The summer began with June rain and the specific texture of a city between academic sessions: quieter in some areas, louder in others, the rhythm shifting from semester timing to the rhythms of people who had other plans. Ha-eun was in Seoul through July before her rotation assignment took her to a hospital in a different district, and Do-hyun was beginning his research position with one of the fire safety investigation firms that had offered him a part-time placement.
They saw each other less frequently in June. Not by design, not by distance, but by the simple arithmetic of different schedules, different starting times, different commitments. Two or three evenings a week instead of five or six. She noticed this and found, somewhat to her own surprise, that she was comfortable with it in a way she had not been comfortable with separation in September. The comfortable distance was itself a form of arrival: you could be apart from someone and know they were still there.
She still knocked on the wall.
He still knocked back.
---
In mid-June she was at her desk at ten in the morning when he texted: I'm outside. She looked at the text. She went to the door. He was in the hallway with coffee, one cup for him and one cup for her, which meant he had left the research office and come back to the building during what was technically his working hours.
"Something happened," she said.
"No," he said. "Nothing happened." He held out the cup. "I just wanted to see you."
She took the cup.
He came in and they sat at her kitchen table, which was what they did, and he told her about the morning at the research office, a case study he had been assigned that was interesting. She told him about the paper she had been revising. They talked for forty-five minutes and then he said he had to go back and he went.
She sat at the table after he left and thought about: I just wanted to see you.
She thought about this for a while.
She thought about the pattern she had been examining since Na-ri's observation: knowing versus loving, needed versus loved. She had been working her way toward understanding this in terms of her own pattern, her own learned belief that usefulness was how you earned proximity. She had been less focused on examining his pattern.
But: I just wanted to see you.
Not: I was in the area. Not: I had a question. Not any functional justification for crossing the building in the middle of a working morning. Just: I wanted to see you. He had wanted something for its own sake, without it needing to be useful, without it being in service of anything else.
She thought: that is love rather than need.
She thought: wanting to see someone for no reason other than wanting to see them.
She thought: I understand this now.
She thought about whether she had done this. She thought about her own equivalent: the texts she sometimes sent him about nothing in particular, the evenings she knocked without a reason, the walk she had taken in April past his building on a day she had no reason to be in that neighborhood.
She thought: I have been doing this too.
She thought: not because I needed something. Because I wanted to be near him.
She thought: that is the thing.
She thought: that is what love is in practice, when it's not managing or being needed, when it's just: I wanted to see you.
She wrote it in her clinical journal: love in practice is wanting to see someone for no other reason than wanting to see them. She looked at this sentence. She thought about it as a diagnostic criterion, which was the way she thought about most things: how would you test this, what evidence would satisfy it, what would constitute a negative result.
She thought: I have the evidence.
She thought: both directions.
She thought: yes.
---
She went back to Busan in early July.
Do-hyun knew she was going. She had told him at the end-of-semester dinner and he had said: okay. She had told him again when she booked the ticket and he had said: let me know when you're back. She had said: same night.
The second visit was different from the first.
The first visit had been about arrival: getting there, being in the room, seeing her mother's face and the cactus and the photograph and understanding that this was a real person in a real city rather than the abstract absence she had been carrying. The second visit was about something more specific: she had questions she had not been ready to ask in May.
Seo-jin made the same tea. Ha-eun sat at the same table. The cactus was on the same windowsill. She looked at the photograph of the three-year-old more directly this time.
She asked: "Did you love him. My father."
Seo-jin looked at her.
"I'm not asking to understand their relationship," Ha-eun said. "I'm asking because I'm trying to understand something about myself. About how I learned to be in relationships. About where certain things came from."
Her mother was quiet for a moment. Then: "Yes," she said. "I loved him. Not well enough. But yes."
Ha-eun thought about this. "How did you know you loved him," she said.
Her mother looked at her with the specific expression of someone being asked a question that is not actually about the stated subject. "You're asking me how I know when something is love," she said.
"Yes," Ha-eun said.
Seo-jin was quiet. She looked at the table and then at Ha-eun. "I think love is when you're not trying to prove anything," she said. "When you're not performing the useful version of yourself or the impressive version or the version you think is required. When you're just there, without reason." She paused. "I was very bad at that with your father. I was always trying to justify my presence."
Ha-eun looked at her.
