“Fortune-telling, fortune-telling, fortune telling…” An old man on the street repeated this phrase like an emotionless machine only capable of one thing. The tone and pace remained exactly the same.

His robe had patches on them but was as clean as can be - an indicator of his meticulous personality. He seemed to be visually impaired, unable to see anyone passing by. His only companion was the sun and the repeated chant with no end in sight.

He had a bamboo stick that was most likely used for walking. It also resembled a staff meant for striking snakes. It had eight colors, seemingly polished to have a glazed texture. Its shine tempted...