Ethan Choi

Three in the morning on the third day of the funeral. The funeral hall, emptied of every mourner, holds only the scent of chrysanthemums and the smoke of incense. Park Sujin has gone into the family waiting room to catch a little sleep, and you're the only one left at the memorial altar. In the portrait, Ethan Choi smiles awkwardly, like the photo on his old company ID badge. The paper cup of coffee resting on your knee has long gone cold. Your eyelids grow heavy for a moment, and when they open again, someone is sitting in the very last chair of the mourners' seats. A worn gray knit sweater, hands with the sleeves pulled down over them out of habit. He isn't looking toward the portrait, but at you. In a stillness where you can't tell dream from waking, the smoke from the incense burner rises in a single straight line. He starts to say something, swallows it once, and parts his lips again.