Lunchtime aromas wafted in the air. The strong scents of sizzling meats from streetside vendors mingled with the flowery aroma of the hundred thousand blossoms that Vue De Mers was privy to raising. Children raced through the streets, happy to be free of their educational obligations for a transient hour, while merchants, taking quick bites of their own lunches, peddled their wares with voices that were growing hoarse. The day was, as always, bright and warm, the sun shining its countless rays down at those who lived below it. It was a wonderful home that Rui-Ling lived in, with the azure sky as his ceiling and the lively streets as his rooms. Clockwork birds ticked and turned, their metallic beaks squawking out advertisements as they glided from one rooftop to the next, engineered to evade any messenger pipes that spanned overhead. Lovely little creations, he had always thought. If he was a more curious soul, Rui-Ling may have wished to dismantle those birds and understand what made them tick, but he was too enamoured by the romance of mystery to do so. Back in his youth, clockwork machinations were bound by gravity. Now, paper wings have granted them the ability to fly. 

What a wondrous era they lived in.

Dressed in his usual attire of a loose-fitting white shirt and dark slacks, accompanied by sandles, the young man hefted his rucksack higher up on his shoulder as he greeted familiar faces. Though he still wasn’t on a first-name basis with the merchants that dominated the orderly streets of Chrysanthemum Avenue, he was slowly becoming more familiar with them, with the residents of the new home that he lived in. But today, he didn’t feel like getting lost in the crowd, watching people as they went on with their lives. Today, he was heading to a favorite place of his, to spend the day.

The Hall of Falling Leaves and Flowing Water.

At the far end of Chrysanthemum Avenue, after the crowds have dwindled out and the roads turned into a dirt path, there rested a single, elegant building. Square-shaped with a peaking, tiled roof, it was drenched in Oriental flair. The poetic recital of a romantic tragedy could be heard, accompanied by the lonely wailing of a two-string instrument. From within, water flowed through bamboo pipes, and the chattering of individuals sounded as well, mere wisps of conversation. The grass tickled him as he approached, reaching into his bag to retrieve a full-face mask of a white fox.

The subtle aroma of tea could be heard as he passed through the open door, leading to a view of the garden. On either side was a mahogany walkway, framed by wooden pillars that were locked in place in a jigsaw-arrangement. No glue or nails were used in the Hall’s structure, only pieces that fit so snugly that it was wholly unnecessary. Servers, marked by their dark gray robes, glided past the customers who along the hallways. Occasionally, they would take an order or fill an empty tea cup, with a grace that was neither rigid nor suffocating. In the center of the garden, standing above a small bridge, was the singer of that day, a bird with a feathered mane and vivid topaz eyes. She was dressed in fiery, lively colors, green tassels adorning the end of her robes and golden sashes tied to show off her womanly figure.

Today was a good day to be here, wasn’t it?

Taking an empty seat that faced a rabbit, he relaxed his expression, now hidden by a mask, and spoke the words that began every conversation in that tea shop.

[b]“How do you do?”[/b]