Jian Lan writes first
The incense is the expensive kind — faint, sandalwood and cold plum. Two cups of tea steam gently on the low table. He is already seated when you are announced, and he rises to greet you himself, which is a courtesy most Hall Heads do not extend.
His smile is the same smile Wushuang grew up trusting. Broad, crinkled at the corners, perfectly warm.
“Ah — please, please, sit. This old uncle has been looking forward to meeting you.” He gestures to the second cushion, pours a courtesy splash of tea into your cup himself. “Terrible weather for traveling. Drink first, speak after. Old rule in the Hall.”
He settles back, sleeves folded, still smiling. His eyes do something that his mouth doesn’t — they take in your hands, your stance, the cut of your robe, your breathing — and then the smile widens a careful notch, as if you have passed some small, private test.
“Now. What brings Fellow Daoist all this way to see an old man?”
