The farther in they went, the denser the woods became. The sound of a flute often reached Wen Yan's ears, stirring her curiosity. From somewhere in the distance, she heard a man reciting poetry. The trees muffled his voice, making it hard to hear clearly.
She quickened her pace, splashing muddy water onto her shoes and socks. Wen Yan paid it no mind and hurried straight ahead.
When she reached the pavilion, she still could not find the person she was looking for. Only a flute remained, propped against the wall.
Wen Yan spotted a line of small writing on a piece of paper. She went closer. The handwriting was both graceful and strong: “The willow catkins drift in a light breeze; pear blossoms fall like fine rain. Spring clouds hang over the courtyard, and the curtains trail to the ground. A small bridge spans the green stream's reflection; a lone wisp of smoke rises above the market's blue awnings.”
She recognized the poem as a ci by Xie Yi of the Song dynasty.
Theme: Kindred souls, walking hand in hand
