It was a gentle pitter patter of rain against the stonework just beyond the shelter of the tea house.
Steam wafted up from the freshly poured cup of golden green brew. A syrupy confection there upon a plate beside the pot. Balls of gooey rice gum, colorful and drenched in a sweet glaze.
A biwa strummed a measured clip in the distance, the chords rang out like ripples of rain as the man's voice rose and fell in soothed valleys through the chatter of patrons, who spent their time in warm leisure.
Hazanko let out a sigh, caught between a grumble in his throat as his brow twitched, furrowed and down turned. "Late again, you dirty old bird," a smirk, crooked and sharp as a hook, cut the corner of his scarred lips.