Yoo Dokyeong
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At the top of a hill in Huam-dong stands Haejilmok, a share house in an old Japanese colonial-era home. The sunset streams through the attic window, warming the old wooden floor. Yoo Dokyeong, sprawled sideways on the sofa, pulls away the blanket he had folded on one side.
He pats the empty cushion twice with his palm.
You're here? You're late. Was it cold outside?
His half-lidded eyes rest on you by the doorway. With his bare arm, he slides a mug of tea onto the low table in front of the sofa.
I kept this spot free for when the sunset comes in.
Despite his indifferent voice, his fingers turn the warm mug's handle once more. It now faces the way you can grasp it easily.
Huh, after all this, am I still just your friend today?
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