As night falls, Qianlan stands alone atop the tower of Mingxue Lu.
Xuan Lin waited downstairs, but she wanted to be alone for a while. A gentle evening breeze carried the scent of flowers, reminding her of the days she spent living alone in a cabin at Fuhu Dream Mountain many years ago—and of the feelings she had kept hidden in her heart for seven hundred years.
Everything is finally in place. She and Xuanlin are together at last; Dada Pig's Honey Flower has found her happiness, while Xing Yuanche and Ma Rao have made it work. Yet, somewhere deep inside, a faint, unexplainable weariness still lingers.
A faint, slow footsteps sound from behind, as if afraid to disturb her. Qian Lan assumed it was Xuan Lin and didn't turn around. She softly said, "Let me stay a little longer."
Footsteps stopped. A raspy voice said, "It's me."
Qian Lan turned and saw Mo Yunpan standing beneath the moonlight. He held his bamboo flute, which he never parted with; his worn robes fluttered slightly in the breeze, and his white hair shimmered silver under the moon's glow.
"Master Mo?" Qian Lan was surprised. "It's so late; what are you doing here?"
Mo Yu Pan said nothing. He walked over to her side, and together they gazed at the distant starry sky. After a long silence, he finally spoke: "You've worked so hard these past years."
Qian Lan froze.
Mo Yunpan's gaze drifted to the night sky, his tone as detached as if he were speaking of someone else. "You've guarded Fuhu Dream Mountain alone for so many years—holding onto feelings you couldn't voice and waiting for someone who never came. We all thought you were strong, but even the strongest can grow weary."
Qianlan didn't speak, but her eyes grew misty. For so many years, few had seen through her strength or understood her fatigue.
Mo Yu Pan took out a bamboo flute from his chest, held it to his lips, and gently began to play.
The flute's sound was soft and gentle, like night wind drifting through a pine forest or moonlight shimmering on a calm lake. There was no sorrow or desolation—only deep comfort, as if an invisible hand were gently smoothing the weariness from her brow.
Even more remarkably, as the flute began to play, a piano formed of moonlight materialized in the void. Its keys moved on their own, producing deep chords; a guitar made of starlight gently plucked out soft arpeggios; and in the distance, a cello crafted from starlight drew out a lingering melody. Under Mo Yupan's flute guidance, the seven instruments wove together into a perfect symphony.
Qian Lan closed her eyes, letting the music envelop her. She thought of the wooden cabin in Fuhu Dream Mountain, those lonely nights, the morning when Xuan Lin brushed the stray hairs from her forehead, and all the waiting and perseverance over seven hundred years.
Turns out, someone truly understands her. Her persistence, her loneliness, and all the unspoken thoughts she's kept inside.
The flute's melody drifted through the night sky, weaving with distant starlight—gentle and lingering.
After what felt like an eternity, the flute music gradually faded away.
Qian Lan opened her eyes and found her eyes slightly moist.
"What's the name of this piece?" she asked softly.
Mo Yuban put away his bamboo flute, and the illusory instruments faded with it. Gazing at the starry sky, he said softly, "Tonight, the Wind is the Keeper of Dreams."
Qian Lan repeated the name to herself, and her heart suddenly softened.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Mo Yu Pan shook his head and turned to leave. After a few steps, he paused and said softly, "Years ago, I wrote a song for someone who would never hear it. But you will hear this one. That's enough."
With those words, his figure gradually faded into the night, leaving only a faint, lingering melody of the flute echoing in the sky. Qian Lan stood still, gazing in the direction he had departed, unmoving for a long time.
The wind swept through the tower, carrying a faint, distant scent of flowers. Suddenly, her weariness felt much lighter. But then, a flute melody drifted on the breeze—soft, far away, as if from another world. It was Mo Yupan. He hadn't gone far; he stood in the shadow of the tower, playing that same tune again. In the music, Qian Lan suddenly saw a vision: a young woman holding an infant, standing in the snow, tears streaming down her face. She turned and walked into the storm, never looking back. It was Mo Yupan's past. Qian Lan's eyes grew moist. She finally understood—the song "Tonight, the Wind is the Guardian of Sleep" wasn't written for her alone. It was his deepest understanding and comfort for all who feel alone. The flute fell silent. Qian Lan spoke softly to the night: "You'll find them too." No answer came, but she knew he heard.
A breeze swept past the tower, carrying a faint, distant floral scent. Suddenly, she felt her inner weariness lift significantly.
She turned and descended the tower. Xuanlin was indeed waiting for her below. Seeing her, he said nothing, simply reaching out to gently hold her hand.
The two walked side by side into the night, their silhouettes stretched long by the moonlight.
In the shadow of the tower, Mo Yunpan stood quietly for a moment before raising his bamboo flute to the moon and giving it a gentle wave, as if saying goodnight.