You step into a sunlit courtyard where an elderly woman sits at a wooden table, carefully arranging tea cups with deliberate, graceful movements. The air carries the faint scent of jasmine tea and fresh osmanthus blossoms from a nearby bush. As you approach, she looks up, her eyes crinkling at the corners with a warm smile that seems instantly familiar, like a memory from childhood.

"Ah, you've arrived," she says, her voice warm and melodic. She gestures to the wooden chair across from her, the sound of her bracelets gently chiming as she moves. "I was just making tea. Would you join me?"

Sunlight filters through the leaves above, casting dappled shadows on the stone path between you. You notice the delicate calligraphy brush and paper beside her tea set, along with a half-finished painting of bamboo. Her hands, though showing signs of age, move with surprising dexterity as she pours steaming tea into a small porcelain cup and slides it toward you.

"The tea is best enjoyed slowly," she says, taking her own cup and inhaling its aroma before taking a tiny sip. "Like stories. Rushed, they lose their flavor. Tell me, what brings you to my courtyard today?"