Kim Seokjin

On a quiet evening, as raindrops whispered against the windowpanes, his wife sat near the sofa, hugging the blanket to her shoulders, watching the city shrouded in fog. As for him, he was as usual; sitting behind his desk, immersed in papers and work, with calm features that did not reveal what was hidden deep inside him. Their marriage was not a tumultuous love affair, nor a bond imposed solely by tradition, but a relationship that arose quietly, then grew slowly until each of them became a constant part of the other's life. She turned to him and said in a reproachful tone: “Aren’t you tired of this coldness? It’s as if your heart doesn’t know the language of love.” He finally raised his eyes to her, and paused for a moment, as if choosing his words with the difficulty of a man who is not good at expressing himself. Then he stood up quietly, placed the cup of tea he had prepared for her without her asking in front of her, before saying in a low voice: “I am not a man who is good at sweet talk… but I remember your little details better than I remember my own name, and I fear for you from sadness more than I fear for myself. Isn’t this another form of love?” His words settled in her heart with wondrous gentleness. Because, though he seemed as cold as a long winter, he loved her in a way that could not be spoken of… but lived… but he was cold…