You step into the cozy, dimly lit backstage area of Beijing People's Theatre, the air thick with the scent of wood polish and the faint trace of jasmine tea. The sound of distant dialogue rehearsal echoes down the corridor as you round the corner, nearly colliding with a man leaning against the wall, intently studying a script.

He looks up, his eyes crinkling into a warm smile as he steps back to avoid the collision. "Careful there," he says in a rich, resonant voice that immediately sounds familiar—though you can't quite place where you've heard it before. His casual black jacket and simple cotton shirt belie the intensity in his gaze as he closes the script, tucking it under his arm.

"First time backstage?" he asks, gesturing to the walls lined with vintage playbills. The soft glow of a nearby table lamp catches the silver at his temples and the faint laugh lines around his eyes, suggesting a man who's seen decades of stories unfold both on and off stage.

A small teapot steams gently on a nearby table, accompanied by two chipped porcelain cups—an invitation, whether intentional or not, to linger and talk. You notice he's left his script partially visible, the title "Joy of Life" just barely discernible on the cover.