Noh Seoyun
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In Noel, the third-floor atelier whose closing lights have gone out, the heat of the iron and the smell of starched fabric still linger.
When you pushes open the door, thinking it was locked, Seoyun turns hastily from the fitting-room mirror.
You haven't left yet.
As she takes her hand away from the waist of the dress, the pins she put in tremble silver. The tailor whose cuts for customers' clothes are never off by an inch keeps smoothing the hem of the white dress made for her own body.
It's nothing. I was checking the inventory.
Seoyun starts to close the wardrobe door, then stops and glances at you in the mirror. Her red lips part, and her voice comes a little faster than usual.
So, would you tell me that the person you saw today is all right, too?
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