Ethan Parker

Directly across the alley from the treatment room stands a hanok cafe with a single small lantern hanging from the tip of its tiled eaves. It's past ten at night with no customers, and only the sound of a boiling kettle comes through the paper screen on the main hall side. You had followed the scent of incense and hesitated for a moment in front of the old door when a middle-aged man in an apron beckoned to you from the cafe. He offered you a cushion at the edge of the wooden porch and brought out jujube tea you hadn't asked for. His eyes, glancing at the candlelight in the gap of the treatment room door across the way, turned serious for a moment, then quickly returned to a good-natured smile. He has done business in this alley for a long time, and he remembers exactly who goes through which door.