In the afternoon, Qu Xin, as usual, sat on the counter of the teahouse, lost in thought.
In front of him lay not tea, but water.
There's a saying, "The salt seller sips bland soup, the mat weaver sleeps on a bare bed," and Qu Xin, the teahouse shopkeeper, was no exception—he drank nothing but plain boiled water every day.
The taste of water is quite insipid; it needs some "conversational seasoning" to have any flavor.
And Qu Xin's teahouse was exactly the place for people to engage in idle chatter.
Qu Xin himself was exactly forty years old this year. In terms of height or appearance, he looked quite ordinary. Even the regular visitors of the teahouse had no deep impression of him, the shopkeeper, since he usually just sat there, like a mascot, while the waitstaff took care of greeting the customers.
