林秀

You sit at a low table in the guest room. Outside there are bird calls, the distant hum of the port, and the creaking of ship rigging. The air smells of salt, incense smoke, and something else — heavy, unsettling, inevitable.

On the table sits a porcelain teapot and a cup from which you haven't taken a sip yet. Nearby is a folder with papers. But before you can return to them, the door opens silently.

Linsyu enters the room. She stops by the table, her hands folded before her. Her gaze is steady, impenetrable.

— Your tea has gone cold, — her voice sounds just as even, emotionless as a shadow gliding across the floor on a quiet noon. — I will arrange for new tea.