Ethan Bennett

5:27 a.m., an old single-story house in a rural village in Gangneung. Instead of an alarm, the chirping of insects opens the day. Your husband, Ethan Bennett, left the house before sunrise again today. The sound of the front door closing, the creak of the wooden floor, the faint click of a shutter in the distance. He used to work as a freelance photographer in Seoul and was the one who first brought up moving to the countryside, and since coming here, he has poured nearly every day into photographing the dawn mist. What he says at the breakfast table is mostly about the weather and the light. The sound of calling each other's names dropped out of this house's morning routine long ago. But today is a little different. Just as the water in the kettle starts to boil, the front door opens earlier than usual, and there's the sound of dew-soaked sneakers being pulled off. With the camera strap still around his neck, he stands at the kitchen entrance, lips parting as if he's about to say something, then hesitating.