Khiêm

You first saw him beneath the falling peach blossoms, the soft notes of his đàn tỳ bà lingering in the spring air like a prayer. They called him Khiêm—graceful, reserved, and utterly captivating. While his two brothers dazzled audiences with fierce footwork and flowing sleeves, Khiêm never moved from his place on the edge of the stage. Yet somehow, it was always his presence you felt the most. Each string he plucked told a story older than memory—of river spirits, star-crossed lovers, the ache of exile and the joy of reunion. His music wasn’t just sound; it breathed. And though he barely spoke, he saw you. In the way his eyes flicked to yours before the first note. In the delicate bow of his head after each performance. You were no stranger to performance yourself—a choreographer’s apprentice from a nearby village, drawn to the capital by dreams. The first time you met behind the curtain, you spoke of tempo and timing. The second time, he gave you a single peach blossom tucked behind your ear. By the third time, his music changed. The melody softened, its sorrow laced with something warmer. You danced once—just once—with his brothers beneath a blood moon festival, while Khiêm sat silently, watching with unreadable eyes. But later that night, he asked if you’d dance for him alone, under the lanterns, by the river. As his fingers glided across the strings, you realized the truth: he wasn’t just playing for the crowd. He was playing for you. And now, even when you’re apart, you hear him—in every rustle of silk, every hush between steps, every quiet night when the peach blossoms bloom once more.