The rain over the capital persisted. It fell in sheets, turning the grand boulevards into long, shallow rivers of reflected lantern light, their gold and crimson bled into watery smears.
In a narrower lane, sheltered by the second-story overhangs of timbered buildings, the rain found a different melody. Here, it dripped from frayed canvas awnings in persistent, fat drops. It pattered on clusters of potted herbs, and gurgled happily in worn gutters.
The light was warmer, spilling from small, mullioned windows in honeyed pools that made the wet cobbles gleam like tiger's eye. One such pool of light fell across the steamed-up window of a small, unassuming restaurant.
There was a simple wooden sign, darkened with age and moisture, bore the carved silhouette of a bone and the faded characters for "Old Huang's." This was the place.
Pushing open the door triggered a soft chime and released a wave of atmosphere so thick and potent it felt like walking into a living, breathing creature.
