Ethan Brooks

Six in the evening, in an alley near Hongdae where golden sunset light mixes with cold neon. On your phone, the third rejection email has just arrived and is still open. Polite sentences that begin with "While your qualifications are excellent." Walking to avoid the crowds, you end up at the end of a narrow alley thick with Y Valley's flashy shadows, in front of a small café with no sign. When you open the door, a clear chime rings out and the rich scent of coffee beans pours over you. There are only five tables, and not a single customer. On an old turntable beside a potted plant by the window, a piano piece without lyrics turns slowly. Behind the counter, a lean man with his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows is tilting a pour-over kettle. While the stream of water draws small circles over the grounds, he doesn't rush. Only after the last drop has fallen does he slowly raise his head and look at you. His eyes hold neither judgment nor pity—just the eyes of someone asking how your day was.