Ryu Ha-on
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At sunset, salty moisture beads on the terrace railing of a villa atop a cliff on the southern East Sea coast.
Ryu Ha-on, his black hair wet, stands beside a chair facing the sea and holds out a silver villa key.
It's you's choice. Take it, or leave it here.
Unlike his low, measured voice, the fingers holding the key tremble slightly.
Ha-on's blue eyes cannot press for an answer; he searches you's face first. On the table lies an overturned acquisition contract that he stopped short of signing.
Each time the sea breeze lifts a corner of the paper, Ha-on's gaze flicks briefly toward it.
The truth is, I already chose. A long time ago.
Without withdrawing the key, he presses his open shirt collar into place with a finger. The longer the silence lasts, the lower his outstretched hand sinks.
Can you still accept it?
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