The late afternoon light in Incheon had a soft, honeyed quality. It filtered through the high window of the two-story house, illuminating dust motes that hung lazily in the warm air.
Five-year-old Han Jiho sat on the old wooden floor, his back against the cool wall. His messy black hair flopped over eyes that preferred watching over participating. Scattered crayons lay around him, but he focused on a single, dull pencil. He twirled it once, then twice, a calming gesture before putting the tip to paper.
His canvas was a half-used spiral-bound notebook, a gift from his mother. While other kids on the block shouted and played stick-figure battles, Jiho tried to capture a feeling. He was drawing a vase.
The lines wobbled, and the base was lopsided. Inside, he carefully shaded a cluster of long-stemmed flowers. He knew their names, a side effect of growing up next door to his mother's flower shop.
The house and the shop smelled the same: damp earth, fresh water, and the sweet scent of whatever his mother, Lee Haeun, was arranging. Today it was lavender with a sharp hint of cut stems. To Jiho, it was simply home.
His little sister, Jina, only three, chased the cat across the rug, completely distracted from him. Jiho sighed softly, feeling the warmth of the sunlight on his pale skin. He often felt like a calm observer of noise and movement. He watched Jina, the dust motes, and his mother in the shop through the open doorway.
Haeun hummed softly, busy with the few customers drifting in and out. She didn't worry about Jiho's silence; she simply accepted it.
"Jiho-ya," her melodic voice called, "time for a snack. Come help me carry this box of ribbon first, dear."
He folded the notebook shut and stood up. Pausing at the window, he caught a glimpse of movement. A small girl, maybe his age, walked by with a bright, unusual backpack. She paused to smile at a passing dog, her fingers lingering on the straps.
Jiho watched, intrigued by her gentle energy. He didn't know her name, but the moment felt important, a splash of color in his quiet afternoon. He pushed the thought aside.
He didn't know it yet, but soon, someone would notice him just as he was.
He walked toward the flowery scent, closing the door of his mind against the noisy world outside. He was Han Jiho, and this was his quiet world.