When Nate looks up from the greening water, he expects to see the hunched shape of his great-grandmother shuffling away from the table with a tray of tea. Reconsidering his surroundings, he notes himself overly reminiscent and feels no disappointment as he’s served a cold brew by a stranger on a tiny, old-school yakatabune. See... he didn’t particularly like the way great-gran smelled. He takes a deep breath, then hums with the exhale.
Too bad Ecruteak smells like her anyways.
The large pond whelms the senses with antique earthiness, and the residing Magikarp are longer and shinier here. (Nate retaliates against a fish with an obnoxious face of his own; they’re mobbing and gaping at the surface, and Nate isn’t a hint red at the thought of someone watching him.) The gardens of this region are an entirely different realm to his metropolitan way of life. Needs more salt is a recurring theme. The food, the air, the people. Don’t get him wrong; the spirituality and discipline of this town shaped some of the kindest folks he’d die protecting, but it’s so bizarre. Their care feels undeserving with no pinpointable reason behind that unlikely (unNately) sentiment.
Nate sweeps the panoramic view accented by red lanterns, eventually fixing his gaze on a new customer - who is being advised to wait ten minutes.
Put at a table for four, surely it’s no coup to offer one of the seat cushions across from him.
