Rain drummed against the tin roof in a steady rhythm, the sound I'd grown up with.
The metallic patter mixed with the gentle hiss of steam rising from the rice cooker in our tiny kitchen.
Mom hummed while she worked, her voice threading through the familiar sounds of home.
I was a kid again, maybe eight or nine, pressed against the rough wooden doorframe of our house.
Soojin stood in front of me, her tiny frame shielding me from the group of neighborhood kids gathered in our courtyard.
"Why doesn't he play with us?" one of them asked, voice carrying that cruel curiosity children wielded like weapons.
"He's weird," another chimed in. "Always covering his nose and running away."
"And he cries too much."
"Remember when he threw up during tag?"
Soojin's shoulders squared, her pigtails swinging as she faced them down. Even at six, she had more backbone than I did.
"He's not weird. You're just mean."
