..........."A soul plays where love was lost, and the forest never forgets."..............
"MC – The Ghost / Flute Soul" and "ML – The Scholar / Sword Moon",
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Character Sheet
Main Character (MC – The Ghost with the Flute)
Name: Lián Yue (莲月) → meaning "Lotus Moon"
(symbolic: lotus = purity rising from darkness, moon = eternal, haunting presence)
Appearance:
Age when he died: 20 Height: 178 cm (tall, graceful build) . Hair: Long, black with a faint blue sheen under moonlight, often loosely tied with a white Ribbon. Eyes: Pale grey, almost misty — like he's always halfway between the living and the dead. Skin: Extremely pale, almost translucent, like porcelain touched by moonlight. Clothing: A white scholar's robe, tattered at the hem as if time cannot fully erase the marks of his death . Distinctive trait: Always carries a bamboo flute with carvings of lotus petals. When he plays, a faint silver light surrounds him.
Personality:
Gentle, melancholic, yet carries an air of serenity. Speaks softly, almost like poetry, but can turn sharp when his emotions rise.
(Male Lead (ML – The Living One)
Name: Shen Qiyao (沈祁曜)
Shen (沈) → a very elegant, old surname. It means to sink, deep, profound . Qi (祁) → means solemn, grand, majestic. Suggests dignity, power, and presence. Yao (曜) → means shine, radiance, brilliance.
Appearance:
Age: 27 ( older, more mature — 7 years older than MC). Height: 188 cm (towering compared to MC's fragile presence).Build: Broad shoulders, lean strength, a body honed by discipline. Hair: Long jet-black, usually tied loosely, a few strands framing his face. Eyes: Piercing dark, like obsidian — intimidating, unreadable, but sometimes they soften when looking at MC. Skin: Pale but with a healthy vitality, unlike the ghost's fragile porcelain tone. Distinctive trait: A faint scar along his jaw/neck — not ruining but enhancing his dangerous charm. Aura: Wherever he stands, the atmosphere feels heavy — people naturally step aside.
Personality:
Calm, reserved, but carries an edge of danger — his silence is heavier than words. Protective yet possessive in his nature, but not in a cruel way — more like fate chained him. Intelligent, strategic, and mature — someone who has lived enough to understand the cruelty of the world.
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Chapter 01 – The Flute in the Bamboo Grove
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The forest was alive with whispers.
The night breeze slipped through endless stalks of bamboo, carrying their soft rustle like a song only the earth could hear. Above, the moon floated pale and full, its silver light dripping over the leaves. The pond nearby caught its glow, broken only by ripples when a fish stirred beneath the surface.
It was a quiet night—too quiet, the kind that carried secrets.
And then—
a flute began to play.
The sound rose slowly, almost hesitant, like water dripping from stone. Soon it grew clearer, weaving through the bamboo, echoing across the pond. Each note was fragile, yet it struck deep, heavy with longing too sharp for words.
In the grove, a boy stood barefoot, robe pale in the moonlight, eyes closed as if the world outside no longer mattered. Only the flute. Only the feelings he poured into it.
He did not play for an audience. He played because silence was heavier than breath.
Far away, on a dirt path cutting through the hills, a man walked alone. His figure was tall, his steps steady, his shoulders carrying the stillness of command. He had no lantern, yet his stride was sure; the night could not make him falter.
Then he heard it.
The flute.
At first, he thought it was the wind. But the sound was too sharp, too deliberate. The notes bent and curved, soft at one moment, piercing at the next, like emotions trying to find their voice.
The man slowed. His brows drew together. Something in the melody pulled at him, though he could not name what it was.
It did not feel like music. It felt like… a message.
He turned his head toward the grove, listening. The notes tangled with the wind, strange yet irresistible. They pressed against his chest, a weight he had not expected.
The man's steps carried him off the path, into the shadows of bamboo. The deeper he walked, the louder the music grew. It curled around him, wrapping his thoughts, filling the silence that had always followed him.
And then he saw him.
A lone figure in white, standing in the clearing, bathed in moonlight trembling across the pond. His lashes rested against pale cheeks; his body folded into the song he carried. Around him, the world seemed to bend, holding its breath.
Shen Qiyao stopped.
The boy kept playing.
Neither spoke. But in the silence, something unspoken passed between them—thin as thread, strong enough to tug at the heart.
The first meeting of two souls.
Not through words,
but through music.
The flute's cry rose higher, stretching thin like moonlight trembling on water, before it fell into a low, aching whisper. The grove seemed to listen. Even the wind hushed, as though afraid to disturb the fragile melody.
