Visitors

"Feels more like a typhoon than the rainy season."

As soon as we pulled out of the underground parking lot, he muttered while glancing out the window at the rain hammering the car.

"Even if we'd caught a taxi, we'd have gotten soaked just getting in."

As he said, it was the kind of rain that would drench you in the brief moment it took to fold an umbrella. I thanked him again for the ride, and he chuckled, saying it wasn't anything worth thanking him for more than once.

"I noticed in Hong Kong that you seemed to handle English fairly well."

He brought up an unexpected topic as we stopped at the first traffic light after leaving the garage. He'd never mentioned it back in Hong Kong, so the realization that he had been quietly observing me made my face flush belatedly.

"No, it's just... basic level. About what I learned in school..."

"You must have studied quite diligently. With a foreign language, even if you know it intellectually and can hear it with your ears, it only comes out of your mouth once it's been absorbed into your body."

"I don't think I was negligent about my studies. There wasn't much else... to do."

I'd lost the will to throw myself into anything, but for the first year or so I felt like I'd go crazy if I didn't do something. I simply didn't know what else to do. School classes and studying felt like an obligation I had to fulfill, and just getting through them kept my days moving. After that, it became habit.

"If you want to study English more properly, Yeehyeon, I can arrange a tutor for you. You could even join the classes Yuni Baek and Kwon Juhan are taking."

"I probably wouldn't be able to keep up with the classes nuna and hyung are taking."

As part of employee benefits, nuna and hyung were receiving weekly private English lessons from a native speaker — support in preparation for overseas projects like the Hong Kong trip. I envied how naturally they could converse with people of various nationalities without hesitation, but ultimately it wasn't just a matter of English proficiency.

The moment the wipers pushed the rain away, it came crashing back, creating relentless ripples as it streamed down. Every car on the street was moving slowly and cautiously. Even so, for a Friday night, the traffic volume was noticeably light.

Inside the car, with the radio and music both off, there was nothing but the ferocious sound of rain — as if the storm wanted to swallow us whole and pull us right out of that car.

"Or... should I teach you?"

"......"

I turned to look at his face, which was tinged with a smile.

Was his tone sounding meaningful just a mistaken interpretation, my own feelings projecting onto his words?

The hints he gave someone as clumsy as me were always vague and insufficient. I couldn't rule out the possibility that they weren't hints at all, and I was simply assigning meaning to them on my own.

I considered whether responding with something like, Yes, please. I'd like to learn from you, Director, would be a mature and alluring challenge in a moment like this — but even imagining myself saying it made me feel like I'd let out a deflated laugh. That was definitely not it.

"Just kidding. I don't know why, but I'm terrible at teaching."

He shrugged and chuckled to himself again. It sounded closer to self-deprecating mockery. Perhaps he felt pathetic, rambling on while I remained an unmoving stone.

"How long did you stay at that place before moving to Manager Han's house?"

Finally, he changed the subject. The car began to move slowly as the light turned green.

"Only about a month."

Hmm. He made a low sound, almost a groan, watching the car behind him attempt a reckless pass in the rain.

"It really is quite close to my place."

I hadn't known where his house was before, but thinking about it now, it was indeed a very short distance, just as Manager Han had said.

Using the intersection with the large convenience store and the big Italian restaurant specializing in wood-fired pizza as a landmark: the northwest side was the so-called moon village, where Morae nuna and Yeehan hyung's rooftop apartment were. Although housing prices had reportedly been rising sharply lately, the narrow, old houses without renovations were still cheap. In contrast, the eastern hill where his house stood was a traditional wealthy neighborhood, famous as the residence of conglomerate chairmen, Hallyu actors, and foreign ambassadors.

The structure reminded me of my grandfather's village, divided into a prosperous area and a poorer one centered around the harbor.

I'd never actually timed it, but walking at a brisk pace from the rooftop apartment to his house probably took about twenty minutes. Now that I was staying at Manager Han's place, even if I had occasion to visit his house again, I probably wouldn't walk that route.

"Have you ever been to that Italian restaurant by the intersection?"

"No."

"Ah, don't ever go. The food isn't good and it's overpriced."

He looked genuinely disappointed, his expression serious and tone firm — but that only made me burst out laughing. I just couldn't picture him making a statement like that with full sincerity. Since I still didn't know much about him, trying to guess his "true nature" from an image was nothing more than prejudice.

When I laughed, he let out a small chuckle in response.

As we drove into the tunnel, the sound of the rain cut off abruptly, like a switch being flipped. With the tension eased a little from our laughter, I found my thoughts drifting to the cigarettes I'd been carrying in my backpack all this time.

