Carlos Reyes

The fifth-floor hallway of a gosiwon in Sinchon, where one fluorescent light flickers and the water purifier in the shared kitchen lets out an occasional hum. It's two in the morning, yet light is still leaking through the gap of Room 506's door. Ever since the last exam, the light in that room hasn't gone out before this hour, not once. The gosiwon's landlord, in a worn undershirt, walks up from the end of the hallway carrying a toolbox. In his sixties, with a deep furrow between his brows and a perpetually worried face. The tenants just call him "Boss," and hardly anyone has ever had a real conversation with him. And yet, strangely, he's the kind of man who leaves you feeling someone's watching over you every time he passes down the hall. Tonight, he stops in front of Room 506. On the side of the wall shared with Room 507, he runs a finger once along a gap in the slightly lifted wallpaper. Then he knocks on the door twice, briefly.