The bamboo grove parted gently as they approached, leaves whispering overhead like old secrets.
The old shrine came into view beneath the silver moonlight — weathered wooden beams, faded red walls, and the quiet pond beside it reflecting the moon like a polished mirror.
Shen Qiyao stopped at the stone steps leading up to the main hall. He turned slightly, his long black hair catching the moonlight.
"We are here," he said simply.
He Qing's eyes widened with open wonder as he looked around. The lively spark in his gaze softened into something almost reverent for a brief moment before his usual bright smile returned.
"Wow… so this is the famous haunted shrine," he murmured, voice full of genuine awe. "It's much more peaceful than the villagers made it sound. Kind of… beautiful, actually."
Qiyao offered no reply. He climbed the few steps and pushed open the main door with a soft creak. Warm lantern light spilled out as he lit two oil lamps inside, bathing the simple interior in a gentle glow.
He Qing followed him in, looking around with unrestrained curiosity. His footsteps were light on the wooden floor.
"So this is where you live… It's so clean and tidy. You really do everything yourself?" He tilted his head, the small mole beneath his lip visible again as he smiled. "Where should I put my things? Oh—wait, I don't actually have any things."
Qiyao glanced at him briefly, then walked to a corner and brought out a spare woven mat he had bought recently but never used.
"You may sleep here tonight," he said, laying the mat near the side wall, a respectful distance from his own. "There is water in the basin outside if you wish to wash. I will prepare something simple to eat."
He Qing watched him move with quiet fascination, then suddenly stepped closer.
"You're really letting me stay? Just like that? After I annoyed you the whole way here?" His voice carried a mix of surprise and warmth. "Most people would've left me at the village gate."
Qiyao paused while lighting the small stove in the corner. His voice remained soft and even.
"One night. That is all."
He Qing grinned, showing the delicate points of his canines. "One night is more than enough. Thank you… really."
While Qiyao warmed leftover rice and vegetables, He Qing wandered around the shrine with light steps, touching nothing but looking at everything — the simple altar, the ink brushes on the low desk, the way moonlight poured through the open doorway.
"You know," he said casually, "this place feels different from what I imagined. It doesn't feel haunted at all. It feels… lived in. Warm, even."
After clearing the first set of bowls, Shen Qiyao returned to the small stove. He prepared three portions this time — simple warm rice, pickled vegetables, and a few slices of steamed sweet potato. He set two bowls on the low table where He Qing was sitting, and carried the third bowl with quiet reverence toward the altar.
He Qing, already chewing a mouthful of rice, paused with his chopsticks halfway to his mouth. His eyes followed the third bowl with open curiosity.
"Three bowls?" he asked, voice slightly muffled. "Why three? Are you expecting another guest tonight?"
Qiyao did not answer immediately. He placed the third bowl carefully in front of the altar, along with a fresh stick of incense. He lit it, and thin smoke rose in a straight, delicate line. For a moment he stood there, head slightly bowed, voice low and gentle.
"…You might be hungry tonight. Please eat."
He Qing blinked, then let out a soft, casual laugh, still chewing.
"Do you really think spirits eat rice and sweet potato?" he asked lightly, as if the question were perfectly ordinary. "I mean… it's a nice thought, but aren't you just feeding the air?"
Shen Qiyao turned back toward the table. His expression remained calm, but his dark eyes held a quiet warmth that hadn't been there before.
"Whether he eats or not," he said softly, almost to himself, "it is important that he knows someone is still thinking of him."
He Qing's playful expression faltered for half a breath. Then that familiar small, secretive smile returned to his lips, the mole beneath his lower lip becoming visible again.
They sat down to eat. After a few moments of quiet chewing, He Qing suddenly spoke again.
"By the way, thank you for letting me stay tonight, Shen Qiyao."
Qiyao's chopsticks paused mid-air. He lifted his gaze slowly, studying the young man across from him.
"…How do you know my full name?" he asked, voice calm but unmistakably sharp. "I never told you."
