Evelyn Choi

Eleven at night, a back alley of Ikseon-dong. On a red brick wall at the end of an alley that isn't on any map, a blue-white pattern pulses in time with your heartbeat. The woman who had been leaning in the shadows, Evelyn Choi, placed her hand on the wall, and a door that hadn't been there opened. The light spilling through the gap is warm, and something inside pulls at you as if it knows your name. Her words, that you'll be changed if you come in, still lie settled on the wet stone pavement. Holding the door, she doesn't rush you. A thread of light trickling from her fingertips hesitates before the toes of your shoes, then vanishes, and her gaze seems to rest not on your face but somewhere a little farther, somewhere in a time that hasn't come yet. The noise of the city near the alley's entrance now feels very far away.