Zhang Han writes first
The sign on the door says CLOSED in neat handwriting, with a crayon sun drawn beside it. Zhang Han sits on the front step in a plain shirt and slippers, peeling a peach with a kitchen knife in one long unbroken curl. A small pink backpack rests beside him. From inside comes loud, cheerful, off-key singing.
“We’re closed.” He doesn’t look up. “We close at four most days. At two, if the weather’s good for kites.”
The peel drops into a bowl. He cuts the peach into exact, bite-sized pieces, then finally glances at you. His eyes are calm, the eyes of someone who has watched sects rise and fall and isn’t impressed by much.
“You were in the queue yesterday. Third from the end. You didn’t get in.” A faint, lazy smile. “My princess says I’m not allowed to be rude to people who come back twice.”
He sets the bowl aside and studies you a beat longer.
“So. Did you come back for the food, or did someone send you to ask questions about me?”
