West of Suzhou, where the Grand Canal flowed broad and deep, stood Fengqiao – Maple Bridge. It wasn't grand in scale, a simple arched structure of weathered stone, but it possessed an atmosphere, a weight of history and poetry that clung to it like the persistent river mist. Generations of travellers had crossed it, merchants poled their barges beneath it, and poets had sighed over its melancholic beauty, most famously Zhang Ji, whose lines about the temple bell of nearby Hanshan reaching his boat at midnight had immortalized the place in the empire's collective memory. By day, it was picturesque; by night, under the moon or shrouded in fog, it held a profound, almost watchful stillness.

  Recently, however, that stillness had become disturbed. Not by bandits or river pirates, but by something far more insidious. Tales began to circulate among boatmen and late-night travellers – whispers of phantom sounds drifting across the water near the bridge after dusk. Some spoke of exquisite, heart-wrenching music, the clear notes of a pipa lute or the mournful sigh of a xiao flute, seeming to emanate from the air itself. Others heard voices, soft and sorrowful, sometimes calling familiar names, sometimes weeping softly just beyond the range of sight.

  These weren't mere curiosities. The sounds carried an unnerving emotional weight. Boatmen grew reluctant to pole near Fengqiao after sunset, claiming the music filled them with an unbearable melancholy that lasted for days. Travellers crossing the bridge reported being overcome by sudden waves of grief or inexplicable longing, feeling an almost physical pull towards the dark, swirling water below. A few were said to have wandered off the path in a daze, found hours later shivering and disoriented miles away, with no memory of how they got there. The area around Maple Bridge, once celebrated for its poetic tranquility, began to acquire a reputation for sorrowful enchantment, a place best avoided when shadows lengthened.

  Xuanzhen heard these rumours upon arriving in Suzhou, intending a brief respite and perhaps a visit to the famed gardens. He was lodging temporarily near Hanshan Temple, whose resonant bell still marked the watches of the night, just as it had in Zhang Ji's time. The tales of the phantom music intrigued him – such phenomena often stemmed from deep emotional imprints or lingering spiritual disturbances. His quiet inquiries led him to a young scholar named Wen Zhihao.

  Wen was pale and visibly shaken, his scholarly composure frayed. He had been travelling back to his family home late one evening, crossing Fengqiao under a sliver moon. "Master Taoist," he began, his voice trembling slightly, "I am not prone to flights of fancy. I pride myself on logic. But what I heard... what I felt..."

  He described the music first – a pipa melody of such aching beauty and sadness that tears sprang to his eyes involuntarily. Then came the voice, whispering his childhood name, sounding exactly like his mother, who had passed away two years prior. "She called to me, Master Xuanzhen," Wen choked out, shame warring with terror. "She sounded so lost, so sad... She asked me to come to her, just across the water. I... I started walking towards the edge of the bridge. The water looked so calm. If my foot hadn't slipped on a loose stone, jarring me back... I don't know what would have happened."

  Wen’s terror was genuine, his experience chillingly specific. Xuanzhen listened patiently, his gaze steady. This was more than just rumour; it bore the hallmarks of a powerful psychic phenomenon, one capable of interacting directly with a listener's personal grief.

  "The music, the voices," Xuanzhen mused. "They prey on sorrow, on memory. This bridge holds more than just stone and history; it holds echoes of intense emotion."

  He decided to investigate Fengqiao himself. Waiting until dusk, when the last of the day's traffic had subsided and the first tendrils of mist began to curl up from the canal, Xuanzhen approached the bridge. The air grew noticeably cooler, heavy with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. The usual sounds of the night – insect calls, the distant temple bell – seemed muted, replaced by an expectant silence.

  He stood near the centre of the arch, extending his senses. At first, there was nothing but the gentle lap of water against the stone foundations. Then, faintly, it began. The delicate, crystalline notes of a pipa, weaving a melody of profound loss. It wasn't merely sad; it felt like distilled grief given sonic form, resonating deep within his own spirit, stirring dormant sorrows. The music seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, wrapping around him like the mist.

  He felt the pull Wen had described – a subtle psychic pressure urging him towards the water, whispering wordlessly of release, of peace found in the depths. Simultaneously, he detected the underlying energy signature: not a cohesive entity like a vengeful ghost or a nature spirit, but a swirling vortex of residual emotion, primarily sorrow, regret, and perhaps betrayal, anchored strongly to the bridge and the surrounding water. It felt old, worn thin by time, yet still potent, endlessly replaying a loop of heartbreak.

  Resisting the emotional undertow through focused breathing and maintaining his spiritual equilibrium, Xuanzhen remained on the bridge as the moon climbed higher. The music swelled and faded, sometimes joined by the phantom sigh of a flute. He heard faint whispers on the edge of hearing, fragments of conversation, choked sobs, but no distinct voices called to him personally. Perhaps, he surmised, the phenomenon resonated most strongly with those carrying fresh or unresolved grief, like young Wen.

