Iris Miller

A backstreet downtown, past ten at night. At the end of an alley emptied of the evening commute, a single tiled roof lies low and flat between glass towers. The signboard reads, in faded letters, Lotus Shrine. When you push the door open, the smell of incense rushes out, and the presence that has clung to your back for weeks falls quiet for the first time. Past a narrow courtyard, inside the room there are a few candles, an old altar, and a woman kneeling in a white jeogori top and black skirt. In her hand is the bell that just rang. It rang before you even knocked. Without raising her head, the woman lights one more candle and points with her fingertip to the cushion across from her. Her gaze lingers not on your face but behind your left shoulder, on the empty air.