Chapter 10: The Shape of an Ordinary Day

  Shen Liang swept the courtyard.

  Not because it was dirty — it never stayed that way for long — but because the motion was familiar.

  A straight push. A slow pull. The scrape of bristle against stone.

  When he was younger, he used to count how many strokes it took to clear a square meter. Today he didn’t count.

  Today, he tried to forget.

  The forest, the creature, the ripple — all of it.

  But his body wouldn’t let him.

  It moved too easily. Too precisely. When he bent to lift a fallen bowl, he found himself adjusting his posture mid-move — not for comfort, but for bance.

  As if being watched.

  He made tea. Chopped wood. Watered the vegetables.

  Each task felt normal.

  Each task also felt… rehearsed.

  Not like remembering something.

  More like performing it for the st time.

  *****

  At midday, Old Ji stopped by with a bamboo flute he hadn’t pyed in years.

  “I remembered something,” he said gruffly, not quite looking at Shen Liang.

  “About the jade?”

  “No. About music.”

  He handed Shen Liang the flute.

  “You’ll need this soon.”

  “I don’t py.”

  “You didn’t sharpen bdes either, until you did.”

  Shen Liang frowned. “Why give it to me?”

  Old Ji didn’t answer. Just turned and walked away, his limp more pronounced than usual.

  The flute was light. Smooth. Worn at the mouthpiece.

  When Shen Liang held it, he felt the oddest thing:

  The urge to weep.

  Not from sorrow.

  From recognition.

  Like hearing the voice of someone who used to call your name, long before you were born.

  *****

  That night, he sat under the old evergreen, the flute across his p, untouched.

  Above him, the stars were unusually sharp.

  They looked closer than usual.

  Hungrier.

  He closed his eyes. Tried to recall a single cultivation manual, a single diagram, a single technique.

  Nothing came.

  Only that stillness again. That space between moments.

  Then, faintly — not a sound, not a word — but an impression:

  “You do not begin from silence.

  You begin from memory.

  And memory must be earned.”

  He opened his eyes.

  The evergreen’s branches barely moved.

  But their shadow had shifted.

  It now pointed toward the northern hills.

  Where the old ruins y.

  Where no one had gone in a generation.

  *****

  He stood.

  Not from decision.

  But from readiness.

  Then he said — not to himself, not to the tree, but to whatever might be listening:

  “Fine. I’ll remember.”

  And the flute in his hand grew warm.

  (End of chapter)