"I wish to care for it. To make it mine."
The cane in Granny's hand tapped once against the floor, but her expression did not change. For a long moment, she only studied him. Then, softly, she said:
"You, who spoke of leaving Zhuyin only days ago, now speak of binding yourself here with silver. Tell me… why the change?"
Qiyao lowered his eyes. His lips pressed into a line, then parted on words he almost hadn't known were there.
"Because in that place, I can breathe. The air is honest. Even in its ruin, it gives peace. And…" He hesitated, then finished more quietly, "Perhaps Zhuyin does not want me to leave. Even if I did, I think it would draw me back again."
The old woman's smile deepened, faint and inscrutable. "Then it is settled. Keep it, tend it. No one will contest you."
Qiyao exhaled slowly. For the first time in days, something in his chest uncoiled.
But as he rose to leave, Granny's voice followed him, light but laced with mischief.
"Be careful, young master Shen . The villagers call it the grove's curse for a reason. They whisper of flutes under the moon, of white figures by the pond. If you stay too long, perhaps you will hear it too."
Her teasing smile did not reach her eyes.
Qiyao's face hardened. His hand clenched at his side. The words leapt from him before he could stop them:
"He is not a curse."
The silence after rang louder than any denial.
Granny Xuemei's chuckle was soft, almost kind. "Ah. So, the shrine has already chosen you."
After Qiyao's took his leave.
He returned once more before night.
The path to the shrine was hushed, as if even the forest held its breath for him. When he stepped through the gate, the air felt different — not heavy as before but waiting. He stood still, letting his eyes sweep across the courtyard: the broken stones, the moss-covered steps, the roofline sagging under years of neglect.
Yet tonight, none of it looked ruined.
It looked… like something that had been waiting for him all along.
Granny's words clung to him, curling through his thoughts like smoke. The shrine has already chosen you. But it wasn't her voice that lingered most — it was the one word she had spoken, half teasing, half warning: curse.
The word scraped against his chest, too sharp, too careless. He felt it again now, and the flare of heat rose just as before. He looked into the shadows pooling along the veranda and muttered, almost as if arguing with the night itself:
"He is not a curse."
The sound startled him — his own voice, steady and certain. He hadn't meant to say it, but it had forced itself free. For a long while, he only stood there, listening to the silence after, a silence that seemed to answer him.
Something in him settled then.
This wasn't ruins anymore.
It was home.
Without thinking further, he searched through his sleeve pouch until he found a small oil lamp he carried on long journeys. He placed it gently at the edge of the veranda. His fingers struck flint, coaxing a weak flame until it caught, the faint glow spilling out across the stones.
He set it upright, steady. The light wavered against the shrine's walls, kissing the old wood and chipped bowls with a fragile warmth. To anyone else, it would have looked like nothing — just a traveler's habit, lighting a lamp against the night.
But to Qiyao, it was more. It was a vow. A claiming.
He had put light into this place.
He had given it breath again.
He sat down in the courtyard, leaning back against one of the beams. The lamp burned beside him, a trembling star. Above, the moon climbed higher, its pale glow tangling with the swaying shadows of bamboo.
For the first time, his body was still. His mind, though restless with questions, felt oddly calm beneath it all, as if he no longer needed to fight the pull.
His lips curved faintly, not quite a smile, but not far from one either. And in a voice just above a whisper, he spoke into the night:
"If you want me to stay, then I'll stay."
The wind shifted through the leaves, brushing his face like a quiet answer.
The lamp burned low through the night. Qiyao had meant only to sit for a while, to let his thoughts quiet themselves before returning to the inn. Yet, somewhere between the shifting bamboo shadows and the steady glow of the flame, his body grew heavy. His head tipped against the wooden post of the veranda, his breath slowed, and without realizing it, Shen Qiyao fell asleep.
The shrine held him in silence, its broken walls keeping watch.
To be continued...