I dug into my pocket and held out a green pack of cigarettes, and he looked back and forth between the pack and me with an expression that seemed to ask, What is this?

"Well... at the hotel, I smoked one."

"......"

His eyes widened slightly. A mischievous smile spread slowly across his face, as if he'd just witnessed a child's brazen little prank. Even though he'd said that as an adult, the decision to smoke had been mine to make.

"I kept this pack to give to you when we got back to Seoul, but I couldn't find the right moment..."

When I apologized for taking them without asking, he joked that it was just one cigarette — what was the fuss? — and that he'd welcome such "interest" anytime. He said it with the same straight face he'd had a moment before.

He took the pack but didn't set it down anywhere, instead rolling it back and forth in the hand resting on the steering wheel. His sharp profile — neat, yet seemingly not one to grant easy access — looked deeply engrossed in thought.

In the meantime, we exited the tunnel and were thrown back into the rain.

The silence inside the car was more unsettling than the angry downpour outside. The emptiness that had settled over us in this solitary moment brought back the past three days since returning from Hong Kong — every time we'd been face to face at the Phantom office.

He had returned a day after me, on Tuesday, and only came back to work properly on Wednesday morning.

When he occasionally gave me direct work instructions, he had seemed emotionless. At least, that's how it appeared. There were no instances where he looked at me with any extra significance, no moments when his gaze lingered on me longer than necessary.

There were occasional moments — when I'd shift my posture in the middle of deep work and look up without thinking — where our eyes would briefly meet. But that was all.

While contacting shipping agents for the pieces sold at the fair and producing promotional pamphlets for our existing Seoul clients about the successful results of the art fair, he and I had simply worked in our respective places. Just like before.

"You smoked my cigarettes... what else did you get up to for fun?"

"......"

So I hadn't expected him to bring up that day's events, even obliquely. This time, my eyes widened. There was a hint of laughter in his voice.

"They said you couldn't even finish a bowl of wonton soup, didn't get a massage, and didn't move an inch from your room."

I wanted to breathe the outside air, but I knew that if I cracked the window even slightly, the rain would rush in over my lap as if it had been waiting for the chance.

I fumbled with the seatbelt crossing my chest as if trying to tear it off, my lips parting as if to say something — and in the end, I let out a short sigh and just closed my mouth.

In these ordinary moments, when sexual tension wasn't pulled taut between us, I had no preparation or resolve for how to talk about that day.

Before I realized it, the intersection he'd mentioned was drawing near.

Perhaps giving up on hearing my answer, he brought up something else.

"The second round... don't you want to come along?"

He asked as he slowed to wait at the intersection light.

"I have two more days off, and I figured we'd have plenty of time to spend together without rushing tonight. Your hyung and nuna are off this weekend too, aren't they?"

Forgetting the awkwardness, I met his gaze.

He was the type who seemed selective about who he let approach and who would never hold back someone trying to leave — and yet here he was, speaking as if holding me in place, asking me to stay for the second round.

I searched every corner of his mysterious eyes for some hint or hope of my own.

Amidst the heavy scent of rain that had permeated the car's interior, a fleeting whiff of his fragrance sent a chill down my spine. Even for just that brief instant, the scent instantly revived inside me the intensity of the pleasure that had accompanied it. Flustered, I unconsciously turned my head and covered my nose and mouth with my hand.

"It's a business trip wrap-up party — it would feel off if someone didn't show."

As he added that, he seemed to want to preemptively block whatever optimistic interpretation I might attach to his words. The ticklish feeling that had seemed to flutter closer dissolved the next moment, like a fleeting scent that brushed past and faded before I could grasp it.

In any case, it would be nearly impossible for me to read his intentions or thoughts. It might be the ten-year age gap, or the difference in experience that comes with it. It could also stem from something more fundamentally different about who we were. It was frustrating, but there was nothing I could do. It wasn't as if I could go out and pretend to be a playboy just to gain some romantic experience.

"I'd like to, but... I have something important to discuss today."

At my cautious refusal, he narrowed his eyes and studied me.

From behind, a car horn blared sharply. The light had changed without my noticing. He drove the car toward the northwest hill.

Since returning to the country, neither he nor Manager Han had pressed me about whether I'd thought things over or put any pressure on me about the paintings. It seemed they'd laid all their cards on the table and were simply waiting for me to take enough time and decide on my own. But I knew I couldn't drag things out too long by relying on their consideration.

Perhaps today, Yeehan hyung and Morae nuna would finally state their decisions. I, too, planned to clarify my position more definitively. On top of that, I intended to persuade them to begin preparing to leave for Bali immediately, regardless of what answer they gave.

I didn't know if I could truly paint again.

But I couldn't deny the desire to try, just because it felt vague and faint. Even if it was vague and faint, something that existed could not become something that didn't.

