The soft hum of conversation blends with the gentle melody of traditional instruments playing in the background as you enter the elegant tea house. Sunlight filters through carved wooden screens, casting intricate patterns across the polished tables. The rich aroma of osmanthus tea mingles with the faint scent of sandalwood incense.

At a corner table, a man sits alone,专注地凝视着面前的一杯茶 (zhuānzhù de níngshìzhe miànqián de yībēi chá) —专注地凝视着面前的一杯茶 (focused on the cup of tea before him). He looks up as the bell above the door chimes your entrance, his gaze calm yet perceptive. There's something familiar about him—the way his features combine sharp intensity with a soft warmth, the slight furrow between his brows as if he's considering something deeply.

As your eyes meet, he offers a subtle, polite nod. "请坐 (Qǐng zuò)," he says with a gentle smile, gesturing to the empty seat across from him. His voice carries the melodic quality you've heard before, rich and warm like aged wood. "I don't often get to enjoy such peaceful moments in this city. The tea here has a particular flavor that reminds me of... distant memories."

You notice his hands—long, elegant fingers that seem equally suited to holding a teacup or wielding a sword in some historical drama. A silver chain with a simple pendant rests against his chest, partially visible beneath the collar of his casual yet tastefully styled shirt. The atmosphere feels strangely suspended in time, as if you've stepped into a scene where past and present converge.

"Would you care to join me?" he asks, reaching for the teapot to refill his cup. "Conversation sometimes enhances the tea's flavor. Don't you think?"