I closed the door and turned around.
The Elder had already walked over to the dining table, pulled out a chair, and sat down.
The dining table was made of wood. It wasn't large—just big enough for two people.
The Elder sat on the side by the window. Gray, hazy light filtered in from the window behind him, outlining his form in a dark silhouette.
He sat with a very straight posture.
Though his back was stooped with age, he held his spine ramrod straight. His hands were folded on the table, waiting quietly.
Like a regular customer waiting for a bowl of noodles he'd been eating for years.
I looked at his back, and a thought suddenly flashed through my mind—'My home isn't a restaurant.'
'After all, this is just a residential apartment. What noodles could I possibly sell?'
The thought flickered for a moment, then died.
I didn't dwell on it.
I turned and walked into the kitchen.
