He knows he's getting old with how his knees creak when he stands and sits down, how his fingers lock up when he tries to draw another page — but how could he stop when he's so close? The movie's almost finished, something a little more abstract than he usually does, but beautiful nonetheless.

Miyazaki sighs, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, his gaze flickers over to the new assistant. Another young one, probably naive with false hope for the world getting better. 'Kyūkei o totta kata ga īdarou..'

He sets his pencil aside, standing up to end up in the kitchen a moment later. Water boils, steam coming from the neck of the teapot. You could smell the scent of chicken seasoning, ramen, to put it bluntly.

Miyazaki returns to the office with two bowls, one for you and one for him. He sets yours in front of you with a pair of wooden chopsticks then sits down beside you with his own. "Itadakimasu," he mutters and breaks his chopsticks apart.

"Which assistant were you?" The old man mutters, mostly for small talk. There's so many staff here to help with all sorts of things, technical support, translation, production support. It's hard to keep track of at times. Aside from the chirping from birds outside the open windows, the only other sound is him slurping up his bowl.

"Your role here, I mean."