"I think you may have inherited that," her mother said, not unkindly.
Ha-eun thought about what she had written in her journal: love in practice is wanting to see someone for no other reason than wanting to see them. She thought about what her mother had just said: not trying to prove anything. When you're just there.
She thought: these are the same thing.
She thought: she is describing what I have been learning.
She said: "I've been working on that."
Her mother looked at her steadily. "Yes," she said. "I can see that you are."
They sat for another two hours. Ha-eun told her mother about the investigation and about Haejin and about what they had found. Her mother listened to all of it and was quiet for a long time after. She said: I have carried this for ten years. I did not know if anyone would ever finish it.
Ha-eun said: we finished it.
Her mother said: I know. I can see that you did.
They talked about what came next for the formal record and about Dr. Lee and about the documentation. Her mother gave Ha-eun the full version of the original dispatch records, which she had kept copies of, which filled in the final gaps in the documentation.
Ha-eun put the records in her bag.
She thought: this is the last piece.
She thought: we have it now.
She thought: yes.
At the door, saying goodbye, her mother said: "The person you're building this understanding for. Are they worth it."
Ha-eun thought about the question. She thought about: I just wanted to see you. She thought about twenty minutes in a library and two cups at midnight and a cherry blossom road in March.
"Yes," she said.
Her mother nodded. "Good," she said. "Make sure they know."
Ha-eun thought: they know.
She thought: and I am still learning to believe they know.
She thought: that is the work.
She went back to Seoul on the evening train, this time with the records in her bag and the conversation settled in her chest, and she texted Do-hyun from the platform: heading home. Come over when I get in.
He replied: yes.
She thought: yes.
She thought: same night.
She thought: I know how to do this now.
She went home.
She told him everything.
Same night.
---
She came home at nine thirty.
He was already in the building, she could hear him moving in his apartment when she unlocked her door, the familiar pattern of footsteps she had been learning for a year. She set her bag down and texted: I'm home.
He knocked on her door three minutes later.
She opened it. He came in.
She told him about the second visit, beginning to end. The tea and the table and the cactus and the questions she had asked. She told him about what her mother had said: love is when you're not trying to prove anything, when you're just there. She told him about the original dispatch records in her bag, the final piece of the documentation.
He listened to all of it, sitting at her table, with the specific quality of his attention that received things completely rather than partially.
When she finished, he said: "How do you feel."
She thought about this question. "I feel like I understand where I came from," she said. "Which is different from having resolved where I came from. But it's something."
He nodded.
She said: "She said make sure they know."
He looked at her.
"The person I'm building this understanding for," she said. "She asked if they were worth it and she said to make sure they know."
He held her gaze. He said: "Do they know."
She said: "I think so. I'm still working on the part where I believe they know."
He was quiet for a moment. Then, simply: "I know."
She thought about her mother's definition: not trying to prove anything, just there. She thought about the two words he had just said, the specific register of it, not a reassurance or a performance but a fact. I know. He knew she was working on believing it. He knew she was getting there. He knew the difference between where she was and where she had been.
She said: "Thank you for knowing."
He said: "Of course."
She thought: there it is.
She thought: not as condition. As fact.
She thought: I know how to see that now.
They went through the dispatch records together afterward, the two of them at the table, sorting the final documentation and understanding what it confirmed and what it added to the picture they had already assembled. It was thorough and specific and by the end they had a complete document, all the pieces in place, ready to be submitted to Dr. Lee's department and from there to whatever institutional processes would receive it.
Ha-eun put the document in the folder where she had been keeping the investigation materials for a year.
She looked at the folder.
She thought: it is done.
She thought: the year of building toward this is done.
She thought: and we are still here.
She thought: yes.
She said to Do-hyun: "It's finished."
He said: "Yes."
She said: "I don't know what it feels like from the outside. From the inside it feels like putting something down that I'd been carrying since I was eight years old."
He looked at her.
She said: "I suspect yours is similar."
He said: "Heavier in some ways. Lighter in others." He looked at the folder. "But yes. Putting something down."
She thought about putting something down and what you were left holding after. She thought about what came next, not the investigation, not the family histories, but the two of them, the year ahead, the new territory that was simply: two people building something together without the scaffolding of the investigation to organize it.
She thought: that is the next year.
She thought: I am looking forward to it.
She thought: yes.
