11:25 p.m.

The streets of France are full of Parisians and tourists. Some adults accompany children to shops late at night.

Too much noise. Too many lights. For anyone, that would be normal.

Then a woman comes out of her apartment. Her boots sound against the cobblestones along with her suitcase. A slight, rhythmic click-clack. Her hair moves with the cool air. Her glasses fog up, preventing her from seeing. Although for her, she is already used to hearing. And feeling.

A Parisian rides a bicycle. He does not see the woman. He is about to crash. Until she steps aside.

Everything stops.

—Excuse me, miss! I didn't notice —he shouts, stopping to check on her—. Are you all right?

The woman does not react. She tilts her head slightly toward the noise. Her eyes, behind the glasses, take time to orient themselves. She can only make out a tense shadow.

And an altered breath from getting off the bicycle.

—Don't worry. I'm fine —her voice comes out calm. There is no anger—. Are you all right?

The man, uncomfortable with the calmness, nods. He feels a slight discomfort. He is about to say something, but notices that the woman continues on her way. There was no reply. Nor compensation for the accident.

He watches her raise her hand to hail a taxi.

When the taxi stops, the woman looks toward the man one last time. But not directly. Toward the left. She puts the suitcase in first. Then herself. She closes the door calmly. The taxi lights disappear among the cars. The man on the bicycle remains still. He sighs. He gently shakes his head.

—What a strange woman... —he whispers to himself.

He disappears as well among the tourists and Parisians. Some saw the near-crash. None decided to help. They remained standing, watching a woman who did not raise her voice. For anyone else, it would have been a complaint. A call to the police. A fine.

Nothing. She simply left.

Airport

1:02 a.m.

When she gets out, she closes the door. She raises her gaze. She squints. The building is minimalist, with tubes that connect to each other.

In the distance, the terminal with a long line. People waiting for their flight. Others, receiving relatives or partners. With hugs and kisses.

The woman lowers her gaze toward the terminal. She sees shadows. She manages to make out the name of the airport. A shop with gift items. Forgotten suitcases.

Sounds that mix with the wheels of the luggage. She walks calmly. She does not check her papers. Nor the time of her flight.

She sits down. The waiting room is full of restless children playing. Looking around. Without worries yet. Some crying. Others asleep between the seats.

She intertwines her fingers on her lap. She does not move them. She strokes her knuckles with her thumb. She releases the air she had been holding since she left.

The phone vibrates. She does not take it out. She ignores it. She decides to check her suitcase. That everything is in order. Camera, cables, batteries, charger. Everything essential.

—A long journey awaits me in South Korea —she murmurs. It is not a complaint. She raises her gaze toward the screen in front of her. The numbers appear. The flights. The time. It takes her a few seconds to find hers.

She blinks twice. Clears her throat. When she finds her flight, she rises from the chair.

She briefly turns her head toward the line. It is not long. But there are people crowded together. She adjusts the collar of her coat. She heads toward the line.

Several minutes pass. Maybe four. Before it is her turn. The attendant takes her ticket. She looks at her hands. The attendant's voice has a slight tremor. There is no joy.

—Have a good flight, miss —the attendant says without looking directly at her.

The woman nods. She takes it. But before, her fingers brush against hers. As if she wanted to make sure she would receive the ticket. The attendant notices. Her eyes widen. Genuine concern replaces her previous expression. A drop of sweat appears on the woman's temple.

—Are you all right? —her voice shifts to concern.

The woman notices how the attendant changes her posture. Her breathing becomes slow. She tilts her head toward her voice.

—Yes, I am. Don't worry —she takes the ticket and leaves.

Inside the airplane

1:26 a.m.

People sit in their respective seats. Others remain standing, putting away their suitcases. The woman lightly holds onto the seats to guide herself. She briefly wrinkles her nose when she has to bring the ticket closer to see her seat number.

After passing tired and desperate people, she makes out her seat number, blurred. She stops.

She opens the compartment to put her suitcase in. When she hears the material touch the bottom, her fingers slide along the compartment to close it.

She takes a breath. Then releases it. She sits down. By the window.

She rests her chin on her palm. She looks outside. The highway lights. She sees flashes and distortions.

She adjusts her glasses with a controlled movement.

The phone keeps vibrating. She takes it out. Presses the power button. It makes a sound before turning off completely.

When the screen light goes out, she puts it away.

She sighs. Closes her eyes.

South Korea awaits. With several surprises.