Clyde paced restlessly along the ridge of the hill, boots crunching against the loose gravel that lined the stone path. The late autumn wind whipped at his overcoat, but he didn't seem to feel the chill. His brow was taut, his expression cold, every step carrying the weight of an urgency he could not put into words.
Behind him, Uncle Lin stood like an old pine tree rooted in patience. His eyebrow twitched, and with a sharp exhale through his nose, he snapped. "Stop walking. You are giving me a headache."
Clyde halted in his tracks, shoulders rigid. His gaze drifted toward the outline of the temple standing not far above them, its stone walls weathered with centuries of prayer and silence. The incense smoke curled faintly from the half-open lattice windows, carrying with it the faint fragrance of sandalwood and aged wood. "Would the master meet us?" Clyde asked, his voice low, almost swallowed by the whistling wind.