She said: "What do you want the next year to look like."
He thought about this. He said: "Less building toward and more being in." He looked at her. "I've spent a year learning how to be with someone while also working through a large thing. I want to spend the next year learning how to be with someone when the large thing is resolved."
She thought about this. She thought: that is going to be harder in some ways, because the large thing had provided structure, and the after of a large thing was undefined.
She thought: it is going to be good.
She thought: yes.
She said: "Okay."
He said: "Okay."
They sat at the table for a while after, with the folder between them and the city outside and the summer evening and nothing specific left to do. She thought about everything the year had contained and thought: yes. That was the year. And this is the after.
She thought: I am in the after.
She thought: the after is good.
She thought: yes.
She went home at eleven and knocked on the wall and got three knocks back and went to bed thinking about the summer ahead and the year ahead and all the ordinary days of it, which she was looking forward to in the specific way you looked forward to the ordinary when the extraordinary had been very long.
She thought: I want ordinary.
She thought: yes.
She thought: I think I'm going to get it.
She fell asleep.
---
In the days after the folder was closed and the documentation was complete, Ha-eun felt something she had not expected: a specific kind of restlessness.
Not the restlessness of dissatisfaction. Not of wanting something different. A restlessness that came, she thought, from the absence of a structure she had been inside for so long that its absence was noticeable. For ten months she had been building toward something: the full picture of what had happened in Haejin, the understanding of who knew what and when and why. The building had been the structure of the year. Now the building was done. The structure was gone.
She sat at her desk on a Tuesday morning in mid-July and looked at the empty space where the investigation materials had been and thought: what comes next.
Not anxiously. With genuine curiosity.
She thought about Do-hyun's answer: less building toward and more being in. She thought about what that meant in practice. She thought about the ordinary days of a relationship, which she did not have much template for, having spent the first year of this one in the context of an investigation and a year of working through major things.
She thought: I am going to have to learn what ordinary looks like for us.
She thought: that is actually exciting.
She thought: yes.
She went to his apartment that evening and he was cooking, which he did sometimes when the evening felt like it called for cooking, and she sat at the counter and watched him and thought about ordinary. The specific ordinary of him cooking in his kitchen that had become as familiar to her as her own. The sounds he made while cooking. The specific organization of his ingredients that she had long since learned as a fact of the kitchen.
She thought: this is the being in.
She thought: this is what there is when the building toward is done.
She thought: I think I like it.
She said, while he was stirring something: "I've been thinking about what comes after a year like this one."
He did not stop stirring. "What came to you."
"That I haven't had a year without a large thing in it for a long time," she said. "And I don't know what I'm like without one."
He was quiet for a moment. "What do you think you're like."
"I don't know," she said honestly. "I think I might be someone who looks for the large thing. Who constructs a purpose structure when one isn't given."
He considered this. "That's not necessarily a problem," he said.
"No," she said. "But it's something to know about yourself."
He looked at her over the counter. "I think the year we just had had enough large things to last several years," he said. "I'm willing to have some smaller ones for a while."
She almost smiled. "Agreed," she said.
He went back to stirring. She watched him.
She thought: this is the being in.
She thought: I am in it.
She thought: yes.
She set the table while he finished cooking, which was the arrangement they had settled into, his job to cook and her job to set, without anyone having decided this. It had simply emerged from the months of dinners as the most efficient division of what needed to be done.
She thought about emergence. She thought about how many things between them had simply emerged: the dinner habit, the knock system, the way they occupied adjacent space, the way information now moved between them. Not designed, not negotiated, not even fully conscious. Just: the shape things took when you spent enough time near someone with genuine attention.
She thought: that is the ordinary.
She thought: yes.
She sat down at the table and he brought the food and they ate and talked about the summer and his research position and her coming rotation and nothing large, nothing that required the sustained effort of investigation or the careful management of difficult information. Just: the evening.
She thought: I love this.
She thought: yes.
She thought: I love him.
She thought: yes.
She went home at ten and knocked once on the wall and got one knock back and lay down in the warm July dark and thought about the long future and all the ordinary days of it and the specific person on the other side of the wall who was going to be in those ordinary days with her.
She thought: I am looking forward to this.
She thought: all of it.
She thought: yes.
She fell asleep.
She dreamed about nothing in particular, which was the best kind of dream.
