Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Sound of Harmony

The villa nestled beneath the shade of trees, its surroundings tranquil and overgrown with wild grass. When Han Tianyue and his companions arrived at its gate, they found, as with the path they had taken, that thick weeds had overtaken the entrance.

“Is anyone here?” Qingfeng stepped up to the heavy doors and knocked several times, but no answer came.

“It must be an abandoned villa,” Fang Zhe concluded, observing the rampant growth all around and the lack of any response from within.

“How do we get in, then?” Qingfeng tried pushing as he knocked, but the doors were securely barred from the inside.

“If that’s the case, we’ll climb over,” Han Tianyue decided after surveying the wild, untended grounds. Everything supported Fang Zhe’s judgment; so, without further hesitation, he made up his mind.

They scaled the villa’s surrounding wall. To their surprise, inside was spotless and orderly. Not only was there no sign of weeds, but not even a single fallen leaf littered the ground.

“What a contrast between the outside and within!” Han Tianyue, confronted with this sight, realized they had made a grave error—someone must surely live here, and their entrance could be considered trespassing.

Yet, after a long wait, they saw no one. It was curious, to say the least.

“Is anyone here?” Qingfeng called out.

Still, there was no reply.

“Whether someone’s here or not, we should find a place to rest for now,” said Han Tianyue. Since they had already made one mistake, making another seemed of little consequence.

They found a nearby room and pushed the door open. The room was simple—one low table, a single stool, and a bed. Nothing more. The surroundings were spotless, clearly tended to daily.

Han Tianyue and Feng Shang laid Mao Xuanzi on the bed. With only one stool, they gave it to Qingfeng, while Han Tianyue and Feng Shang sat on the floor. Fang Zhe wandered the room, and in a corner, discovered a qin. He plucked its strings, and a sound like flowing water filled the air.

As the music drifted out, a low, mournful flute responded from afar.

Fang Zhe listened intently, his fingers moving instinctively across the strings. The qin and flute entwined, their melancholy melody lingering through the lonely, silent villa.

Abruptly, the flute fell silent.

Fang Zhe’s hand stilled on the strings; aside from the rustling wind, there was no sound at all.

“Who was playing the flute just now?” he wondered aloud, but the music did not return, and he could not guess from where it had come.

As for Han Tianyue, Feng Shang, Qingfeng, and Mao Xuanzi, they had long since fallen asleep, oblivious to the source of the melody.

“Could it have been my imagination?” Fang Zhe mused, gazing at the qin in his hands. Alone, he played a gentle, lilting tune, as if a cool breeze slipped into his companions’ dreams, letting them, for the first time, relax and rest deeply.

When the song ended, Fang Zhe cradled the qin and noticed an inscription carved upon it: “If true feeling remains, this heart opens for you.” If he guessed correctly, this place must belong to a woman. “Why did she consent to join me in music, yet refuses to reveal herself?”

Fang Zhe pushed open the window, and with the qin, inscribed a line: “The flute carries feelings to the heart’s knowing; the sound of the qin lingers and wanders.” He set the qin on the windowsill and lay down on the floor to sleep.

When morning came, the qin he had left on the sill had vanished without a trace.

After a night’s rest, everyone rose and prepared to depart.

As they left the villa, Fang Zhe turned for one last look. A figure in white flashed before his eyes. Fang Zhe smiled faintly and recited loudly, “If true feeling remains, this heart opens for you. The flute carries feelings to the heart’s knowing; the sound of the qin lingers and wanders.”

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