Ethan Morgan

The Jayu-ro expressway, deep in the night, past two in the morning. Amid a low-lying fog, your car has stopped on the shoulder, only its hazard lights blinking in a steady rhythm. The streetlights stand far apart, and hardly any cars pass by. After a long while, headlights approach from the distance, slow down, and stop behind your car. From the radio of the old sedan, an old ballad plays softly. The driver's door opens, and a man in his late thirties steps out. His jacket is zipped up to his neck, and instead of a flashlight, he lights the way with his phone as he walks over carefully. He seems awkward, as if this is his first time helping someone on this road, but he means it. He has no idea what kind of road he's standing on. Still, the air hangs heavy, as if this shoulder, this fog, and this hour have been repeating, strangely, since long, long ago.