You've reached the end of this chapter
The summer began with June rain and the specific texture of a city between academic sessions: quieter in some areas, louder in others, the rhythm shifting from semester timing to the rhythms of people who had other plans. Ha-eun was in Seoul through July before her rotation assignment took her to a hospital in a different district, and Do-hyun was beginning his research position with one of the fire safety investigation firms that had offered him a part-time placement.
They saw each other less frequently in June. Not by design, not by distance, but by the simple arithmetic of different schedules, different starting times, different commitments. Two or three evenings a week instead of five or six. She noticed this and found, somewhat to her own surprise, that she was comfortable with it in a way she had not been comfortable with separation in September. The comfortable distance was itself a form of arrival: you could be apart from someone and know they were still there.
She still knocked on the wall.
He still knocked back.
---
In mid-June she was at her desk at ten in the morning when he texted: I'm outside. She looked at the text. She went to the door. He was in the hallway with coffee, one cup for him and one cup for her, which meant he had left the research office and come back to the building during what was technically his working hours.
"Something happened," she said.
"No," he said. "Nothing happened." He held out the cup. "I just wanted to see you."
She took the cup.
He came in and they sat at her kitchen table, which was what they did, and he told her about the morning at the research office, a case study he had been assigned that was interesting. She told him about the paper she had been revising. They talked for forty-five minutes and then he said he had to go back and he went.
She sat at the table after he left and thought about: I just wanted to see you.
She thought about this for a while.
She thought about the pattern she had been examining since Na-ri's observation: knowing versus loving, needed versus loved. She had been working her way toward understanding this in terms of her own pattern, her own learned belief that usefulness was how you earned proximity. She had been less focused on examining his pattern.
But: I just wanted to see you.
Not: I was in the area. Not: I had a question. Not any functional justification for crossing the building in the middle of a working morning. Just: I wanted to see you. He had wanted something for its own sake, without it needing to be useful, without it being in service of anything else.
She thought: that is love rather than need.
She thought: wanting to see someone for no reason other than wanting to see them.
She thought: I understand this now.
She thought about whether she had done this. She thought about her own equivalent: the texts she sometimes sent him about nothing in particular, the evenings she knocked without a reason, the walk she had taken in April past his building on a day she had no reason to be in that neighborhood.
She thought: I have been doing this too.
She thought: not because I needed something. Because I wanted to be near him.
She thought: that is the thing.
She thought: that is what love is in practice, when it's not managing or being needed, when it's just: I wanted to see you.
She wrote it in her clinical journal: love in practice is wanting to see someone for no other reason than wanting to see them. She looked at this sentence. She thought about it as a diagnostic criterion, which was the way she thought about most things: how would you test this, what evidence would satisfy it, what would constitute a negative result.
She thought: I have the evidence.
She thought: both directions.
She thought: yes.
---
She went back to Busan in early July.
Do-hyun knew she was going. She had told him at the end-of-semester dinner and he had said: okay. She had told him again when she booked the ticket and he had said: let me know when you're back. She had said: same night.
The second visit was different from the first.
The first visit had been about arrival: getting there, being in the room, seeing her mother's face and the cactus and the photograph and understanding that this was a real person in a real city rather than the abstract absence she had been carrying. The second visit was about something more specific: she had questions she had not been ready to ask in May.
Seo-jin made the same tea. Ha-eun sat at the same table. The cactus was on the same windowsill. She looked at the photograph of the three-year-old more directly this time.
She asked: "Did you love him. My father."
Seo-jin looked at her.
"I'm not asking to understand their relationship," Ha-eun said. "I'm asking because I'm trying to understand something about myself. About how I learned to be in relationships. About where certain things came from."
Her mother was quiet for a moment. Then: "Yes," she said. "I loved him. Not well enough. But yes."
Ha-eun thought about this. "How did you know you loved him," she said.
Her mother looked at her with the specific expression of someone being asked a question that is not actually about the stated subject. "You're asking me how I know when something is love," she said.
"Yes," Ha-eun said.
Seo-jin was quiet. She looked at the table and then at Ha-eun. "I think love is when you're not trying to prove anything," she said. "When you're not performing the useful version of yourself or the impressive version or the version you think is required. When you're just there, without reason." She paused. "I was very bad at that with your father. I was always trying to justify my presence."
Ha-eun looked at her.
