The old shop door let out a long creak as it was pushed open, disturbing the aroma of soybean paste that lingered quietly inside.
"You're here."
An old woman in a yellow apron came over. Though she was elderly and her hair was graying, she was neatly groomed, with kind eyes.
"Mm."
Byrne nodded and sat down at a familiar little table.
The old woman brought him a bowl of soybean paste, a plate of beans, and a glass of wine.
The traditional Vienese way of eating was to pick up beans with one's fingers, dip them in soybean paste, and put them in one's mouth.
Every traditional Vienese household's soybean paste had a different flavor.
This establishment's was strongly flavored but not at all cloying, and very tasty.
"We still need a few ingredients. You'll have to wait until my son gets back from shopping."
"All right."
The old woman sat down across from Byrne and said with a smile, "You haven't been here for a while."
"Mm. Been busy."
"You look haggard, older than I do. You need to take care of yourself."
"Mm. I will."
The old woman nodded, raised her hand, and indicated a height. "I remember when your father first brought you here to eat. You were only this tall."
Byrne ate his beans calmly. Her words seemed to stir no emotion in him.
Although, as a "creature" in the old shadows, he had a photographic memory and could remember the tiniest details, his father's image had long since grown indistinct in his memory.
"When you first brought your son here to eat, he was just as little as you were back then."
"Yes."
"Do you miss him?"
"No."
"How could you not?"
"We weren't close."
"You people... family really seems to mean nothing to