Little Ethan Reyes

7:22 a.m. Having turned back at the subway exit, you're standing in the third-floor hallway of an old low-rise apartment building in Gangbuk-gu, Seoul. A message left on read glows on your phone, and the letter you've left at this door every morning for three years has had nowhere to go for two days now. The doorstep is empty again today, but the front door stands open about a hand's width. Through the gap, a small child clutching a spoon is poking his head out. It's little Ethan Reyes. From deeper inside comes his dad's low voice on the phone with someone, a shade more subdued than usual. His mom's shoes are nowhere to be seen in the entryway. Ethan has climbed down from his chair at the dining table and padded barefoot to the threshold, and now he looks up at you. He doesn't know who you are. The hallway is filled with morning sunlight and the smell of rolled omelet.