At last, we are

The university classes had just ended, and you found yourself once again at the station near your university campus, waiting.

The train arrived with its familiar metallic and the doors slid open. People spilled out like marbles dropped from a jar. You stepped in, slower than the rest, and by the time you looked around, all the seats were gone. You held the pole, indifferent now to the way the carriage swayed. 

A man in a business suit sat with his head tilted against the window. His face had the pallor of someone who had long since forgotten how to sleep. You saw others who resembled him: students with weary eyes buried under makeup, men and women all doing quiet impressions of functioning people. You recognized that look. You’d worn it yourself.

When the train reached your station, the doors groaned open again. You waited for the tide to pass before stepping off. The underground hall looked the same as always: gray, square, sterile. But there had been something odd about the light. A little too clear, maybe. A little too still.

Then you heard it, a faint melody, suspended in the air. Someone was playing a guitar.

You followed the sound almost instinctively, passing under flickering fluorescent lights and scuffed tile walls. At the bottom of the stairs, you found her. A busker.

She was slouched against the station wall, cap pulled low, guitar balanced in her lap. She was singing. Her voice wasn’t loud or showy. It didn’t call attention to itself. There was something intimate about it.

You stopped and listened. You didn’t know the song at first. It stirred something, though—some faint recollection you couldn’t quite place. When it ended, you reached into your pocket and pulled out two five-thousand-won notes, folded and soft at the edges. You placed them gently into the open guitar case. There weren’t many others there. She looked up, surprised, and met your gaze.

“Thanks,” she said. Her voice in conversation was the same as in song: subtle, fragile.

You nodded. “Mind if I sit for a bit?”

She shrugged. “Sure.”

So you slid down the opposite wall, sat with your back to the cold brick. She played another song. This one had a trace of brightness to it. You watched her fingers move across the strings. The guitar was old, but it sounded clear. You stayed through the whole song. A few commuters passed between you, but no one else stopped.

Afterward, she asked, “What brings you here?”

“Just passing through,” you said. “Thought I’d stop. Your voice—it's… nice. Familiar.”

“Thanks,” she said, smiling faintly.

“What was the first song you played?” you asked.

She thought for a moment. “Dayfly, by Dean.”

“That’s it,” you said. “I recognized it, but couldn’t name it.”

“It’s a good one. Not trendy anymore, though.”

“And Dean’s gone.”

She laughed, her shoulders rising slightly. “He’ll be back. Artists like him can’t stop creating. They might disappear, but they’re always writing in the background. They don’t really quit.”

“Maybe,” you said. “Maybe you’re right.”

She started playing again. The next song was War, by Colde. But you didn’t remember.

“I’m terrible with names,” you admitted. “But I always know the tune.”

“Happens to a lot of people.”

A pause followed, long but not uncomfortable. You sat in the quiet. She tuned her guitar slowly, fingers adjusting pegs without looking. You didn’t feel the need to say more.

Eventually, you stood.

“Thanks for the music,” you said.

“Thanks for listening,” she replied.

You nodded. “How long will you stay out here?”

“Another hour or so.”

“That’s a long time.”

“It’s shorter when I’m singing.”

You left with a small wave, and she answered it with a tilt of her head.

The next morning, the alarm had gone off again—sharp, shrill, and too soon. The beep felt like a nail driven into your temple. You woke up in your studio apartment, every bone in your back aching. You sat up slowly. You skipped breakfast, like always. Food was expensive. Hunger was manageable.

The train ride back to campus passed in a kind of blur. You recognized the faces. You didn’t remember their names. The classes were predictable. You took notes. You didn’t absorb much.

In the evening, you headed to work. A fast-food restaurant. You flipped patties in the back kitchen. It smelled like oil and boredom. You didn’t hate it. You didn’t love it either. Most of your coworkers never lasted long. The ones who dealt with customers left first.

But that evening, your boss let you go early.

“Not many people today,” he said. “You look like you need some rest.”

You nodded. That was all there was to say.

On your way home, you passed through the station again. And once more, you heard it—her voice.

You found her exactly as before. She wore a hoodie this time. The guitar case was still mostly empty. Her head was bowed again. 

You leaned against the same wall. You didn’t say anything, not until her fourth song ended and she looked up and saw you. She seemed surprised.

“You again,” she said. “How long were you standing there?”

“Since Spring Day,” you replied.

“That was four songs ago.”

You shrugged. “You don’t look up much.”

“I try not to,” she said. “It gets kind of discouraging, seeing no one there. So I stare at the floor and sing.”

Her voice trailed off at the end. You didn’t look directly at her. She didn’t look directly at you. 

“You look like a student,” she said after a moment.