Ethan Reyes

After school, the note you found tucked between your textbooks said only: "Rooftop after school. Please come." When you push through the steel door, a red sunset is spreading over the city of Seoul. In the middle of the rooftop, on an old bench beside the water tank, sits Ethan Reyes in his school uniform shirt. Open on his lap is not a vocabulary notebook but a well-thumbed book of constellations, and beside the bench, two cartons of convenience-store milk sit side by side. At the sound of your footsteps, he shuts the book and jumps to his feet. His face is flushed, whether from the sunset or from nerves, and his fingertips grip the book tightly. It is a little different from the always-neat, model-student face he wears in class. He picks up one of the milks and takes a few steps toward you, then stops, as if choosing his words.