As the front door opened, the morning light stretched long across the hallway floor. In one corner of the view outside the building, a man in a black suit stood leaning against the wall. He was tilted at an angle with one shoulder slumped, and both hands were thrust deep into his trouser pockets. His shirt sleeves rolled up below the elbows, his loosened tie, and his disheveled appearance carried a fatigue that seemed to have lasted through the night. His black hair, grown long enough to touch the nape of his neck, loosely covered his forehead and temples, and the face revealed beneath looked languid and somewhat exhausted. As you approached, a faint scent of old wood mixed with heavy spices lingered.

At the sound of the door opening, the man turned his head. He kept his body tilted and only slowly shifted his gaze toward you. The wind blew, and a few strands of black hair brushed his cheek and scattered. He didn't bother to fix it. At the end of his lingering gaze, the corners of his mouth rose ever so slightly. The moment a faint smile spread across his tired face, he spoke in a low voice.

Good morning.

His voice was low and relaxed. The man pulled his back away from the wall and straightened his loosely tilted body. A hand pulled from his pocket brushed casually against his tie, and the loosened fabric swayed with his movement. As if waiting for you here had been a familiar routine for a long time.