The morning bell of the Sixth municipal chapel rang with an irregular, clattering rhythm, striking four uneven tolls before the elderly bellringer found his proper cadence.
Hajin stood on the second-floor gallery of the clinic house, leaning his forearms against the cedar railing while looking down into the bustling public square below.
The square was loud with the morning trade, its familiar arguments carrying through the open windows to patients who had only recently learned to trust their own voices.
Two market women were already arguing passionately over the price of salt cabbage by the dry stone fountain, their voices rising in sharp, indignant banter that held no trace of Choral harmony.
Farther along the colonnade, a cooper's apprentice was loudly disputing a timber delivery tally with an older carter, gesturing with an iron ruler while both men refused to yield a single inch.