"I think you may have inherited that," her mother said, not unkindly.
Ha-eun thought about what she had written in her journal: love in practice is wanting to see someone for no other reason than wanting to see them. She thought about what her mother had just said: not trying to prove anything. When you're just there.
She thought: these are the same thing.
She thought: she is describing what I have been learning.
She said: "I've been working on that."
Her mother looked at her steadily. "Yes," she said. "I can see that you are."
They sat for another two hours. Ha-eun told her mother about the investigation and about Haejin and about what they had found. Her mother listened to all of it and was quiet for a long time after. She said: I have carried this for ten years. I did not know if anyone would ever finish it.
Ha-eun said: we finished it.
Her mother said: I know. I can see that you did.
They talked about what came next for the formal record and about Dr. Lee and about the documentation. Her mother gave Ha-eun the full version of the original dispatch records, which she had kept copies of, which filled in the final gaps in the documentation.
Ha-eun put the records in her bag.
She thought: this is the last piece.
She thought: we have it now.
She thought: yes.
At the door, saying goodbye, her mother said: "The person you're building this understanding for. Are they worth it."
Ha-eun thought about the question. She thought about: I just wanted to see you. She thought about twenty minutes in a library and two cups at midnight and a cherry blossom road in March.
"Yes," she said.
Her mother nodded. "Good," she said. "Make sure they know."
Ha-eun thought: they know.
She thought: and I am still learning to believe they know.
She thought: that is the work.
She went back to Seoul on the evening train, this time with the records in her bag and the conversation settled in her chest, and she texted Do-hyun from the platform: heading home. Come over when I get in.
He replied: yes.
She thought: yes.
She thought: same night.
She thought: I know how to do this now.
She went home.
She told him everything.
Same night.
---
She came home at nine thirty.
He was already in the building, she could hear him moving in his apartment when she unlocked her door, the familiar pattern of footsteps she had been learning for a year. She set her bag down and texted: I'm home.
He knocked on her door three minutes later.
She opened it. He came in.
She told him about the second visit, beginning to end. The tea and the table and the cactus and the questions she had asked. She told him about what her mother had said: love is when you're not trying to prove anything, when you're just there. She told him about the original dispatch records in her bag, the final piece of the documentation.
He listened to all of it, sitting at her table, with the specific quality of his attention that received things completely rather than partially.
When she finished, he said: "How do you feel."
She thought about this question. "I feel like I understand where I came from," she said. "Which is different from having resolved where I came from. But it's something."
He nodded.
She said: "She said make sure they know."
He looked at her.
"The person I'm building this understanding for," she said. "She asked if they were worth it and she said to make sure they know."
He held her gaze. He said: "Do they know."
She said: "I think so. I'm still working on the part where I believe they know."
He was quiet for a moment. Then, simply: "I know."
She thought about her mother's definition: not trying to prove anything, just there. She thought about the two words he had just said, the specific register of it, not a reassurance or a performance but a fact. I know. He knew she was working on believing it. He knew she was getting there. He knew the difference between where she was and where she had been.
She said: "Thank you for knowing."
He said: "Of course."
She thought: there it is.
She thought: not as condition. As fact.
She thought: I know how to see that now.
They went through the dispatch records together afterward, the two of them at the table, sorting the final documentation and understanding what it confirmed and what it added to the picture they had already assembled. It was thorough and specific and by the end they had a complete document, all the pieces in place, ready to be submitted to Dr. Lee's department and from there to whatever institutional processes would receive it.
Ha-eun put the document in the folder where she had been keeping the investigation materials for a year.
She looked at the folder.
She thought: it is done.
She thought: the year of building toward this is done.
She thought: and we are still here.
She thought: yes.
She said to Do-hyun: "It's finished."
He said: "Yes."
She said: "I don't know what it feels like from the outside. From the inside it feels like putting something down that I'd been carrying since I was eight years old."
He looked at her.
She said: "I suspect yours is similar."
He said: "Heavier in some ways. Lighter in others." He looked at the folder. "But yes. Putting something down."
She thought about putting something down and what you were left holding after. She thought about what came next, not the investigation, not the family histories, but the two of them, the year ahead, the new territory that was simply: two people building something together without the scaffolding of the investigation to organize it.
She thought: that is the next year.
She thought: I am looking forward to it.
She thought: yes.
