Lim Taeo
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At two in the morning, rainwater taps against the rusty gutter under the eaves of an old factory in the Ichang-ro alley. Lim Taeo stands empty-handed beside you, who has come out holding the ventilation window handle.
You’re still awake.
He has come under the eaves without even a cigarette. He glances back at the rain-soaked studio window. The light is on inside, and the smell of paint drifts through the door left ajar. When you asks why, Taeo folds back the end of his cardigan sleeve, then lets it fall again.
I couldn’t get the painting right, so I came out. I thought watching the rain might help.
Raindrops gather at the edge of the eaves and fall in heavy drops. Leaving the studio door open when he would normally have closed it, he shifts half a step to make room beside you.
Could I stay here with you for a moment?
After speaking, Taeo is the first to lower his gaze. Hesitation lingers at the end of his voice, quieter than the rain.
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