From the glass window in front of her desk, the sunlight leaked out and filled up her room. Yewon flipped through the pages of her math homework and solved the 200 problems that had to be done in a day. As she rubbed her necklace against her pale skin, the door crack opened.

“I’m not sure what the action verb is in this sentence and the meaning of this word, ‘enthusiasm.’” Her brother Junho asked as he came in.

It was the homework he received from the private school he attended that took a 10-minute drive from home, the same school Yewon used to go to.

“Show me the sentence.”

She explained each problem and thought, “if he didn’t live in Korea would he have spent the day like many children in the world do?”

She wanted him to run across the concrete like most 9-years-old do, making secrets between the city and knowing the things many don’t, like the broken yellow handle on the bus 4212 or the small gap between the shops in Dongsan-daero 89-Road. She wanted him to have no worries about the homework that is due the next day, but only about the weather that might stop him from going outside as Yewon did at his age, back when she lived in California with her aunt for a year. She made the memories she couldn’t make in Korea.

It was her first time making friends of different races, eating sour patches, and staying up until midnight. With her friends, she rode a bike in between the weeds, hiked up the smallest hill made from her neighbor’s backyard, and drew a hopscotch board on the ground with pink and yellow chalks. They were the deviations she couldn’t imagine doing and the events became more entertaining because of that.

But as soon as she came back to Korea, there were at least two tutors every day and piles of homework she had to solve. She hadn’t been outside for a long time, except when she went to her school or private classes. When she looked through the thin curtain that cloaked her window, she could see the moon soothing the winter sky.

In those days, she put her AirPods into her ears and blared out “Blank Space” by Taylor Swift, the song she heard all over the streets in the US. Her only hobby, piano, was covered in dust and her favorite books were piled underneath the papers. She could barely remember the times when she loved to pick a random sheet music and practice it for days until she could play it utterly. There were also times when the veranda was her favorite place, reading books until the sun crumbled into the sky and tinged the world with its bright colors. After the sunset, she would look at the traffic and try to find her parents’ cars in the clumps of automobiles. She wondered if her brother was becoming like her, or even if he remembered the things outside.

“Do you know what the grass feels like under the sun?”

“Like hay? Dry enough to turn into dust with a touch” Her brother answered.

She grabbed her younger brother and ran, past the doors and onto the elevator and from the 29th floor to the 1st; past the trees whiffing the smell of summer and the cars piercing through the burning asphalt. The bikes behind them jangled and pushed them to a pile of green leaves that had flattened down to the ground. They lay down on them and looked at the blue sky that had clumps of clouds softening it, the view Yewon missed more than anything. Even after years, the sky looked the same as if it was a guide to follow in a place where everything changes so quickly.

They stood up and walked again, finding out that there stood five Gingko trees in the middle of the block and ten pigeons straying around it. They didn’t even know what kind of trees were in the street after years of living there. Past a short tunnel with plastic covered on top, they saw the Han River shimmering on and green hill with hints of Morning Glories. Junho avidly probed the grasses with his hands.

“Grass feels warm, nicer than I thought. I think it would be a nice place to come from time to time and just breathe for a while.” Junho said.

“It is, and the place under the Yeongdong Bridge is nice to saunter around when it rains.” Yewon slightly smiled as she brushed her black hair rippling down to her shoulders.

Yeongdong Bridge was visible from their house, but the space under it was hidden from others. It wasn’t spotted from any other buildings and only a few people spent their time in that place. No one cared what she did and that was one of the reasons she liked it. When the rain drizzled down, its sounds mellowed the air and swiveled around the space making it her favorite place.

With the grass that had stuck onto their clothes, they ate ramen from the nearest convenience store and ran through the traffic light a few seconds before it turned red. They rode on one of those purple electric kickboards laid down on the street and stepped on the white lines separating the sidewalk and the roadway.

As they ran down the road, they found a dandelion yellowing the small crack between the concrete. It slowly sprouted its leaves from the fragments of light washing it, a string of light that gave it hope and metamorphosed it.

“I want to give water to it and be the second hope for the flower, make it grow so this flower can make someone’s day.” Junho laughed.

The two chased the edges of the street that led to another endlessly. The blue and the warmth they saw that day were the kindness they waited for years and would be remembered as what summer was.