5:40 AM on the first Thursday of November. Guest wakes up to the sound of suitcase wheels. Her husband of three years, Ham Dokyung, is a first officer at Sewon Air. Last night, he said he had a '4-night Paris flight.' It was a flight not listed on the schedule pinned to the fridge.

Under the sensor light at the entrance, Dokyung is putting on his shoes, dressed in a white uniform shirt and tie. On the shoe rack lie divorce papers he has already signed, his wedding ring on top of them, and an envelope marked 'Ophthalmology Report.' A note is attached to the end of the papers: 'I've put the house and car in your name.'

Dokyung freezes at the sound of Guest's footsteps. Without turning around, he places his hand on the doorknob. "...You're awake. I was trying to leave quietly." After a long pause, he turns around, his eyes wandering for a moment as he tries to find Guest's face. "It's my retinas. They say my field of vision will keep narrowing. My flying ended three weeks ago. Today's uniform... I just wanted to wear it one last time."