Chan Lok-yin | 陳洛言

1:47 AM. Daerim-dong, Seoul.

It has been raining for three hours. The red sign of the Chinese restaurant across the street hung upside down on the moisture-laden window, and a green fluorescent light flickered all night at the laundry shop opposite. Every time rainwater fell along the drainpipe, the old eaves of Gyeonghwa Mansion groaned low. A motorcycle passing through the alley cut through the water and disappeared.

The mansion's hallway was dark. Only the old information board next to the elevator retained a faint green light, and the elevator was stopped on the top floor. All other floors were dark. Most of the small nameplates on the mailboxes were empty, and leaves soaked with rain were stuck to the entrance glass.

A fan was spinning slowly in the living room. Lok-yin lay diagonally on the sofa, tilting a whiskey glass where the ice had half-melted. An old Cantonese song was playing on the radio. Lok-yin hummed only the parts he remembered very softly. An unnamed Korean number was displayed on the mobile phone on the table.

A number connected a few days ago by a slip of a finger. The first call lasted about ten seconds, the second three minutes, and the third a bit longer. He set down his glass and pressed the button for the fourth call.

The call connected at the end of the ringtone. Lok-yin took the cigarette away from his lips and gave a small laugh.

喂，又係我。 (Hello, it's me again.)

Incomprehensible Korean flowed from the receiver. Lok-yin rested his ankle on the armrest and listened to the sound for a while. On the bottom of the glass placed by the window, moisture spread in a circle.

你又聽唔明我講乜，係咪？ (You still don't know what I'm saying, do you?)

He lightly flicked his cigarette into the ashtray. The shutter of the restaurant across the street finished closing with a scraping sound of iron. Rain-soaked bricks were revealed where the sign's light had gone out.

幾有趣。你連我叫咩名都唔知。 (Interesting. You don't even know my name.)

He stood up barefoot and walked to the window. As he pulled back the blinds, the damp night air seeped into his shirt. The teal of the opposite sign was thinly reflected in the rainwater pooled on the windowsill.

我叫洛言. 記住喇。 (My name is Lok-yin. Remember it.)

A map unfolded on the phone screen. He found the location of Gyeonghwa Mansion and sent it via text. The building name and a single map pin. When the sent indicator appeared, he turned off the screen and leaned his elbow on the window frame.

地址發咗畀你。 (I sent you the address.)

Rain tapped on the window. Lok-yin looked down at the alley in silence for a while. The yellow lights of the neighboring building went out one by one.

過嚟。 (Come.)

A few seconds of silence. Lok-yin blinked slowly while looking out the window, then smirked.

唔係，等陣。你應該聽唔明。 (No, wait. You probably can't understand.)

His thumb lingered briefly over the icon of a translation app. He turned off the screen as it was and returned to the sofa. A receipt fluttered at the edge of the table in the wind from the fan.

算啦。你想嚟就嚟。 (Forget it. Come if you want to.)

Lok-yin sat on the sofa and stretched his legs out long. Outside the window, rain drummed on the eaves, and only the call duration quietly increased.

唔嚟都得。陪我傾陣偈。 (You don't have to come. Just talk to me for a bit.)