There are two kinds of waiting I cannot stand: waiting for food when I'm hungry and waiting for my father to reveal a birthday present.
The second is worse.
Food, at least, has the decency to smell delicious while you wait. My father simply smiles as though he's hiding the secrets of the universe and expects everyone else to be patient.
At the end of the gift ceremony, he took my hand and led me through the garden doors. I followed so quickly that Grandma called after us to remind me not to run.
I wasn't running.
I was practically flying.
"Dad, where are we going?"
"Somewhere."
"What's the present?"
"Something."
"Have you ever considered giving a proper answer?"
"Frequently. I always decide against it."
On the covered terrace stood a large parcel wrapped in silver paper, with an enormous blue ribbon tied around the middle. It was almost as tall as I was. One corner had an odd shape beneath the wrapping, but Father stepped in front of it before I could investigate.
"Happy birthday, princess."
I stared at the parcel. "Can I open it?"
"Tonight. After the guests leave."
My jaw dropped. "You brought me all the way here to tell me to wait?"
"Yes."
"That is a terrible gift."
He laughed, crouched in front of me, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
"It's a little surprise for the end of the day. I promise it's worth waiting for."
I gave the package a suspicious look.
"Is it a refrigerator?"
Father blinked. "Why would I buy you a refrigerator?"
"Because it looks big, and you're always telling me not to eat all the ice cream."
He laughed so loudly that several guests turned to look.
"Come on," he said. "Your mother will accuse me of kidnapping the birthday girl."
I took one last look at the silver parcel before following him inside.
Whatever it was, I intended to find out before I went to bed.
ELSEWHERE IN SEOUL — 4:07 P.M.
Lin Hao was having an argument with a bowl of rice that was no longer in front of him.
He had thrown the rice away before leaving his apartment, but the memory of it remained painfully clear. The bottom had burned, the top had somehow stayed hard, and the middle had turned into something suitable for repairing cracks in a wall.
He had followed the instructions. Mostly.
Now he sat in a café with a sandwich and a cold drink, feeling that adulthood had been poorly advertised.
At twenty-six, Lin Hao was a capable secretary, a diligent employee, and the only person in Murphy Cheng's office who could interpret the difference between his employer's angry silence and his thinking silence.
At home, however, he could barely prepare rice.
He sighed and looked toward the window.
"God," he whispered, "I'm asking for something simple. Someone to share my life with. A kind woman. A patient woman. Preferably one who knows how long rice is supposed to cook."
He considered that request.
"Actually, I'll learn to cook. I just don't want to eat alone forever."
His phone rang.
MOTHER.
He looked at the screen with the fear of a man who knew exactly what question was coming.
"H-hello, Mom."
"Lin Hao! Have you eaten?"
"Y-yes."
"Proper food?"
He looked at his sandwich.
"F-food."
"Are you seeing anyone?"
There it was.
"Mom—"
"I'm only asking. You're twenty-six. Your cousin is getting married next spring."
"That's w-wonderful for him."
"And the girl I told you about?"
Lin Hao stared into his drink. "She d-didn't want to meet again."
"Why not?"
He wished she hadn't asked.
One woman had walked out halfway through a date after mocking his stammer. Another had been even crueler. Lin Hao could withstand a difficult boss, a dozen urgent deadlines, and sleepless nights at the office. But the thought of exposing himself to that sort of humiliation again made his stomach tighten.
"Because she couldn't bear to listen to me talk!" he said, his frustration bursting out in a single clear sentence. "One woman even slapped me, Mom. I'm tired of being treated like there's something wrong with me just because I take longer to say things!"
The café grew quiet.
His mother went silent too.
Lin Hao realized two things at once.
First, everyone nearby had heard him.
Second, he hadn't stammered at all.
"Sweetheart," his mother said at last, more gently, "I didn't know it had been that bad."
His anger drained away.
"I-I know you m-mean well."
"I do. But I shouldn't pressure you. Eat your lunch, all right? And call me when you get home."
"I w-will."
When the call ended, he lowered his head onto his folded arms.
Perfect.
He had come to the café for peace and had managed to make an announcement about his romantic failures to half of Seoul.
"Excuse me?" a woman said.
Lin Hao shut his eyes. Surely the ceiling could collapse and save him from this conversation.
"Are you using this chair?"
He looked up.
