The rooftop room had nothing special about it.

The ceiling was low enough that if Jung So-yi reached up, her fingertips could touch the peeling paint that flaked off in small pieces like dried fish scales. The single window faced east, small enough that only one eye could look out at a time — but in the morning, sunlight came through at a strange angle, falling exactly onto the corner of the wall where she had pinned last year's calendar. She had never replaced it. Not because she forgot — but because every morning, seeing the light fall in that exact spot, she felt the new day had a reason to begin.

The alarm rang at five forty-five.

So-yi opened her eyes before it rang three times. She lay still for a few more seconds, looking up at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the working-class neighborhood outside slowly waking — the motorbike starting up on the floor below, the sound of Mrs. Geum opening her convenience store at the end of the alley, the radio from Mr. Park's house carrying the morning news he listened to every single day without exception. Those sounds did not bother her. On the contrary, they were like a familiar melody she had memorized note by note — and on mornings she did not hear them, she felt their absence.

She sat up and smoothed the hair from her face.

The room was only wide enough for a single bed, a small desk pushed against the wall, and an old wooden wardrobe the landlord had left behind. On the desk was the stack of documents she had prepared the night before — a CV printed on white paper, a portfolio neatly bound in a clear plastic cover, and a small handwritten note listing the points she wanted to emphasize in the interview. Her handwriting was small and even, tilting slightly to the right as if leaning forward.

Today was the day she submitted her internship application.

She stood before the small mirror hanging on the wardrobe door — an oval mirror with a worn wooden frame, large enough to show her face and shoulders. She was wearing the outfit she had prepared the night before: a white blouse she had ironed flat, beige slacks, black leather shoes she had polished since last night. Nothing elaborate. No attempt to look like someone she was not. Just the tidiest version of herself.

She looked in the mirror for one more second.

Today will be fine.

She was not reassuring herself. That was what she genuinely thought — lightly and honestly, the way she thought about most things in life.

Mrs. Oh was standing at the entrance of the alley when So-yi stepped outside.

She was the woman who sold rolled rice cakes and kimbap in the mornings, her old green cart piled high with plastic trays and paper boxes. She had been selling here for over ten years — longer than the age of some people in the neighborhood. And every morning, she pushed that cart from her house at the end of the alley out to the main street corner, over a small slope where the wheels often got caught in the drainage groove.

Today was no different.

So-yi saw her from a distance — bent forward, both hands gripping the handlebar, pushing the cart up the slope with everything she had. The front wheel climbed halfway up the slope and slipped back. She stopped, breathed, tried again. A few people walked past. No one stopped.

So-yi set her bag down on the side of the road.

She did not think much about it. She simply walked to the back of the cart, placed her hands on the lower frame, and pushed.

"Mrs. Oh, I'll push from behind."

Mrs. Oh startled and turned around — then exhaled when she recognized her. "Oh, So-yi. You're early today."

"Yes, I have an appointment this morning." She pushed with a little more force, and the wheel rolled over the drainage groove and up to the top of the slope. "There we go."

Mrs. Oh patted the handlebar the way one pats an old friend on the shoulder. "This cart is so stubborn. It's been getting stuck more often lately." She looked at So-yi, her gaze warm in the way of someone who has lived long enough to know who deserves to be looked at that way. "Where are you going today, dressed so nicely?"

"I'm going to submit an internship application. The company is in the city center."

"Oh." She nodded, rearranging a few trays of kimbap as she spoke. "A big company?"

"It's decent, I think. I don't know yet if I'll get in."

Mrs. Oh stopped, looked at her. "You will. You're a good person, you'll do well at anything." She said it the way one states an obvious truth requiring no debate, then reached over and handed So-yi a kimbap roll wrapped in foil. "Eat this. You haven't had breakfast yet, have you?"

So-yi opened her mouth to decline — then looked at Mrs. Oh's eyes and knew declining was pointless. She accepted it, bowed her head. "Thank you. I'll come back and tell you how it went."

"Yes, tell me." She turned back to her cart. "Be careful on your way."

So-yi took the kimbap roll, picked up her bag, and started walking toward the bus stop. Behind her, Mrs. Oh began calling out the names of familiar faces passing by — her voice loud and familiar as Mr. Park's morning radio.

So-yi ate the kimbap on the way, watching the neighborhood wake up around her.

The bus doors closed right in front of her.

So-yi stood at the stop, watched the bus pull away, then looked down at her phone. The next one in twelve minutes. She calculated — still enough time, but she would no longer have the moment to stand outside the building and breathe the way she had planned.

She exhaled and put her phone away.

Then she sat down on the waiting bench.

With nothing to do for twelve minutes, she looked out at the street. The morning crowd moved at each person's own speed and direction — people going to work, parents walking children to school, delivery drivers, dog walkers. She watched them not to observe but simply to look, the way of someone who needs no reason to pay attention to the world around them.

An elderly man sat down beside her.

He wore a plaid jacket, his white hair neatly combed, and he was holding a smartphone in both hands as if it might shatter at any moment. He tapped the screen, swiped, tapped again — then stared at it with the expression of someone facing an unsolvable equation.

So-yi glanced over.

His screen had a video call app open, but the call kept connecting for a few seconds and then dropping. He tried a fourth time. A fifth.

"Excuse me," she said softly, "would you like some help?"

He looked up — cautious in the way of someone not accustomed to receiving help from strangers. "Do you know how to use this thing?"

"Yes. Who are you trying to call?"

"My grandson. He's studying in Busan. Today is his birthday." He handed her the phone, his hands trembling slightly. "I keep pressing and nothing works."

