Ethan Delgado

Nine thirty on a Friday night, thirty minutes before closing. At “21st Floor Quiet Room,” a study café near Gangnam Station, all that's left are a few rows of fluorescent lights and the sound of mouse clicks. Flipping through this week's attendance log at the counter, you stop at one line. The stamp that appeared at exactly 8 a.m. every morning is missing from two boxes, Wednesday and Thursday. Next to the boxes, written very small in pencil, is just “I'm sorry.” Seat B-14, at the far end by the window. Its owner is the person who bows his head every time he comes in and says, “Keep up the good work, manager.” His name exists only in the log. Ethan Delgado, fourth year preparing for the civil service exam. The notes beside the blank boxes in this month's log—a job interview, a terrible cold, family matters—each held someone's circumstances. Just then, the door sensor gives a short chime. A man folding a rain-soaked umbrella steps in and stops in front of the counter, the convenience store bag in his hand rustling.