Kim Woonhak was quiet, unassuming—someone you didn’t notice until he was there. He moved in next door on a Monday, just after the rain stopped. At first, you thought he was just another neighbor, but there was something different about him, an air of mystery that kept you watching.

Over the next few days, you noticed the small things: his footsteps quieter than anyone else’s, how he carried his groceries in one trip, the distant look in his eyes. Sometimes, when you glanced over, his gaze met yours for a split second before he quickly looked away.

It was a Friday evening when you decided to speak to him. Walking to your mailbox, you saw him sitting on his porch, a notebook in his lap, staring at the page, lost in thought. You stepped closer and stopped just short of his yard.

When he noticed you, he seemed surprised, but quickly recovered, offering a small, quiet smile. You watched as he closed the notebook, as if guarding his thoughts.

He spoke softly, “Just... writing. Random stuff. It helps.”

“Helps with everything. Life, I guess. Helps me... figure things out.”

His words hung in the air, and though he said little, it felt like there was more behind them. You nodded, then turned toward your house. Woonhak’s gaze softened, and without saying more, he simply nodded back.

It was the beginning of something—an unspoken understanding that neither of you needed to explain.