So-yi looked at the screen — the connection was dropping because the wifi had automatically turned off when the screen locked. She adjusted the setting, reopened the app, found the name in his contacts — Kim Junho (grandson) — and called.

Two rings. Three.

The screen lit up with the face of a boy around eighteen, hair still messy, clearly just woken up. "Grandfather? Wait, you're calling so early —"

The man — she guessed his name was Park — took the phone from her hands, his face softening. "It's your birthday. I'm calling to congratulate you." His voice tried to sound casual but could not hide the slight tremor at the end.

So-yi stood up quietly, stepped back to give him space. She looked toward the street, pretending not to listen — but she still heard the grandson's voice coming through the phone, sleepy and surprised and warm in the way that only exists when someone you love has called.

The bus arrived before the call ended.

Mr. Park looked up, then at So-yi, then at the bus — uncertain in the way of someone who does not know how to say thank you properly.

"You go ahead," she said, "keep talking. The next one is fine."

He nodded. Then as she stepped onto the bus, he called after her: "Miss — thank you."

She turned back, smiled. "It's nothing. Happy birthday to your grandson."

The bus doors closed.

The building was taller than she had imagined standing close to it.

Eighteen floors, blue glass reflecting a sky not yet fully bright. The company sign was mounted at ground level — white letters on black, a clean sans-serif font in the manner of places that want to appear modern without saying so. A few people were already standing outside, all in suits or pressed shirts, all looking down at their phones with the expression of someone reviewing something one last time.

So-yi stopped on the opposite sidewalk.

She did not reach for her phone. She simply stood there, looking at the building, and allowed herself exactly one minute — not thinking about the CV, not thinking about the interview questions, not thinking about the list of things she had prepared. Just standing there and looking.

She thought of her mother, at home in the suburbs, probably done with breakfast and watering the potted plants on the front porch. She thought of the afternoon after this application, when she would call and tell her about Mrs. Oh and Mr. Park and the half-eaten kimbap roll on the way there. Her mother always liked hearing those stories more than the results.

And she thought — on one of the rare occasions she allowed herself to — about what she actually wanted.

Not a title. Not a salary. Just a job she could wake up to in the morning without feeling heavy. Just the chance to do what she had studied — marketing, storytelling, the way a brand speaks to people — honestly rather than strategically. And someday, when she had worked long enough and well enough, she would return to the suburbs. Buy a small house. Grow a few potted plants like her mother. Live gently, the way she had always wanted to live.

That was all.

She took a breath, picked up her bag, and crossed the street.

The waiting room was on the third floor.

The receptionist at the ground floor was a young woman with her hair in a high bun and a voice flat with repetition, clearly having said the same thing twenty times this morning: "Elevator on the right, third floor, register your name at the front desk." She did not look up when she spoke. So-yi thanked her and walked on.

The waiting room was wide and cold in the way of places designed to look professional rather than comfortable. Plastic chairs lined both walls. About twenty people were already there — most sitting with straight backs, eyes on their phones or the papers in their hands. No one was talking.

So-yi registered her name, received her number, and found a seat.

She sat down beside a girl in a navy blazer, hair straight, staring at her phone screen with the concentration of someone memorizing something. So-yi glanced over — the screen showed a file of common interview questions, small text, densely packed.

The girl did not look up.

So-yi looked down at her own outfit. White blouse, beige slacks. In this room, she was the most simply dressed — no blazer, no leather bag, no styled hair or heavy makeup. She looked down at the shoes she had polished the night before.

Then she looked up and smiled at the girl beside her.

The girl startled — clearly not expecting anyone to look at her right now. "Oh... hi."

"Are you applying for the internship too?"

"Yes." The girl was slightly guarded. "You too?"

"Yes." So-yi nodded. "Did you study a lot? You look like you've been reading carefully."

The girl looked down at her phone, seeming a little thrown by the question — as if not used to being spoken to in a situation like this. "I'm... nervous. I don't know what they'll ask."

"Me too," So-yi said honestly. "But I think I'll just tell the truth. If I don't know something, I'll say I don't know."

The girl looked at her — really looked, not just a glance. "I've never heard anyone say that before an interview."

So-yi smiled lightly. "I don't know if it's the right approach either. But lying is exhausting."

The girl was quiet for a moment. Then, very softly, she smiled too.

So-yi did not know when she had started looking out the window.

The waiting room had a long row of windows facing the street — and from here, she could look directly across at the building opposite. Taller than the one she was sitting in. Black glass that did not reflect the sky the way this building did, but absorbed the light as if unwilling to reveal anything inside.

She looked at that building without any particular reason.

Then she saw — on a high floor, beside one of the windows — a figure.

Just a silhouette. She could not make out a face from this distance, could not see anything beyond the shape of someone standing and looking down at the street. Standing very straight. Very still.

She did not know why she did not look away.

There was something in the way that person stood — not arrogance, not ease — but something like a person who had grown so accustomed to standing alone in high places like that, they had forgotten the feeling might be loneliness.

The intercom in the room sounded: "Number twelve, please proceed to room one."

So-yi startled and looked down at the paper in her hand.

Number twelve.

She stood up, picked up her bag, smoothed her blouse. The girl beside her looked up — "Good luck."

"Thank you. You too."

She walked toward the interview room.

But before she passed through the door, she turned and looked out the window one more time.

The figure in the building across the street was still there — still standing, still looking down, still alone on a high floor of a black glass building that revealed nothing of what lay within.

So-yi did not know why she remembered that image as she stepped into the interview room.

She only knew that she had looked — and could not explain why.