May 2023 – Seoul
Rimi didn't know if it was meant to feel like this. The rush of moving to a new country – the exhale of breath that came too slow and too tight felt like her lungs were still somewhere half way between Perth and Seoul. She had envisioned a dramatic sense of freedom, a triumph of escape – perhaps even some tears. But as the taxi pulled up to her new penthouse in Gangnam, all she could think was how lonely the city looked – closely stacked like half finished thoughts, glittering lights reflecting nothing but the same repetition of concrete and glass.
Her suitcases – four of them – were well worn from her previous escapes. Tokyo. Kuala Lumpur. Singapore. London. They had been shorter escapes. Unlike this one.
The concierge, already briefed on her arrival, stepped briskly onto the pavement just as Rimi climbed out of the taxi. She maneuvered two suitcases at once — one in each hand, their wheels clicking against the rough tiles as she approached the rotating glass entrance of the twenty-storey complex. The concierge following behind with the others. Seoul wasn't unfamiliar to her; she had visited the city before on investor tours, on behalf of the Western Australian government. But hotel lobbies were one thing — navigating local property markets was another. When she accepted her new role at Macquarie Bank, the HR team had insisted on securing accommodation that reflected both her status and the weight of her new title. And now, standing before the towering facade of her new address, Rimi couldn't help but feel the first ripple of what that meant.
The penthouse caught her off guard — immaculate, almost sterile in its elegance. Pale wood panels stretched endlessly across the vast expanse, a space so indulgent it bordered on absurd for just one occupant. Soft golden light bled from recessed fixtures, casting a warm glow on furniture so plush it looked more sculpted than lived in. And after the concierge completed his brisk tour and slipped out with a practiced bow, the silence settled in – and it was then that Rimi felt it return — that familiar ache of loneliness. Half a world away, and it still clung to her.
Glancing at her phone, she noted four missed calls from her mother — all placed between Incheon Airport and the drive into Seoul. She hadn't answered. She should have, if only to confirm she'd arrived safely. But the thought of talking to her felt heavy. Ever since her thirty-eighth birthday six months ago, her mother's calls had become increasingly fraught — not with concern, but with expectation. Every conversation looped back to marriage, to matchmaking, to recycled ideas of "suitable men" with stable jobs and tempered personalities. It wasn't that Rimi opposed the idea of marriage entirely — she just couldn't stomach the assumption that she'd gratefully accept whatever box-ticking candidate her mother deemed appropriate for a woman at her so-called "ripe age."
With a weary sigh, Rimi sank into the plush embrace of a sofa, her limbs still heavy from travel. Beyond the glass, Seoul shimmered in kinetic brilliance — a cascade of neon arteries pulsing over rooftops and narrow alleys, the city alive in its own sleepless rhythm. The sound was muted, the wind almost whispering through the sealed windows, a distant lull that seemed to cradle her solitude.
She allowed herself a moment to breathe, to absorb the view and the stillness it offered — not peace exactly, but something close. Anchored by the flickering skyline, she steadied her breath and reached for her phone. One swipe. A number she knew by heart.
"Dad. I've arrived safely," she said, voice quiet. "Let mom know."
There was a pause. Then a simple reply: "Okay. Get some rest. We'll talk tomorrow."
It was a cop-out. She knew that. But tonight, even the thinnest buffer felt like mercy.
She rose slowly, reaching for her suitcases, and began wheeling them toward the bedroom, the soft rumble of their wheels trailing behind her across the gleaming floor like an echo.
And then — a sound stopped her.
Faint. Fragile.
A voice, bleeding softly through the wall.
It was singing.
Threadbare, aching, beautiful.
Rimi paused, her spine tingling as she listened with sharpened focus. The lyrics unfolded in both Korean and English — a beautiful dialogue between two languages, stitched together with longing.
It wasn't loud, but it filled the space in a way that made everything else blur.
For the first time since stepping inside, the penthouse didn't feel lonely.
It felt alive.
Like it had a heart.
_____________________
The sun gently settled around Rimi, the next morning – spilling through the sheer curtains scattering gold across surfaces not yet claimed. The room felt borrowed, beautiful in its unfamiliarity. As she drifted out of sleep, Rimi lay still, suspended in the hush – not quite ready to greet her new life formally yet, but not able to ignore it either.
Then came the low, irritable growl of her stomach – a blunt reminder she hadn't eaten since the flight, nearly fourteen hours ago. Sustenance beckoned. But it meant movement: rising, rinsing off sleep, and stepping out into the city.
An hour later, Rimi entered the glow of the nearest convenience store, wrapped in a soft pink tracksuit and hoodie that still carried the warmth of her shower. The walk had been brisk and oddly soothing, the kind that clears the mind without asking for much in return.
The shop was a modest chain — clean, compact, and quietly humming under fluorescent lights. Shelves stood in tidy rows, stocked mostly with instant noodles, snacks, and a chilled section of ready-to-eat or halfway-there meals. Fresh produce was scarce, and as her eyes scanned the limited offerings, Rimi made a mental note: this afternoon, she'd hunt down a proper supermarket.
But for now, she plucked a box of sushi from the chilled section, her eyes drifting toward the fridge beside it — a mosaic of red, blue, and green cartons, each one stamped with Korean script she couldn't decipher. They looked like milk. Probably.
She opened the door and pulled out a blue carton, turning it in her hands. No clues. Just more unfamiliar lettering. She scanned the others, hoping for a picture, a logo, anything familiar.
Still nothing.
With the carton cradled like a question, she approached the counter.
"Excuse me," she asked, lifting it slightly. "Do you know what kind of milk this is?"
The cashier blinked, clearly confused. He mumbled something in Korean, gesturing vaguely toward the fridge.
Before she could respond, a voice behind her cut in — smooth, low, and unmistakably American.
"He said it's whole milk."
Rimi turned.
A pair of striking brown eyes met hers, half-hidden behind a black facemask. He stood just behind her, watching with a quiet intensity that made her pulse skip.
"Oh," she said to the stranger, startled but grateful. "Thank you."
She placed the carton and sushi box on the counter, acutely aware of his gaze — steady, unreadable — lingering a moment longer than it should.
She turned back to him, trying to shake the awkwardness with a smile.
"By any chance," she asked, "do you know where I can find a decent cup of coffee around here?"
He hesitated, then finally spoke — almost reluctant. "There's a café two shops down."
And just like that, he broke the gaze, disappearing into the aisles without another word