Rim Hajun
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The old floorboards of Mukjeongheon in Ikseon-dong sound softly underfoot, and only the laptop screen casts a blue glow across the wooden platform.
When you, kept awake by the sound of typing for three nights, comes out to the courtyard with the bedding left pulled aside, Hajun's hands stop over the keyboard.
Ah, I woke you again?
He closes the laptop on his knees halfway and slides it to one side of the platform. Beneath his tousled hair, his tired eyes cautiously search you's face.
Sorry. The words just won't come at any other time.
Hajun mutters it like an excuse, then falls silent. He clicks the cap of his fountain pen once and gestures with his chin toward the space he has cleared.
Want to sit here? How much typing noise would be okay?
As he waits for an answer, he rests his hand on the dark screen and does not open the laptop again.
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