I see her before I know she is important.
She is standing near the fence by the park, where the banners are tied with a white string. The string moves when the wind comes. She does not move much.
Most adults move a lot. They check their phones. They look around. They talk. This woman stands still, like she is part of the fence.
She is wearing a light jacket, even though it is warm. Her arms are folded across her chest. Her hair is long and wavy. She is watching the stage. Not the whole stage. Me.
I am sitting on the low steps near the side, swinging my legs. My dress is folded carefully on my lap so it doesn't wrinkle. The teacher told me to sit nicely because more people might want to talk to me.
I don't mind.
I feel good. Like after running, when your chest is warm but not hurting.
Haeun is beside me, eating a popsicle. It is red, and it drips onto her hand.
"Don't drip." I said.
"I know." She said, licking faster.
I look back at the woman. She is still there. When I look at her, she doesn't look away. She doesn't smile either. She just watches, like she is counting something in her head. I tilt my head.
She tilts her head too, just a little, like she noticed.
That makes my mouth curve up.
She notices that too. I feel a small spark in my stomach. Not a bad one. A nice one. Like when someone claps right when the music ends.
—
After the recital, things keep happening. People come and go. My name is said a lot. Sometimes right. Sometimes wrong.
"Yuna?"
"Yuri?"
"Yura." I said, clearly.
They apologize and say it again. Sometimes they ask me to say it twice. The teacher is busy. My parents are busy. Everyone seems busy except me. I sit and watch. The woman by the fence moves closer, but not all the way. She stops near the booth that sells drinks. She buys one, takes a sip, and keeps watching.
She does not come to talk to me.
That makes me curious.
Most adults who look at me for a long time come over. They say things like "You did so well," or "You're very cute," or "Do you like dancing?"
This woman does not do that. She watches when I stand up. She watches when I talk to someone. She watches when I laugh. When I sit down again, I feel her eyes like a warm line on my shoulder.
I don't feel scared.
I feel seen.
I swing my legs slower, then faster. I turn my head away, then back. She is still watching. I wonder why.
—
My mother calls me. "Yura, come here." I run over. My shoes make little thumping sounds on the grass. "Yes?"
"There's a photographer from the local paper. He wants a picture." She said. The photographer kneels. He smells like coffee. He tells me to stand by the banner. I stand where he points. "Smile." He said.
I smile.
The camera clicks. It is loud and sharp. I hear another click from somewhere else. I turn my head. The woman by the fence is holding a phone. Not up high. Low. Like she is checking something. When I look at her, she lowers it.
Our eyes meet again. She nods, very small. I nod back. I don't know why I do that. It feels right.
—
Later, when the sun starts to move lower and the shadows get longer, the park feels different. The noise spreads out. People walk more slowly. The music from the other stage sounds farther away.
I am eating a rice cake when the woman finally moves.
She does not come to me.
She goes to the teacher.
They stand a little away from everyone else. I can't hear what they say, but I can see how they stand. The teacher has her hands folded. She listens. She nods once. The man speaks calmly. His mouth moves slowly. He does not wave his hands.
I watch them instead of my food. Haeun follows my eyes. "Who's that?" She asked. "I don't know." I said. "She looks serious."
"Yes."
"Is she mad?" I think about it. "No. She's just looking." I said. She shrugs and goes back to her popsicle. The teacher looks over at me. She smiles, but it is a different smile than before. Smaller. Thoughtful.
She says something to the man and points, just a little, in my direction.
She looks at me again.
This time, when he looks, I feel taller.
—
My parents don't notice. They are talking to another parent about after-school classes. My mother laughs. My father nods. The woman does not go to them. She waits. I watch her wait. Waiting feels quiet. It makes the air feel thick, like before it rains.
When the teacher comes back to us, she pats my head.
"You did very well today." She said again.
I nod.
"There are people who noticed." She said. "Who?" I asked. She looks at my parents. "Nothing to worry about. Just compliments." She said quickly. My mother smiles politely. "That's kind." She said.
The teacher hesitates, then smiles too.
"Yes. Very kind." She said.
I look at the woman again. She is farther away now, talking to someone else. A woman with a clipboard. They speak quietly. The woman writes something down. I feel a flutter in my chest. I don't know what it means.
I just know it feels like something is starting to move.
—
We pack up.
The chairs are folded. The banners are untied. The lights are turned off one by one. When the last light goes out, the stage looks smaller.
I touch the wooden edge with my fingers. It is cool now.
"Time to go." My father said. I follow them to the car. As we walk, I look back. The woman is still there. She is watching the stage now, not me. I wonder if she is imagining something. In the car, I sit in the back seat and kick my feet gently. The seat smells like fabric and sun.
My mother talks about dinner.
My father talks about traffic.
I look out the window.
We pass the park. I see the fence. The spot where the woman stood is empty. I feel a small pinch in my chest. Then I remember the way she looked at me. Calm. Focused. Like she was listening even when no one was talking. The pinch goes away.
—
That night, when I brush my teeth, I practice smiling in the mirror. Big smile. Small smile. No smile. I tilt my head, the way I did on the stage. I think of the way the woman tilted her head back. I giggle and put my toothbrush down.
"Yura. Bedtime." My mother called. I crawl into bed. The blanket is soft and heavy. My room is quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator far away. When I close my eyes, I see the stage.
Then I see the fence.
Then I see the woman, standing still, watching closely.
I don't know her name. But I think I will see her again.