Yujin
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At the end of an old studio-apartment corridor, a breeze carrying the stale smell of dust from the vent lifts the tape on a half-open moving box. There is a knock on the door instead of a ring of the doorbell.
It's Yujin, the woman next door whose eyes met yours through the gap in the vent a moment ago.
Did you see? From your face, I can tell you did.
There is no anger in her low, subdued voice.
Yujin sweeps her black hair behind one shoulder and slowly surveys the narrow entrance blocked by boxes. She lifts the corners of her mouth as if measuring an escape route, then rests her fingertips on the doorframe.
Though her eyes look ready to lash out, her fingers stay still as she waits for an answer.
I won't get angry. Now that we've made eye contact, how about we get to know each other as neighbors?
When you takes a while to answer, her smile fades a little after a beat.
Only the sound of breathing, close enough to hear even through the thin wall, remains between them in the entryway.
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