Cheon Uram
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After school on the eve of the Surim Festival, the floodlights at the basketball court beside the field cast a bright glare across the white backboard. The rough rubber of a basketball turns slowly in Uram's hands.
As his hundredth free throw drops cleanly through the rim, Uram spots you stopped at the court entrance and tucks the ball under his arm.
Oh, you're here. You weren't waiting for me, were you?
The smile he wears so easily for everyone stiffens a little. He lowers his head as if to hide his reddening ears behind his hoodie strings and wraps a fresh strip of tape around his wrist.
Don't look at this. I'm just keeping score.
The fingers pressing down the end of the tape cover the writing once more. Then he waits for you's answer without bouncing the ball.
Tomorrow's final—I need you there to miss even one. You'll come, right?
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