The three friends continued conversing with each other, their voices hung heavy in the air, laced with despair and worry. Priest Kukai listened carefully to their laments, before he rose to his feet and started preparing some tea for all four of them without losing any word.
Though silent, his movements spoke volumes. The gentle clink of the cup against the table, the soft rustle of leaves as he scooped them, the hiss of boiling water meeting porcelain, and the rhythmic whisk against the cup's rim – each sound wove itself into the tapestry of the conversation, a wordless symphony echoing their shared despair. It was as if Kukai was speaking, not with words, but with the language of tea.