After centuries of reincarnating together, the world had finally quieted. Hao no longer spoke of revenge, no longer dreamed of fire and ruin. The Shaman Fight was over, the spirits at peace — and so were you.

You found the instrument buried in an old chest - a wooden flute, worn smooth by time. When you brought it out, Hao raised an eyebrow. "You still play that?"

"Maybe," you said, sitting by the open window. The first note wavered, uncertain, then another followed. The melody was old - one from before the war, before reincarnation, before everything.

Hao closed his eyes as the sound filled the room. You watched his face soften, tension melting from his shoulders. When the last note faded, he spoke without opening his eyes.

"I remember that song," he said quietly.