He Qing swallowed his rice and smiled again — easy, bright, and completely natural, the pointed tips of his canines flashing for a moment.
"Ah, that?" He scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. "When those two drunkards were shouting earlier in the wine shop, one of them yelled 'Mind your own business, Shen Qiyao!' or something like that. I just remembered it. You're kind of famous around here, you know? The mysterious scholar who lives with ghosts."
He Qing gave a small, innocent shrug, his lively eyes sparkling with harmless mischief.
"Was I not supposed to call you by your full name? I can just call you 'scholar' if you prefer."
Shen Qiyao watched him for another long second, then lowered his chopsticks and continued eating without further comment. But something in his expression had shifted — a faint trace of wariness mixed with reluctant acceptance.
Outside, the bamboo grove remained perfectly still. No flute melody drifted through the night air.
Only the soft crackle of the oil lamp and the occasional light chatter from He Qing filled the old shrine.
After they finished eating, Shen Qiyao rose quietly and began clearing the bowls. He carried them outside to the small washing area beside the veranda, pouring water from a wooden bucket into a basin.
He Qing followed him lazily and settled himself on the edge of the veranda, legs swinging freely. The moonlight painted his face in soft silver.
"You really do everything yourself, huh… Mr. Taller Shen," he said with a playful grin, the mole beneath his lip flashing.
Qiyao paused mid-wash, hands still in the water.
"…What did you call me?"
"Mr. Taller Shen," He Qing repeated cheerfully, completely unbothered. "You're quite tall, you know. And your name is Shen Qiyao. It fits perfectly. Unless you prefer 'Handsome Shrine Master'? That also sounds good."
Qiyao exhaled softly, almost inaudible, and continued washing the dishes without answering.
He Qing, however, showed no intention of staying quiet. He leaned back on his hands, gazing at the moonlit bamboo grove as he chattered away.
"You know, this place is actually really nice at night. The air smells so fresh. Do you ever get scared living here alone? What do you do when it rains really hard? Does the roof leak? Oh — do you have any books? I saw some on your desk earlier. Are they poetry or stories? I like stories with fighting and romance. Do you like romance stories, Mr. Taller Shen?"
Qiyao answered only occasionally, his voice calm and low as he scrubbed the bowls.
"I am used to the rain. The roof does not leak. Some of them are poetry."
He Qing laughed lightly, kicking his legs again.
"You're so stingy with words! It's like pulling teeth. But that's fine, I have enough words for both of us. Actually, I think I could talk all night and you'd still only say ten sentences."
When the last bowl was clean, Qiyao dried his hands on a cloth and turned toward the younger man.
"If you wish to bathe, you should go first," he said evenly. "The water is still warm from earlier."
He Qing's grin faltered a little. He scratched his cheek, suddenly looking sheepish.
"Yeah… I'd love to. But I don't have any spare clothes with me. And I smell like cheap wine and the floor of that shop. It's embarrassing."
Qiyao regarded him for a moment, then walked inside without a word. He returned shortly with a simple, clean grey robe — one of his own older ones — and held it out.
"Use this for tonight," he said quietly. "It may be a little long on you, but it is clean."
He Qing accepted the robe with both hands, his usual playful expression softening into something more genuine. The pointed tips of his canines showed as he smiled.
"…Thank you. Really. You're kinder than you look, Mr. Taller Shen."
He stood up, clutching the robe, and gave a small bow before heading toward the bathing shelter near the pond. His footsteps faded into the night.
Shen Qiyao remained outside.
He sat down on the veranda where He Qing had been sitting moments ago, his long black hair falling over one shoulder. The night was quiet. Too quiet.
No flute notes drifted from the bamboo. No familiar warmth lingered in the air. Only the soft lapping of pond water and the distant rustle of leaves could be heard.
Qiyao gazed into the dark grove, his expression calm but distant. A faint crease had formed between his brows.
Then, from the direction of the bathing shelter, he heard He Qing humming — a soft, unfamiliar melody that somehow felt strangely familiar.
Qiyao's fingers tightened slightly on the edge of the veranda.