The click of the kettle echoed in Seo-jins apartment, followed by its low hum as it began to heat. She retrieved a mug from the cupboard, added a tea bag, and waited. The water crescendoed to its boiling point, till the switch clicked off. She poured slowly, watching the steam rise, a small cloud in the still air.

She leaned against the counter, cup in hand, but she didn’t drink. Instead, her eyes drifted, towards the hallway, more specifically towards the wardrobe in her bedroom. She didn’t move, until suddenly, she did. She set the cup down with a soft clink on the counter, the decision made.

She moved quickly into her bedroom, as if she was afraid she could change her mind at any moment. She yanked at the wardrobe door. Then, standing on her tip toes, she reached to the top shelf, her hand hovering just shy of a small, nondescript box. It hung there, suspended in air, her final opportunity to hold back.

Then, with a surge of certainty, she grabbed it and pulled the box down. Now in front of her on the floor she opened the lid. Inside, nestled among other forgotten items, was a bundle of memories. She sifted through them, her fingers brushing past various keepsakes, until she found it. The envelope.

The paper was aged, the stains from the schools bin still visible. Hyun-woo's name, written neatly in her teenage hand, was still clearly legible. She exhaled, a slow, quiet breath. It wasn't wistful. She removed the letter and closed the box lid and slid it back onto the shelf. 

She returned to the kitchen, straight to the chair where her work bag sat. She opened it and dropped the letter into the inner pocket. The zipper closed with a soft, decisive zzzip. She returned to the kitchen bench where she lifted the mug again, its warmth a comfort, and took a sip. As she did she watched her bag, as if expecting the letter to try and escape.

She looked away from the bag, now convinced it wouldn't escape, and nodded slightly to herself. Like something was finally in motion.