On Rainy Nights | Mark Tuan

◦Rooftop◦

-a year later-

Taking a deep breath I exited the bus.
I had finally reached the city, the forty-five minute ride seemed like hours to me, but finally here I was.

I had saved up enough money from the endless part time jobs (and also endless night shifts for extra money) that I had worked secretly, all the while waiting for this day to come.

I had turned eighteen a month ago. My birthday was never celebrated before, but I decided to break the unsaid but followed tradition in the house and had treated myself to some of my favorite foods.

I also had the first ever shot of soju, all alone, which one would have experienced with close friends. I did get a little tipsy, but just enough to quietly sneak into my room through the window by climbing the hard and old ivy vine like the countless time I had done when I had to go to my night shifts.

Not finding a bus to take me to the location I wanted to, I was compelled to flag down a taxi. I told the driver the location which he took in with a slight nod.

Life has its own way of things, at first all I ever felt was sadness, questioning if my own existence was anything but worthy.
But now here I was moving on, with so much hope and aspirations.

I had applied in a few art universities for scholarship in Seoul, I worked hard in drawing and painting and just like that I had got in all of them, it was just the question of which one I wanted to attend.

I had found a small rooftop flat for myself in a cheap rent and right now was heading to that location.

My family members were most probably aware of what I was doing, because the never interfered, maybe the finally realized that they wouldn't get anything out of me.

I paid the taxi fare and found myself in front of a bit of a rickety building. I knocked on the door of the ground floor. A lady came out whom I assumed was the one I spoke to on the phone a few weeks ago.

She gratefully gave me the keys and accompanied me to the rooftop.

The rooftop seemed pretty, it was small but neat, quite a contrast to what the building looked like.
I unlocked the door and pushed it, only to hear it creaking a bit too loud. It needs a little oiling, the landlady said, smiling unnecessarily.

I looked inside to see a table at one side, there was a medium sized cupboard, a small bed and a worn-out but thankfully clean-looking sofa and the kitchen looked okay. The sink tap seemed to work fine and I could see the tops of other buildings from the kitchen window.

To sum it all up, one wouldn't find it all that great, but for me it was perfect. It had all the things necessary and it was cozy, but the one thing that distinguished it from any other place I had ever lived was, freedom. It was now my safe haven.

I started arranging the little clothes and stuff I had. My hand reached out to a handkerchief.

The same white one which he had tried to wipe my tears with. The same one which I held on to all this time.
It was that handkerchief. His handkerchief.

My thoughts went back to that rainy night. I remembered each and every detail, the smell, the sound, the sadness. It felt like a dream, a vivid dream. I still remembered his face, the pretty mole above his upper lip.

A year had passed already, if there ever was a chance of meeting him, would he remember me?

I slowly took out my old tattered easel and set it on the far corner of the room, near the window, overlooking another rooftop flat of the opposite building. The front door of my flat was just beside this window.