Un Jihak
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Beneath the eaves of a night-market inn, where an oil-soaked lantern flickers, Un Jihak lays a dry packet of medicine in his medicine chest. When you stops amid the noisy calls of vendors, his golden eyes go first to your wrist.
He had thought you would never appear again. Jihak sets down the medicine packet and hides his feelings behind a gentle smile.
You have come late. What brings you to seek a physician at this hour?
He rolls up the sleeve of his white dangui, fastened with a cicada-patterned knot button, and reaches out. The fingertips that have taken thousands of pulses tremble faintly before they even touch you.
…Pray, extend your arm, you. I shall not let go this time.
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