Whatever the outcome, I planned to try at least once.

The expectation that if I picked up the brush again, it might make it easier for hyung and nuna to leave was certainly one of the reasons — but I had no intention of being hypocritical, pretending my choice was a sacrifice for others.

It was a decision made by following my own desire, not anyone else's, and I resolved to try not to see that as selfishness.

Because there were people who had shown me firsthand that listening to one's own desires didn't necessarily mean denying and crushing the desires of others — and because of them, even someone as weak as me could build a foundation of belief.

It wasn't that courage had suddenly sprung up. Rather, the thought was to take that first step, whatever it might be, without waiting for courage to arrive. Perhaps... courage would never come if I waited. It was the very act of taking that first step that would become courage.

The church building — grand in scale and utterly out of place in this neighborhood — was gradually drawing closer. In the downpour, it loomed large and dark, like a sinister castle from a medieval horror film, exhaling a faint mist from its massive form.

"That important conversation — is it the kind I might also have reason to look forward to?"

......

Even though I had made a decision, I didn't want to speak it aloud before its form had fully solidified.

Instead of answering, I looked at his face, hoping he would understand that my silence wasn't hesitation, but a desire to be deliberate.

As he slowly drove the car toward the bus stop near the steps, a faint smile touched his lips.

"You aren't someone who opens up easily."

He wasn't wrong, so this time I offered a faint smile in return.

"I'll tell you on Monday..."

"Alright, then. I'll wait."

His words — that he would wait — were sweet. Even if what he was waiting for wasn't me myself but my answer, that answer was still a part of me.

It was raining so heavily, but I managed to persuade him not to carry my bags up the stairs. The "bags," as it were, were just two paper bags of packaged hot pot and a backpack holding a few small souvenirs from Hong Kong — cookies, toothpaste, things like that.

When I opened the door, the downpour that had been following us suddenly closed in around me as if it had been waiting. The streaks of rain seemed ready to suck me right in and swallow me whole.

I paused to watch him drive away, and he briefly tapped the horn — signaling me to go ahead. When I still didn't move, his car slowly started pulling away first. I smiled to myself, imagining him sighing at my stubbornness and shaking his head, and then I turned around.

I wondered whether my slow, dense heart was hoping we might actually date, or wishing for something as absurd as being his one and only.

I had never even experienced unrequited love, let alone a real relationship, so I had no information on how I reacted when I liked someone, or just how much I wanted him.

Before I became aware of it, my feelings were just a vague stirring.

The thirst had started after I became aware, but at least it wasn't a desperate, suffocating urgency — the kind that makes you feel like you'll die if you can't become his lover right now.

I believed I was still at a point where I could nullify my feelings.

I lacked the confidence to endure the pain of discovering emotions in him with different names — be it scorn, pity, or the coldness disguised as being cool — if my feelings became more serious and heavy, spilling out before him and unreciprocated.

For someone like me who had lived without feelings for years, a heavy unrequited love was entirely out of character. It was like asking a scrawny novice who had just signed up for a gym, with no muscle strength to speak of, to lift a hundred kilograms.

Carrying the useless umbrella draped over my shoulder, one paper bag in each hand, and the hot pot dangling from my fingers, I climbed the stairs — organizing my thoughts to focus only on Morae nuna, Yeehan hyung, and painting for today.

Thwack. That was how you turned off the switch, just as he had taught me.

Rainwater flowing down from above rushed like a stream along the stone steps, which lacked proper drainage. Because of the drop from one step to the next, not only my shoes but my calves were completely soaked.

Since nuna and hyung would arrive in about an hour, I planned to shower and set the table with the hot pot beforehand. After climbing all sixty-two steps — which felt steeper than usual because of the rain — my back, burdened by the backpack, was damp with clammy sweat. Wiping the sweat from under my chin, I headed toward the innermost gate.

I searched my pocket for the gate key while balancing the umbrella draped over my shoulder so it wouldn't flip inside out. In the narrow alley where five or six houses were crammed together, the only sound was the rain drumming against the umbrella. The newlyweds on the floor below were quiet today as well.

The rain was beating down so hard my ears felt plugged, making it impossible to hear any footsteps approaching from behind.

"......Is that Yeehyeon-i?"

"......"

There had been no trace of footsteps.

As if the rain had miraculously stopped, a voice calling my name pierced clearly through the downpour and lodged itself in my ear.

Before I could even turn around to see who it belonged to, my body froze. My hand dropped in mid-air, still clutching the key I had been inserting into the gate lock.

As though the rain meant nothing at all — the persistent, briny smell of the sea washed over me like a wave capsizing a boat.

It was my uncle.