After finishing my toast, I lingered in the kitchen, but Sean still hadn't returned. I stared at the closed door, wondering what could be the problem. I just hoped it wasn't Martha screaming her lungs out over something trivial. Speaking of Martha—what kind of boss was she? She hadn't even called to check on us. Then it hit me; she must have called Sean. I wasn't really important to her unless I was churning out a new, profitable design.
If it weren't for the fact that I was here with Sean, I wouldn't have agreed to any of this in the first places ,
I washed my mug and plate, returning them to their places, and retreated to my room. I took out my sketchbook, my heart set on helping Sean. If I could give him a killer design, something that would make the company a household name again, maybe the weight on his shoulders would lift. But as I stared at the blank white pages, nothing came. I tried every angle, every silhouette, but everything I drew looked plain. Common.
Feeling a wave of frustration, I looked around my room one last time, grabbed my sketchbook and phone, and walked out.
The living room was empty. Sean's laptop was still sitting on the couch, which meant he hadn't even come back inside yet. When I stepped out of the building, the crisp morning air was the first thing to hit me, sharp and refreshing. I glanced around for Sean, but he was nowhere to be found. I decided I needed to move, so I headed toward the park I had spotted the night before.
Mapo was beautiful in the daylight. The buildings were a mix of sleek, glass-faced skyscrapers and older, charming brick structures. The streets were impossibly neat, almost polished, with cherry blossoms beginning to bud on the trees lining the sidewalk. As I walked, I felt the familiar weight of eyes on me. A few people gave me off-looks, their gazes lingering on my oversized black hoodie and baggy jeans, while others simply ignored me as if I were a shadow. It didn't really bother me much back at London it was still the same
I passed an open window where I could hear a mother yelling at her kids to hurry up and get ready for school, and the delicious, savory smell of a home-cooked breakfast wafted through the air. It felt so normal, so full of life.
When I reached the park, it was mostly empty. I found a secluded bench tucked away from the main path, wanting to hide from people's gazes. In front of me sat a small water fountain, and carved into the stone wall behind it were the words: "인생을 즐겁고 행복하게 사세요" (Live a good, happy life). I could just make out the Hangeul, and the message felt like a direct whisper to my soul, given my diagnosis.
I took out my sketchbook, finally feeling a spark of peace, when I was suddenly startled. An elderly man had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. I jumped with such force that my sketchbook slipped from my lap and hit the pavement.
He immediately bent down, his movements slow but graceful, and picked it up for me. "Joesong-hamnida," he said with an apologetic look, bowing slightly. He smiled at me—a genuine, kind smile that most people didn't bother giving someone who looked like me.
"Gwaenchan-ayo," I replied, bowing my head back in respect.
His eyes brightened when he realized I could speak his language. "Oh? Are you new to the neighborhood?" he asked in Korean.
"Ne, I just arrived," I answered softly.
He introduced himself as Mr. Choi, and I told him my name. Just like the twins, he struggled with the "L," his tongue curling differently. "Rara," he repeated, nodding with a smile. "A pretty name for a girl in a quiet park."