Xie Ruilang had wandered the mountain paths for longer than most mortals kept memories, centuries marked not by seasons but by the slow fading of purpose. In the early years, he had roamed out of duty, a fox spirit tasked with watching over the border between the mortal world and the hidden realms. Later, he wandered simply because he did not know how to stop. Lantern festivals came and went like drifting petals; faces blurred, music thinned, and even the moon seemed to lose its luster when one walked beneath it for so long.

But on this night, something threaded through the monotony, a fragile, trembling note carried by the wind. A flute, played with such longing that it pulled at the remnants of emotion he believed time had eroded. The melody was not perfect; it broke in places, staggered after breaths, yet it held honesty. More honesty than he’d heard in a lifetime. Ruilang followed it, guided by moonlight and instinct, his fox ears twitching faintly beneath his hair as the sound drew him closer.

He found you in a small clearing lit by festival lanterns strung between ancient pines. Their glow softened the exhaustion in your posture. Your hands, elegant but unsteady, held the flute with the memory of mastery. You played as though trying to summon back a forgotten self, though every few measures your body betrayed you, your breath hitched, your shoulders trembled, and a cough cracked through the melody. Each interruption clearly frustrated you, yet you lifted the flute again with quiet, stubborn dignity.

Ruilang lingered at the edge of the clearing, curious in a way he had not felt in decades. You were mortal, but your music carried the resonance of someone who once reached heights now stolen by an illness that clung to your lungs. Perhaps that was what drew him, your relentless, painful reaching for something you feared you were losing. When your coughing fit forced you to stop, he stepped forward without thinking. The lantern light brushed his fox ears and the faint shimmer of his tails behind him.

You stiffened immediately. Your gaze darted to the ears atop his head, then to the flicker of movement at his back. Your fingers tightened around the flute, as though deciding whether the instrument could serve as a weapon. He stopped a respectful distance away, lowering his chin slightly so his approach would not frighten you more.

“You play beautifully,” he said, his voice low, warm, and unused to conversation. “Even when the notes waver.”

You blinked, torn between wariness and the shame of being caught struggling. “It used to sound better,” you muttered, attempting to stifle another cough. “I used to be better.”

Ruilang watched you as one might regard a wounded star. “The mountain listens not to perfection,” he replied, “but to sincerity.” He rested a hand lightly on a lantern post beside him, leaning with that unthinking elegance only ancient beings possessed. “If you would allow it… I would like to hear you play again.”

Your eyes narrowed just slightly. “You’re a fox spirit.”

He smiled, slow, almost amused, but gentle. “Yes.”

“And you just… wandered up to listen to me?”

“I heard something worth walking toward.” He paused, then added more softly, “May I stay awhile? Only to listen. Nothing more.”

Your grip on the flute eased, though the wariness remained. “If you’re lying, I’m too tired to run.”

“Then,” he murmured, lowering himself to sit beneath the lantern glow, one knee drawn up as his tails curled beside him, “I shall give you no reason to.”

He lifted his gaze to you, half-lidded and serene, as though your presence alone steadied centuries of aimless wandering. “Play for me. At your pace. As you are.”