She said: "What do you want the next year to look like."
He thought about this. He said: "Less building toward and more being in." He looked at her. "I've spent a year learning how to be with someone while also working through a large thing. I want to spend the next year learning how to be with someone when the large thing is resolved."
She thought about this. She thought: that is going to be harder in some ways, because the large thing had provided structure, and the after of a large thing was undefined.
She thought: it is going to be good.
She thought: yes.
She said: "Okay."
He said: "Okay."
They sat at the table for a while after, with the folder between them and the city outside and the summer evening and nothing specific left to do. She thought about everything the year had contained and thought: yes. That was the year. And this is the after.
She thought: I am in the after.
She thought: the after is good.
She thought: yes.
She went home at eleven and knocked on the wall and got three knocks back and went to bed thinking about the summer ahead and the year ahead and all the ordinary days of it, which she was looking forward to in the specific way you looked forward to the ordinary when the extraordinary had been very long.
She thought: I want ordinary.
She thought: yes.
She thought: I think I'm going to get it.
She fell asleep.
---
In the days after the folder was closed and the documentation was complete, Ha-eun felt something she had not expected: a specific kind of restlessness.
Not the restlessness of dissatisfaction. Not of wanting something different. A restlessness that came, she thought, from the absence of a structure she had been inside for so long that its absence was noticeable. For ten months she had been building toward something: the full picture of what had happened in Haejin, the understanding of who knew what and when and why. The building had been the structure of the year. Now the building was done. The structure was gone.
She sat at her desk on a Tuesday morning in mid-July and looked at the empty space where the investigation materials had been and thought: what comes next.
Not anxiously. With genuine curiosity.
She thought about Do-hyun's answer: less building toward and more being in. She thought about what that meant in practice. She thought about the ordinary days of a relationship, which she did not have much template for, having spent the first year of this one in the context of an investigation and a year of working through major things.
She thought: I am going to have to learn what ordinary looks like for us.
She thought: that is actually exciting.
She thought: yes.
She went to his apartment that evening and he was cooking, which he did sometimes when the evening felt like it called for cooking, and she sat at the counter and watched him and thought about ordinary. The specific ordinary of him cooking in his kitchen that had become as familiar to her as her own. The sounds he made while cooking. The specific organization of his ingredients that she had long since learned as a fact of the kitchen.
She thought: this is the being in.
She thought: this is what there is when the building toward is done.
She thought: I think I like it.
She said, while he was stirring something: "I've been thinking about what comes after a year like this one."
He did not stop stirring. "What came to you."
"That I haven't had a year without a large thing in it for a long time," she said. "And I don't know what I'm like without one."
He was quiet for a moment. "What do you think you're like."
"I don't know," she said honestly. "I think I might be someone who looks for the large thing. Who constructs a purpose structure when one isn't given."
He considered this. "That's not necessarily a problem," he said.
"No," she said. "But it's something to know about yourself."
He looked at her over the counter. "I think the year we just had had enough large things to last several years," he said. "I'm willing to have some smaller ones for a while."
She almost smiled. "Agreed," she said.
He went back to stirring. She watched him.
She thought: this is the being in.
She thought: I am in it.
She thought: yes.
She set the table while he finished cooking, which was the arrangement they had settled into, his job to cook and her job to set, without anyone having decided this. It had simply emerged from the months of dinners as the most efficient division of what needed to be done.
She thought about emergence. She thought about how many things between them had simply emerged: the dinner habit, the knock system, the way they occupied adjacent space, the way information now moved between them. Not designed, not negotiated, not even fully conscious. Just: the shape things took when you spent enough time near someone with genuine attention.
She thought: that is the ordinary.
She thought: yes.
She sat down at the table and he brought the food and they ate and talked about the summer and his research position and her coming rotation and nothing large, nothing that required the sustained effort of investigation or the careful management of difficult information. Just: the evening.
She thought: I love this.
She thought: yes.
She thought: I love him.
She thought: yes.
She went home at ten and knocked once on the wall and got one knock back and lay down in the warm July dark and thought about the long future and all the ordinary days of it and the specific person on the other side of the wall who was going to be in those ordinary days with her.
She thought: I am looking forward to this.
She thought: all of it.
She thought: yes.
She fell asleep.
She dreamed about nothing in particular, which was the best kind of dream.
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