The tall man's hand curled at his side. He did not understand why his chest tightened, why the sound lingered in his bones as if it belonged to him. He only knew that leaving was impossible.
The boy shifted, not breaking his song. His bare feet pressed into the damp grass, robe swaying with the breath of the night. His fingers moved with practiced ease, yet the music carried a weight that practice alone could not create. It was as if every note was carved out of longing — , not for release, but for something unnamed.
The man watched, hidden in the shadows of bamboo, the moonlight sharp against his cheek.
For a moment, he wondered if the figure before him was real. The boy's pale robe, the way he seemed woven into the night itself — it was too still, too haunting. The music was not the kind played by living hands. It carried the ache of something older, something that had waited too long.
The boy drew in a slow breath, his flute lowering. The last note shivered through the grove, echoing until silence folded itself back into place.
Silence — but not emptiness.
The tall man's ears rang with what remained, the ghost of sound refusing to fade. His lips pressed into a line, but his eyes would not leave the clearing.
The boy opened his eyes.
They were dark, deep as the pond under moonlight. He did not glance toward the bamboo where the man stood; he did not search for anyone watching. Yet his gaze wandered the grove as though he felt it — a presence, unseen but nearby.
His fingers brushed the body of the flute, light, reverent. A faint curve touched his lips — not a smile, not sorrow, but something in between, too fragile to be named.
The tall man's breath caught, though he could not say why.
For the first time in years, he did not feel untouched by the world. He felt… reached.
The boy lifted the flute again, pressing it gently to his lips. The first note rose once more, soft as a sigh. Not the same melody as before, but something new — lighter, curious, like a question whispered into the night.
The man's brow wrinkled. The sound pressed against him again, wrapping itself around thoughts he had long buried. It was as if the boy played not to the grove, not to the pond, but to him.
He stepped forward without thinking.
A dry leaf cracked beneath his boot.
The sound was small, but in the hush of the grove, it was sharp as a blade.
The flute stilled.
The boy lowered it, his lashes lifting just slightly. His gaze brushed the edge of the bamboo. He did not speak, but the silence that followed was heavier than words.
The man froze.
For one heartbeat, the grove itself held still. Moonlight stretched thin across the pond. The wind forgot to move.
Then the boy turned away. His figure blurred as he stepped deeper into the grove, his pale robe vanishing between the stalks. Within breaths, he was gone, leaving only the trembling ripple of his last note in the air.
The tall man remained in the shadows, staring at the place where he had stood. His jaw tightened, but his hand would not release the strange weight clutching his chest.
The grove was silent once more. Yet to him, the silence carried a voice — faint, lingering, impossible to ignore.
The grove released him slowly.
Shen Qiyao lingered at the edge of the grove for a long moment before stepping away.
The music was gone, swallowed by the silence of the night, yet the air still trembled as though the last note had not fully faded.
He pressed forward, leaving the clearing behind. The path through the bamboo wound like a ribbon in the dark, narrow and uneven. Moonlight fell in broken shards through the covering above, painting silver stripes on the ground. Each time the wind moved, the shadows shifted, making the way ahead appear as though it were alive.
The earth was soft beneath his boots, damp with evening dew. Crickets hummed in the underbrush; an owl called from somewhere unseen. The bamboo creaked as it bent with the wind, their hollow stalks knocking faintly against one another like wooden chimes.
Qiyao's steps were steady, unhurried. But his thoughts… those strayed where they should not.
The flute had unsettled him. Not in the way of fear, but in something far heavier. Each note still pressed faintly against his chest, like the echo of a memory he could not place. There had been sorrow in that music, yes, but something else too—something that tugged like an invisible thread.
He exhaled slowly, willing the thought away. He had not come here to be distracted by strange illusions.
The path dipped lower, curving toward a narrow stone bridge that arched over a stream. The water below whispered softly, its surface broken by scattered reeds. He paused there, resting his hand lightly on the cold stone rail. The current shone faintly under the moonlight, carrying reflections of the swaying bamboo.
For a brief instant, he imagined the notes of the flute drifting above that water, as if the stream itself had learned to sing. His fingers curled tighter on the railing. Foolish. He shook the thought away and resumed walking.
Not far ahead, an abandoned shrine stood half-buried in the shadows. Its wooden frame leaned crooked, tiles fallen, offerings long since rotted away. Only a faded red ribbon remained tied around, fluttering weakly with the night breeze."
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"Thank you for walking with Shen Qiyao into the first breath of this tale. The night closes, but the story doesn't sleep.
Somewhere beyond the grove, something waits, and the flute hums the name it can't forget. For now, let the flute rest. The morning will rise soon— and , the next whisper within it will be too.
Until then, will you be a part of this melody too...." :)
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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.