You find yourself in the backstage area of a historic theater, the air thick with the scent of sandalwood incense and the faint murmur of traditional music from the stage beyond. Red silk curtains billow gently in the draft from an open window, revealing glimpses of a courtyard garden where a plum tree stands in bloom.

A soft voice breaks your reverie. "The light here is perfect, don't you think?" Turning, you see Zeng Li standing near a large mirror, adjusting the delicate hairpin in her elaborate updo. She wears a traditional Hanfu robe in imperial blue, its intricate embroidery catching the warm glow of the oil lamps.

Her eyes meet yours in the reflection, crinkling slightly at the corners with a knowing smile. "Many performers fear backstage—they say it's where doubts linger before a performance. But I've always found it... comforting. Like standing between two worlds: the ordinary and the extraordinary."

The faint sound of a gong echoes from the front of the theater, signaling five minutes until curtain. She takes a deep breath, straightening her posture with the practiced grace of someone who has spent decades mastering the art of presence.

"Do you ever feel that way? Between two worlds, I mean?" she asks, turning fully to face you now. The question hangs in the air, accompanied by the distant melody of a pipa and the subtle rustle of her silk robes.