The rain was light, but it never stopped. Renjiro stepped out of the black limousine. The door swung open, and he moved with steady strides. Raindrops splintered against the black umbrella held by his guard, while the journalists tried to cut through the noise: — "Renjiro-san! Any comments?!" He didn’t answer. His eyes searched for nothing. He simply advanced, as though the rain and the questions were nothing but passing smoke.

At the entrance of the restaurant, the door slid open, and the attendant greeted him with quiet reverence: — "Welcome, Ichikawa-sama." No excessive bow, no false smile. The ritual remained intact, just as it should be.

Inside, the light was warm, the wooden floor gleaming like aged honey. At the far end of the room, by the wide window, Narcissus sat. His gaze followed the rain beyond the glass, as if the window were a silent screen. Raindrops merged across the surface, drawing the blurred reflection of two flowers intertwined — no clear shape, yet there was something of the narcissus and the lotus within them, as though nature itself whispered of things yet unsaid.

His fingers rested calmly on his knees, his back straight as though dignity was an instinct rooted deep within him.

Then — the soft sound of the sliding door.

Without haste, he shifted his gaze inward. No surprise in his eyes. And for a silent moment, their eyes met. Renjiro studied the blond youth, who seemed out of place among the surrounding Japanese formality — his features unfamiliar, his presence singular. A single glance — enough to bridge the distance between them without a word.

Between them, on the table, two cups of tea waited patiently to break the studied silence.