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  Satisfied with his initial observations, Xuanzhen retreated. The source, he felt certain, lay not in a malicious entity, but in a powerful, lingering echo of a past tragedy. The next day, he visited the archives at Hanshan Temple and spoke with the elderly abbot, a man whose memory stretched back decades.

  "Ah, the music of Fengqiao," the abbot sighed, stroking his long white beard when Xuanzhen inquired. "A sad tale, Master Taoist, mostly forgotten now. It happened long before my time as abbot, perhaps sixty or seventy years ago. They say there were two musicians, unparalleled in their skill, who often played near the bridge in the evenings. One played the pipa, a woman named Liling, famed for her expressive touch. The other played the xiao, a scholar-musician named Fang Jin, whose melodies could charm the birds from the trees."

  The abbot's voice grew softer. "They were lovers, it was said. Deeply devoted. Their music together was legendary. But their story ended in tragedy. There are different versions... some say Liling fell ill and died suddenly, leaving Fang Jin heartbroken. Others whisper of betrayal, of Fang Jin being forced into an arranged marriage, abandoning Liling. The most common tale, though, is that Liling drowned, falling from a boat near the bridge during a sudden storm. They say Fang Jin found her body and, consumed by grief, played one final, heart-shattering lament on his flute there by the water's edge before vanishing forever. Some say he followed her into the river."

  Xuanzhen nodded. It fit. A story of profound love, artistic brilliance, and devastating loss, centered precisely on Fengqiao. The phantom music wasn't just a haunting; it was the spectral residue of Liling's pipa and Fang Jin's final lament, imprinted onto the location by the sheer intensity of their emotions, forever echoing their tragedy. The voices were likely fragments of their connection, amplified and distorted by the passage of time and the sorrowful energies of the place, sometimes latching onto the grief of susceptible listeners.

  Understanding the source dictated the solution. This wasn't an entity to be exorcised or fought. It was a wound in the fabric of place and memory that needed cleansing, a sorrow that needed acknowledgement and release.

  That night, Xuanzhen returned to Fengqiao. He didn't bring weapons or aggressive talismans. Instead, he carried a small, portable guqin (a seven-stringed zither known for its meditative qualities), incense blended with sandalwood and herbs known for calming restless spirits, and a small bowl of purified water. Scholar Wen, anxious but determined, watched from a safe distance on the bank, near the sheltering walls of Hanshan Temple.

  Xuanzhen chose a spot near the bridge's arch where the emotional energy felt strongest. He lit the incense, its fragrant smoke curling into the mist. He placed the bowl of water before him, its surface reflecting the hazy moonlight. Then, he sat calmly and began to play the guqin.

  He didn't play loudly or dramatically. His melody was simple, clear, and resonant, based on ancient Taoist tunes designed to harmonize qi and bring peace to troubled environments. It was a sound of calm acceptance, of gentle release, a counterpoint to the phantom music that inevitably began to swirl around him as he played.

  The ghostly pipa and xiao notes seemed to intensify, their sorrow becoming almost palpable, washing over Xuanzhen in waves. He felt the weight of Liling's tragic end, Fang Jin's shattering grief. Faint whispers brushed against his consciousness, pleading, accusing, lamenting. The pull towards the dark water strengthened.

  Xuanzhen remained centered, his fingers moving steadily over the guqin strings, his own qi flowing into the calming melody, projecting peace and understanding into the vortex of sorrow. He wasn't trying to silence the phantom music, but to harmonize with it, acknowledge its pain, and gently guide the trapped energy towards resolution.

  He visualized Liling and Fang Jin, not as tormented spirits, but as gifted artists whose love and music deserved remembrance, not endless repetition of pain. He focused his intent on offering release, on acknowledging their story, on finally letting their lament end.

  For a long time, the two soundscapes – the phantom grief and the Taoist's calm – intertwined, creating a strange, ethereal counterpoint over the dark canal. Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, the phantom music began to change. The sharp edges of its sorrow softened. The desperate yearning lessened. It felt less like an active presence and more like a fading memory. The whispers dissolved. The psychic pull towards the water vanished.

  Finally, with a sound like a single, drawn-out sigh on the xiao, the phantom music faded completely into silence. Only the clear notes of Xuanzhen's guqin and the distant, resonant chime of the Hanshan Temple bell remained.

  The air around Fengqiao felt light, clean. The oppressive weight of sorrow lifted, replaced by the natural tranquility of the night. Xuanzhen finished his melody, letting the final note hang in the now-peaceful air before gently silencing the strings.

  Scholar Wen approached, his face filled with awe and relief. "It's gone," he whispered. "The feeling... the music... it's gone."

  "The echo has faded," Xuanzhen confirmed. "Their story was heard, their sorrow acknowledged. Peace has returned to the bridge."

  He packed his guqin. As he walked back towards the temple, the moon broke through the clouds, casting the ancient stones of Fengqiao in silver light. It stood silent once more, a place of poetry and passage, its tragic melody finally laid to rest. The incident was a quiet reminder of the enduring power of human emotion, particularly love and grief tied to artistic expression, capable of imprinting itself onto the world long after the players themselves were gone, forever echoing until met with understanding and release.