Morning came to Zhuyin Village with the scent of boiling rice porridge, the creak of shutters, and the thud of buckets being lowered into the well. Yet beneath the everyday sounds, something lingered — an echo so faint only a few dared to name it.
"The flute again," someone whispered as she spread taro on a mat to dry.
"Superstition," another dismissed quickly, though her hands trembled as she tied the bundle of herbs.
A group of boys argued nearby — one swore he had heard crying in the bamboo, another claimed it was laughter. Their quarrel ended only when a woman snapped, "Enough! Do you want its attention?" and sent them scattering.
Qiyao passed through their noise like a shadow. He did not hurry, yet his steps carried a stillness that made people part without asking. Their glances followed him — some curious, some cautious, others unwilling to meet his eyes at all. At his side, the pale jade swung with each step, catching threads of light.
But Qiyao's gaze remained distant. He walked among steaming baskets of buns and crates of fresh greens, yet the chatter of bargaining, the clatter of coins, did not touch him. His mind was still tethered to the grove, where the night had not ended, where the flute's cry still pressed against his chest like a bruise.
Near the well, a splash startled him from thought. A young boy had overfilled his bucket, and the heavy water tilted, threatening to crash. Before the child could stumble, a steady hand caught the rope. The boy looked up, wide-eyed, into Qiyao's calm, unreadable face.
"…Thank you, elder brother," the boy stammered.
Qiyao released the rope with a small nod. His silence was not unfriendly, only deliberate, as though words were too costly to waste. The boy bowed clumsily and ran off, shouting for his mother. Around them, villagers who had witnessed the moment exchanged whispers, surprise softening the usual suspicion in their eyes.
From the edge of the path, the old woman with the herb basket raised her voice. "So the wanderer lends his strength after all," she said, her tone carrying both warmth and sly humor. "Perhaps Zhuyin will not find you so strange, if you keep showing your hands are not only for carrying burdens of your own."
Qiyao looked her way briefly but did not respond. Still, a faint lift of her brows suggested she counted his silence as answer enough.
Then, as if to remind them all, a breeze slipped through the street. Bamboo rustled in the distance though no storm stirred the air.
And there it was.
A single note, fragile yet piercing — the flute.
The sound wove itself through the market like a thread of ice, brushing past shoulders, curling around ears, before vanishing into the sunlit day.
A fishmonger dropped his scale weights. An old man muttered prayers beneath his breath. Mothers pulled children closer.
But Qiyao stood utterly still, his head lifting just slightly. To others it was noise, superstition, a thing to be feared. But to him it was different — the note did not vanish. It lingered, curling into the hollow places within him, sharp as memory, soft as breath.
His fingers touched the jade at his side, almost unconsciously. The cold stone grounded him, yet his chest tightened as though it recognized the call.
The old woman's eyes followed him, sharp despite her age. "Even in daylight," she said lowly, "the dead remember their own."
But Qiyao did not answer. His gaze was fixed on the line of bamboo beyond the rooftops. Sunlight gilded the stalks, ordinary to every other eye. Yet in their sway he felt something more deliberate, as if a presence watched him from between the shadows.
The market resumed quickly, voices louder than before, desperate to cover what none would admit to hearing. Children laughed too forcefully, vendors shouted their prices, men clapped hands in false cheer. But beneath it, the hush remained.
And as Qiyao walked on, the faintest hum brushed the edge of his hearing. Not the market. Not the wind.
The flute again. Low, patient, insistent.
It followed him like a shadow no sunlight could erase.
The chatter swelled again, as though nothing had happened.
At a basket stall, two young wives haggled over bundles of garlic shoots, though their voices betrayed their unease.
"Did you hear that? Clear as day! My grandmother always said spirits hate the sun, yet the flute plays anyway."
"Shh, don't talk like that. You'll call it closer. Besides, maybe it was just one of the boys fooling around."
"What boy plays a flute that sounds like crying? Tell me that."
Their laughter was nervous, cracking like thin ice.
Across the square, Old Chen slammed his cane down to get attention. "I told you all! The ghost doesn't sleep. Even daylight won't keep it quiet. Mark my words—sooner or later, something worse will come out of that grove."
Someone shot back with a sneer, "Chen,the only ghost here is your wife's shadow chasing you around!" A ripple of laughter followed, but more than one pair of eyes slid toward the bamboo ridge with unease.
Vendors raised their voices, almost as though noise could drown the silence that pressed at the edges of their hearts.
"Fresh fish! Just caught this morning!"
"Rice cakes, warm and soft! Two coins for three!"
Children darted between stalls, their shouts forced, a little too loud, as if they could laugh away fear.
And yet, whenever Qiyao passed, voices faltered.
© 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.