A young woman stood beside his table, holding a book and a drink. Her midnight-black hair fell over a blue denim jacket, and the black-and-white shirt beneath it matched her dark jeans. Her eyes were an unexpectedly clear blue. When she smiled, the expression reached them completely.
For a foolish moment, Lin Hao forgot both the question and the existence of chairs.
She looked strangely familiar, like the girl who had appeared in a pleasant childhood dream he'd never quite managed to remember.
"Th-the chair?" he repeated.
"Yes." She tilted her head. "May I borrow it? Or is somebody joining you?"
"N-no. I mean, y-yes. You c-can sit."
"Thank you."
She started to move the chair toward a nearby table, where a group of students were making room for a friend.
Lin Hao's heart sank. Naturally. She hadn't been asking to sit with him.
Then she paused and looked at the sandwich he'd barely touched.
"Your drink is about to spill," she said.
He glanced down. His sleeve had caught the edge of the glass.
"Oh!"
He caught it just in time.
The woman laughed—not at his speech, but at his expression of complete horror over a glass of juice.
"Good save."
Lin Hao found himself smiling.
"Th-thank you."
"I'm Hwa-young, by the way."
"Lin H-Hao."
"Nice to meet you, Lin Hao."
She said his name without hesitation, as though it were the easiest thing in the world.
A few minutes later, when the students left and the café filled again, Hwa-young returned to ask whether the seat opposite him was free. This time, Lin Hao managed to answer before she could change her mind.
They started with small things: the terrible traffic outside, a book she had bought, and the café's chocolate drinks. He ordered another for her, despite her protest that she could pay for herself.
"Then you can buy the next one," he said.
Her smile deepened. "The next one?"
He nearly choked.
"I m-mean—if—"
"It's a deal," she said, rescuing him.
They talked about work. She asked what he did, and he admitted that his employer was a demanding man who happened to be kinder than his reputation suggested.
"Does he make you work on weekends?" she asked.
"Sometimes."
"Then he owes you a good holiday."
"He owes me s-several."
She laughed.
And when he struggled over a word, she simply waited for him to finish. She never guessed it for him or looked away in embarrassment.
By the time he noticed the café lights glowing against the darkening windows, he'd forgotten to be ashamed of his own voice.
He checked his phone.
8:03 P.M.
"Oh, no."
Hwa-young sat up. "What happened?"
"My boss's d-daughter! Her birthday party."
"You forgot?"
"I was s-supposed to go hours ago."
"Then go," she said, smiling. "You can tell me the rest another day."
His heart gave an absurd leap.
"Another d-day?"
She took out her phone and held it toward him.
"Only if you want one."
He entered his number, and she called it so he'd have hers. Then they stood outside the café, where the evening air felt cool against his face.
"Good luck at the party," she said.
"Thank you. And... Hwa-young?"
"Yes?"
"I'm g-glad you took that chair."
She grinned. "So am I."
Watching her walk away, Lin Hao felt lighter than he had in months.
Then he remembered Murphy Cheng.
"Oh, I'm dead."
By the time Lin Hao arrived at our house, the party was almost over.
I was standing near the entrance, saying goodbye to some of the guests, when a familiar figure hurried through the gate. His hair looked as if he'd combed it in a moving car, and he carried a small gift box in one hand.
"Miss N-Nyx!"
"Uncle Lin!"
I called him Uncle Lin even though we weren't related. He was always polite to me, and he sometimes rescued me from Father's boring conversations at company events by producing sweets from his pockets.
"H-happy birthday," he said, bending slightly. "I'm s-so sorry I'm late."
I accepted the little box.
"Did Dad make you work?"
"N-no. I..." He glanced toward the garden. "I l-lost track of time."
Father appeared behind me.
"Lin Hao."
My poor visitor straightened instantly.
"S-sir."
"You're rather late."
"Y-yes, sir."
Father studied him. "Did something happen?"
Lin Hao's ears turned pink.
I had never seen anybody blush so quickly.
"Was it a girl?" I asked.
Both men looked at me.
I shrugged. "That's what happens in the films Grandma watches."
Father folded his arms, but his mouth twitched.
"Go home, Lin Hao. We'll talk tomorrow."
The words made his secretary look as if he might faint.
Then Father added, "And thank you for remembering her gift."
Lin Hao relaxed so visibly that I almost laughed.
I hugged him quickly. "Thank you, Uncle Lin!"
He smiled. "Y-you're welcome, Miss Nyx."
