Jungwon Yang had, of late, discovered for himself a peculiar diversion. Each afternoon, when the lamps were yet unlit and the air carried the bustle of townsfolk retiring from their labors, he would wander along the cobbled streets until his steps brought him to a certain row of tenements. There, without fail, one window stood open to the air, its sill adorned by a young lady who seated herself most gracefully, a volume resting in her slender hands.

It seemed to Jungwon almost as though the hour itself conspired with him—for scarcely had he arrived when she would turn the page, her countenance illumined by the waning light, her lips parted in silent reverie. From the opposite wall he would take his station, leaning with studied ease, though within his breast stirred a restlessness he scarce could govern. His eyes lingered upon her as though upon a painting, and he remained until the final closing of her book, lingering even after, as if to test fortune whether she might return.

Thus passed several days in gentle repetition, until on one singular evening, the charm of his quiet admiration was unsettled. The lady, with a most delicate motion, raised her gaze from the printed page, and her eyes, bright with sudden awareness, met his across the narrow street. He had long believed himself unseen, hidden in the common shade of passersby—yet in that instant, he perceived she had marked his presence all along.