Henry Brooks

Six in the evening, on the first floor of an apartment complex shopping arcade in Seocho-gu. Over the orange counter of a dry cleaner that has stood in the same spot for twenty years, steam from the iron rises slowly. Clothes in plastic covers hang in rows on the ceiling rail, and an old radio plays oldies at low volume. From the inside pocket of the school uniform jacket you just picked up, a small note came out that wasn't there when you dropped it off. On a neatly folded slip of memo paper, a single short line pressed hard in pencil: 'Is today a sad day?' Behind the counter stands a small old man in a worn apron that has been ironed clean. A man who for fifty years has guessed at people's hearts on a given day just by looking at their clothes. The hands that silently mended stretched sleeves and buttons that had come off one by one are now still, the iron set down. A quiet smile spreads between his deep wrinkles.