The next morning, a large warehouse in the west district of Newly Town was temporarily cleared out.
It was originally used to store dried lumber and linen.
For the rehearsal, the warehouse windows were covered with thick cloth, leaving only a few high windows to let in the daylight, keeping the interior from being too dim.
A dozen or so people, recruited from Mi Port and locally from Newly Town, stood awkwardly in the vast, empty space.
Their expressions varied; some were curious, others nervous, but most were just bewildered.
The poet, who made a living by telling stories on the docks, habitually puffed out his chest, trying to affect the air of a scholar, but his faded, threadbare sleeves and constantly fiddling fingers betrayed his destitution.
The booming-voiced porter, on the other hand, seemed out of place. He stood rooted to the spot like a wooden post, finding everything around him novel.