After he left, Father shook his head.
"Something is definitely going on with that young man."
"Maybe he's in love," I said.
Father laughed. "You sound like your grandmother."
I took that as a compliment.
Just before nine o'clock, Seong's parents came to collect her. They were the last guests to leave, which was fitting because Seong had spent the entire day trying to convince me to let her stay another hour.
"Tomorrow at school?" she asked.
"Tomorrow."
"And don't ride your new whatever-it-is without me."
"Seong, I haven't even opened it."
"Then you'd better tell me first."
She hugged me, waved to my family, and disappeared into her parents' car.
At last, the house grew quiet.
Well, quieter. In our family, complete silence was usually a sign that somebody had broken something.
The household staff helped carry the presents into the sitting room. Mother sat beside me on the rug, Father leaned against the sofa, and my grandparents settled into their favourite chairs. My little brother hovered close enough to investigate every box.
We began unwrapping.
There were books, clothes, a puzzle that looked impossible, a cheerful little bracelet from Seong, and a small model car from Uncle Lin. Grandma's twelve packets of chocolate occupied their own corner of the table like a tiny army.
Then Mother handed me her present.
Inside was a laptop, a new game, and more chocolates.
"Mom!"
She smiled. "For schoolwork first."
"And games second?"
"After your homework."
"That's a very important detail you should have mentioned before I thanked you."
She laughed as I threw my arms around her.
Mother was quieter than Father. He could fill a whole room with his voice, while she could make me feel better simply by sitting beside me. She read to me at bedtime, listened when school became difficult, and somehow knew when I needed advice and when I needed chocolate.
She also knew my asthma better than I did.
Whenever the weather turned cold, she checked that my inhaler and prescribed medicines were where they belonged. If I coughed at night, she was usually at my doorway before I called for her. Father worried loudly; Mother worried in ways that made everything feel under control.
I loved her for that.
I loved Father, too, even if he was far too fond of making speeches.
And now he was making another one.
"Nyx," he announced, "before you open my present—"
"Dad, please."
"—I want you to know that gifts aren't measured by price—"
"Then why is yours enormous?"
Grandpa burst into laughter.
Father gave up and gestured toward the silver parcel.
"All right. Open it."
I tore away the ribbon. My brother helped pull off the paper, although I'm fairly certain he was enjoying the destruction more than the surprise.
Underneath was a brand-new bicycle.
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
It had a deep blue frame that gleamed under the lights, neat silver handlebars, and a little bell near the grip. A matching helmet hung from the seat.
"A bicycle?" I whispered.
Father crouched beside me. "You said you wanted one of your own."
I had. Many times. I'd borrowed Seong's bicycle whenever we had the chance to ride together, and I'd imagined how wonderful it would be to go down the garden path on one that belonged to me.
I touched the handlebars.
"It's really mine?"
"Really yours."
I turned and flung my arms around his neck so hard he almost lost his balance.
"Thank you, Dad!"
He held me close.
For a little while, I couldn't say anything else. I was happy enough to cry, which was embarrassing because I liked to think I was terribly grown-up for nine.
Mother gently reminded me that the helmet would be worn every time I rode.
"Even in the garden?"
"Especially while you're learning."
"And can I ride it to school?"
Father and Mother answered together.
"No."
I sighed. "I had to ask."
We all laughed.
Later, after I'd thanked everyone, Grandpa beckoned me to his chair.
"Remember the diary?" he asked.
I nodded. It rested on the table beside the pen he'd given me.
"And the surprise I promised?"
"Yes!"
He smiled and produced a small card from his pocket. On it, in his careful handwriting, were the words:
For every adventure you cannot tell aloud, may these pages always listen.
Beneath them he had written my name.
"That's for the first page," he explained. "But you must write the rest yourself."
I held the card carefully. "What if I run out of stories?"
He gave me a strange little smile.
"I don't think you will."
I didn't understand why he sounded so certain. Then Grandma called him away to help with the remaining presents, and the moment passed.
That night, I placed the card inside the diary, set the pen beside it, and looked once more at the bicycle waiting near my bedroom door.
My parents had given me everything I could reasonably wish for: a home full of laughter, people who loved me, and enough presents to make Seong jealous for a week.
At nine years old, that seemed like all a person needed.
I didn't know then how often I would return to the pages Grandpa had given me.
Or how badly I would one day wish that some adventures could remain untold.