That afternoon, when the sun leaned west, Qiyao left the shrine for the market. The path was narrow and uneven, pressed hard by years of passing feet. Bamboo leaned in from both sides, their leaves whispering above his head. The air smelled of damp earth and moss, sharp and grounding. Each step sent up little clouds of dust that clung to his boots, but he walked steadily, carrying a small cloth pouch at his side. The faint clink of coins was the only sound he made.
By the time he reached the village, the market was already alive. It was not the roar of great cities, but the gentle hum of small trade. Stalls lined the square, each with its own voice — women calling out the freshness of their greens, the thud of cleavers on cutting boards, the metallic scrape of knives sharpened against stone. A brazier smoked near the center, roasting chestnuts, their sweet, nutty fragrance curling into the air. Chickens scattered across the dirt, wings beating frantically when children chased after them with sticks of straw.
Qiyao walked into this noise with quiet steps. His presence did not go unnoticed. Men looked up briefly from their scales, women lowered their voices mid-bargain, children slowed their chase. A stranger, tall and calm, buying things for the forgotten shrine — it was not an ordinary sight. Whispers followed him, light but persistent, like threads tugging at his sleeves. He did not stop for them.
At the first stall, iron tools lay spread across a faded cloth. The shopkeeper's face was browned by sun, his sleeves rolled high. He leaned on his counter as Qiyao picked up a hammer, testing its weight in his hand.
"Tools?" the man asked, squinting. "What's a wanderer doing with nails and hammers? Planning to build yourself a palace?"
"Repairs," Qiyao said simply.
The man barked a laugh. "Repairs? To what? The shrine? Even the crows left that place!"
Qiyao set down the coins without another word. His gaze was steady, unmoved. After a pause, the man scooped them up, still chuckling. "Well, good luck patching holes in a ghost's roof." He pushed the hammer and nails across. Qiyao gathered them in silence and moved on.
At the next stall, stacks of bowls leaned in towers, some chipped, some smooth. The woman behind them fanned herself lazily. She raised an eyebrow as Qiyao crouched to examine them.
"Looking for fine porcelain?" she teased. "I doubt the gods in that shrine will care how they're fed."
Qiyao tapped one bowl with his knuckle. The sound rang clean. He chose two plain ones, sturdy without ornament. "These."
The woman tilted her head, almost amused by his bluntness. "They'll hold rice. That's all bowls are meant to do." She wrapped them in cloth and took his coins, her fan stirring the warm air as she watched him leave.
Further down, incense bundles tied with red thread perfumed the row. The fragrance of sandalwood and camphor clung to the stall. The keeper leaned forward, sharp-eyed. "Prayer sticks, stranger? Or for a funeral?"
"For the shrine," Qiyao answered.
The keeper blinked, then snorted softly, as if humouring him. "Strange choice. But if it soothes your ghosts, so be it." He took the money without more words.
At the edge of the market, a farmer had laid out seedlings in shallow baskets. Radish greens, bean shoots, tiny mustard leaves. Their roots were damp, soil still clinging. Qiyao crouched and brushed a leaf with his fingertips.
"You don't look like a man who's ever bent his back over a field," the farmer said, watching him.
"They'll grow in shrine soil?" Qiyao asked.
The farmer shrugged. "Soil is soil. But they'll need care, and water. More care than most men give themselves."
Qiyao picked a few, wrapping them carefully in cloth. The farmer grunted. "Stranger planting gardens in a place of ghosts… well, better than leaving it to rot."
By the time Qiyao left the market, his arms were full. Hammer and nails, two bowls, incense, seedlings. Behind him, the hum of trade softened with distance. The road back led him once more into the bamboo's shade. Sunlight slanted gold through the leaves, painting the path in shifting patterns.
Evening touched the shrine when he arrived. The sky was turning from pale blue to orange and ash-gray, the air cooling as insects began their hidden chorus. He set the bundles carefully inside, each object finding its place against the wall — hammer and nails stacked neatly, bowls beside the mat, incense tied in its red thread, seedlings waiting in their cloth wrap.
He lit a small fire in the brazier, added rice and water to the pot. Steam curled upward, carrying warmth into the old beams. When the rice was ready, he sat on the veranda with the new bowl in his hands, eating slowly as the grove shifted around him. Bamboo swayed in the dusk wind. Fireflies winked in and out in the courtyard like faint stars.
After his meal, he rinsed the bowl clean and lit one incense stick. Smoke rose in a thin, steady line, weaving into the night. He watched it climb until it vanished into the rafters, his expression unreadable but calm.
The shrine no longer felt lifeless. With each small gesture — the tools, the bowls, the seedlings, the rising smoke — it had begun to breathe again.
And in that quiet, Qiyao allowed himself one thought: perhaps, if he waited long enough, the flute would return.