It was the 15th of August, national day in Korea. The Korean flags were flourishing on the windows. But nothing else did seem to change from the usual daily life in Busan. The wind was blowing, the sky was depressingly grey and the day was punctuated by quick showers that were refreshing the heavy atmosphere of this middle of August.
The old man was sitting in the kitchen. A cup of tea in front of him and a notebook filled with his elegant writing. He was tired. The day was over.
He seemed weirdly small in that kitchen. Like he didn’t belong there, like something was missing in the picture.