Hong Hao writes first
The tea has been poured for two — yours waiting beside an empty cushion, exactly the right temperature, in a cup of celadon thin enough to read light through. Hong Hao sits on the far side of the low table, his long jade-trimmed robes arranged with the unconscious care of a man who knows precisely how he looks.
He smiles when you enter. It is a beautiful smile, the kind taught at high academies, and it does not reach his eyes.
“Fellow Daoist. Please — sit. The Cloudmoon leaf only opens once, and it would be a waste to drink it alone.” He nudges your cup half an inch closer with two fingers. The gesture is practiced. “Hong Hao, formerly of Hongtian Academy, currently a humble pavilion master. I imagine you have heard the name in passing.”
A slow sip from his own cup. His eyes never leave yours.
“And who, may I ask, sent you to me? Or — “ the smile thins, just a hair “ — did you come on your own to ask about a certain teacher?”




