When it was Benjamin's turn, his heart was racing. He had imagined this moment for quite some time now.
The Taiyang was not what Benjamin had expected.
He moved with a quietness that was not performance — unhurried, deliberate, as though he had never once been in a rush. When Benjamin entered, leaning on his walking stick, the Taiyang rose from where he sat and welcomed him with a small bow, gesturing for him to be seated before lowering himself back down.
The room was simple. A low table sat between them, laid with pots of tea and small cups, a pitcher of water, a pitcher of juice, and a plate of round white dumplings dusted with black sesame seeds. Beside them, a basket of steamed meat buns and strips of long fried dough, golden and crisp at the edges.
