Page 15

Monroe enters the building, her silhouette briefly framed by the frosted glass on the doors. The neighborhood is quiet and discreet, a good location for children without the protection of their parents. The rush of the city feels far away despite the fact we’re still very much in Busan.

After a few minutes, the light flickers on in a second floor window. Monroe appears again, taking a seat as a group of small children gather around her. They settle down on a plastic mat with their undivided attention set on her.

She smiles, her lips moving and her hands holding up a brightly colored children’s book.

…she’s volunteering at the orphanage, reading to small children.

Like her students at the school, the orphans seem to love her. They giggle and eagerly participate every time she prompts them with a question.

Two books later, one of the caretakers comes to collect the children. Story time is over.

The kids obediently file out of the room with only one boy staying behind. He’s the only one out of the group who seems upset, rubbing at his eye.

I recognize the sadness on his face. It’s more than typical childish ailments, like a skinned knee or scary dream.

This boy is deep in grief over his family.

Monroe notices as a few tears slip down his cheek, and she pulls him into a gentle hug. Her lips move, likely providing some kind of comfort. It seems to help the boy, whose whole body is tense and stiff.

It’s almost like looking into the past.

I was that boy once.

“Eomma,” I cried for days. For weeks,beggingto see my mother again.

I was so young that I didn’t understand what had happened. I didn’t grasp the permanence of death, or the fact that people don’t come back once they die.

The orphanage I stayed in was just like this. Drab and gray on the outside and isolating and lonely on the inside.

The caretakers had their hands full looking after forty children at any given time. Nobody paid attention to little runt Jin-tae and his cries for his Eomma. I was one of many.

A kid who belonged to no one anymore. No other family wanted me. None of them ever came to claim me.

I was alone in the world and would be for the rest of my life.

I look at the boy Monroe’s comforting and see my younger self crying ’til I couldn’t breathe and was lightheaded.

There had been no kind stranger who ever visited us and read us stories.

The memory fades when Monroe guides the boy out of the room so he can return to the others. His tears have stopped, though I’m sure the pain is still there.

That never goes away.

Monroe packs her things and leaves shortly after.

I wait for her on the outside, tucking away the binoculars I’ve used to watch.

She’s on the move again, headed back the same way she came. I fall into step with her several paces behind.

Nowshe’s headed home.

She doesn’t know it yet, but these are the last few hours of her life.

The sky is purpling by the time Monroe arrives at her apartment building. This time of year in Korea, the sun sets minutes after 8 p.m.

The streetlights flicker, casting long shadows over the cracked sidewalk. She doesn’t look behind her once. She punches in the entry code to the front gate and then disappears inside the building.

I give it a second before crossing the street and following in her wake. The summer air is thick with city smog and traces of the many different dinners being cooked from inside. I pick up notes of black pepper, garlic, and ginger specifically. Probably for a dish like Jeyuk Bokkeum, a spicy pork stir fry.