Women clutching herbs paused mid-sentence. Men trading gossip about the harvest fell abruptly silent, pretending to adjust baskets or count coins. Even the children slowed, peeking up at him with wide eyes before scampering off as though chased.
"He doesn't even blink," someone whispered.
"I heard he came from the capital."
"No—my cousin swears he's an exile. Look at the jade at his waist! Not something common folk carry."
"What if he's here for the ghost?"
"What if he is the ghost?"
The last suggestion earned a gasp and a slap on the arm, but no one really laughed. Not fully.
Qiyao, for his part, gave no sign he heard them. His steps were measured, steady, his gaze fixed not on the stalls or faces but on the faint line of bamboo swaying beyond the rooftops. The flute's hum threaded through him—low, patient, insistent—refusing to let go.
Still, the village watched him.
At the tea-seller's stall, a group of elders leaned together, cups steaming between their weathered hands.
"Do you remember, twenty years ago?" one whispered. "When a soldier came through, carrying jade like that? He left before morning, and the next week, the storms ruined half the fields."
"Don't start with your omens," another grumbled, though his knuckles tightened around the clay cup. "Strangers bring nothing but trouble, that much is true. Mark me, this one will too."
From behind the counter, the tea-seller's daughter tilted her head, watching Qiyao's retreating back. "He doesn't look like trouble," she said softly. "He looks… lonely."
Her father hushed her sharply, but the words lingered in the air.
As the morning ripened, the square buzzed with renewed trade, yet it was as if two currents ran side by side: one of ordinary life—coin and goods, laughter and scolding—and another, darker, circling the grove and the stranger who had come among them.
Qiyao crossed the market's edge and did not look back. But behind him, whispers sewed themselves into the fabric of the village, tightening with every retelling:
The flute in the grove.
The man with jade at his waist.
And the certainty, unspoken but shared, that the two were bound.
Qiyao left the clamor of the market behind, his boots tracing the stone path that wound toward the quieter lanes. The sound of bargaining and chatter dulled, fading beneath the steady pulse of his own breath. Here, the air smelled different—less of fish and spice, more of damp earth, moss, and the faint sweetness of fallen blossoms.
Yet the flute did not fade.
It curled at the edge of his hearing; a low vibration carried on the wind. Not sharp, not urgent, but steady—like footsteps walking beside him, invisible yet close enough to stir the hairs on his skin.
He stopped beneath a persimmon tree, branches bending with early fruit. Sunlight slipped through the leaves, scattering golden coins across the path. His hand rested against the rough bark, grounding himself, but the jade at his hip felt heavier, as though it tugged toward the grove beyond the rooftops.
For a long moment, he stood silent, his gaze fixed on the bamboo ridge. Even in daylight, the stalks looked darker than the trees around them, as though shadows clung there more stubbornly than elsewhere.
The wind shifted, and the note deepened.
Not just sound—something more. A call, threaded with longing, edged with sorrow. The kind of sorrow that did not simply fade with time but pressed itself into the world until even the living could feel its weight.
Qiyao exhaled slowly, his breath almost visible in the sunlit air. So, it begins again, he thought.
Behind him, footsteps scuffed against the stone. A group of children, returning from errands, slowed when they spotted him. Their chatter shrank to whispers. One tugged the sleeve of another, eyes darting between Qiyao and the bamboo grove.
"Look, he's listening again," a boy murmured.
"Don't say that—he'll hear you."
"He doesn't talk to anyone. Maybe he talks to the ghost."
They ran off before Qiyao could move, their laughter high and thin, carrying the brittle edge of fear.
He ignored them.
His hand drifted once more to the jade. Its surface was cool, smooth under his fingertips, but there was nothing ordinary about the weight it carried. He remembered the old woman's words—the living has need of you here, more than the dead. Yet the flute's song clung to him, patient and unrelenting, as if daring him to choose otherwise.
The road curved. Beyond the last houses, the shrine roof rose against the sky, its tiles glinting faintly. Smoke from incense drifted upward, dissolving into the clear blue. He paused at the sight, a flicker of thought passing his eyes—quiet, unreadable.
Then, as if in answer, the flute changed.
The note lifted, no longer only sorrowful. It carried a question. A shape in sound, subtle, almost hesitant, yet clear enough to stir recognition deep in his chest.
Qiyao's brow furrowed slightly. For the first time, he moved toward the sound instead of standing still. His steps were unhurried, measured, as though each one weighed the boundary between the living and the dead.
Past the shrine, the path narrowed, lined with wildflowers and stones left by careless hands. The village noises had long since vanished. Only cicadas droned faintly, the drone fading whenever the flute rose, as if even the smallest creatures hushed to listen.
He stopped again, the bamboo grove now only a short distance away. The stalks swayed gently, their tops catching the sun, but the shade beneath them was cool, dense, alive.
The flute whispered once more.
Low, then higher, like a phrase—like language.
Qiyao's expression did not change, yet his stillness deepened. He closed his eyes, allowing the sound to move through him, testing its shape against memory, against silence. The jade at his side pulsed faintly, no louder than a heartbeat.
When he opened his eyes, there was no fear. Only the calm of someone who already knew he would not turn away.
And so, he stepped forward.
© 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.