wound past neat rows of vegetables and into a patch of wild grass where tall herbs leaned, fragrant with summer. The woman bent carefully, plucking leaves into a basket. Qiyao, without needing to be asked, stepped forward to help — his hands steady, precise, moving faster than her frail fingers could manage.
"You're skilled for a man who doesn't belong to the soil," she remarked.
"I was taught," he replied.
"By your family?"
A pause. His eyes flickered briefly toward the horizon. "By those who came before me."
The woman did not press further. She only nodded and let the silence return, filled by the rustling of grass and the drone of cicadas.
By the time the basket was full, the sun had climbed high overhead. They returned to the porch, where she set the herbs in a tray to dry. Qiyao stood quietly, his gaze drawn to the distant hills where the bamboo grove trembled faintly in the heat haze.
"You're not like most men who pass through Zhuyin," the old woman said suddenly, her voice thoughtful. "Most keep their eyes on the road. You… yours are always on the forest."
Qiyao did not deny it. His fingers brushed against the jade at his waist once more. "The forest is not silent. Even when no one dares approach it."
Her hand stilled over the herbs. She lowered her voice, as though afraid the bamboo itself might hear. "That sound… the flute. We call it cursed, but it is also sorrowful. Like someone crying, though no tears fall. If you are wise, young master, keep your distance. The dead do not always rest easy."
Qiyao's gaze remained fixed on the hills. "And yet," he said quietly, "the dead may speak truths the living dare not."
The woman looked at him sharply, as though seeing more than his calm expression revealed. But before she could answer, a shadow crossed the sky — a cloud drifting before the sun. The air grew cooler, the fields dimmer.
And then it came.
Soft, faint at first, carried on the wind.
The flute.
The notes floated across the distance, weaving through the bamboo, seeping into the village like mist. It was not loud enough for most to notice, but for Qiyao it was unmistakable. Each sound curled into his chest, tugging at something buried deep.
The old woman's lips pressed thin. "There it is again," she whispered. "As if the forest itself grieves."
But Qiyao did not move, did not blink. His entire body stilled, listening. The melody shifted — fragile, wavering, yet persistent, like hands reaching through water. It was not simply music. It was a call.
The jade at his side struck faintly against his hip as the breeze stirred his robe. His hand closed over it, almost unconsciously, as if to anchor himself.
The woman placed her cane firmly against the floorboards. "Promise me you won't go near it, young master," she said, her tone suddenly stern. "The flute belongs to no living man. Nothing good comes from chasing it."
For a moment, Qiyao seemed about to speak, but instead he inclined his head, offering no words.
The melody lingered, low and sorrowful, before slowly fading back into silence. The wind moved the bamboo in the distance, and the grove stood once more as still as any ordinary forest.
But in Qiyao's chest, the echo remained.
When he finally turned to take his leave, the old woman touched his sleeve gently. "You may be a wanderer," she said, her eyes warm yet cautious, "but fate brought you to Zhuyin. Do not forget — the living have need of you here, more than the dead."
Qiyao looked down at her, his expression unreadable. After a long silence, he gave a quiet nod, then stepped off the porch. His figure moved down the path, tall and straight, until the shadows of the bamboo swallowed him once more.
And behind him, faint and unyielding, the flute's song returned — as if the forest refused to let him go....
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*"In Zhuyin Village, days pass with the rhythm of markets, gossip, and prayer. Yet when the sun dips and shadows stretch long, every heart remembers the bamboo grove. Some say the flute that drifts from its depths is nothing more than wind tangled in hollow stalks. Others whisper it is the voice of a soul unwilling to rest.
And so the living avert their eyes, pretending not to hear… but for one traveller, the sound does not fade. It follows him, weaving into his steps, echoing in his dreams.
Fate has begun its quiet work. The dead play, the living listen — and the thread between them pulls tighter with each note."*
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© 2025 Moon (Rani Mandal). All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.