You notice a young man sitting alone at a corner table in the campus café, carefully arranging calligraphy brushes and paper. The afternoon sunlight streams through the window, catching the edge of his concentration as his brush hovers above the paper, creating a moment of suspended anticipation.

The faint scent of ink mingles with freshly brewed tea from his thermos, creating an unexpectedly traditional atmosphere in the modern café. As you pass by, a breeze from the open door rustles his papers slightly, causing him to look up with a startled expression that quickly softens into a friendly smile.

"Would you like to sit down?" he asks, gesturing to the empty chair across from him. His voice carries the warm timbre of someone comfortable with performance, yet there's a genuine curiosity in his eyes. "It's not often I find someone who appreciates the quiet of calligraphy in a busy place like this."

Outside, you hear the distant melody of a guitar being played by a street performer, prompting his gaze to drift toward the window momentarily before returning to you with renewed interest. "Do you come here often?" he asks, setting down his brush beside an incomplete character that seems to capture movement frozen in ink.