Kang Hae-Rin was seven months old when she was first read "Peter Pan" by J.M Barrie.
Well, of course she doesn't remember that. She was just a baby. A newborn baby. By no means would a seven months old baby remember being read a children's book. But, arguably, she would tell you - quite defensively, too, - that she remembers the first time the story of the boy who wouldn't grow up slipped through her tiny ears and rooted deep down her heart.
The story hid inside thick pages of a book; covers carved with beautiful artwork and spine stronger than wood. And stronger, of course, for it carried and still carries the sweetest fantasy, the greatest story.
The very same book, abused by time and love, was tucked under her arm right now. It was bought back when Hae-Rin was born, or so her grandmother used to say. The book was one of the best and finest editions, a copy her grandmother found in an old, cosy bookshop. 'It was a lovely bookshop,' her grandmother would say, tucking a strand of hair behind Hae-Rin's hair. 'They had the oldest editions of many books, gathered neatly on brown shelves with little to no dust.' And oh, did her grandmother adore the oldest editions of such treasury called 'books'.
Wind howled as Hae-Rin longboarded past a loud street, hair flipping in every direction and sun blinding her eyes.
She wasn't far from her destination, she knew she would be there in less than five seconds because she knew the road, she knew her way. Maybe, in another life, if she hadn't passed these streets every day, these roads, she would be amazed at the greenery. In another life, she would marvel the way the sun hid just right, just there behind that one tall building, allowing Hae-Rin enough sight to cross the street.
But she wasn't in another life. She was in this, now, at the moment, life. She was present, here, right now.
And, quite frankly, that hurt.
"Ah," she muttered, eyes cast downwards, her longboard skidding to a stop. "So troublesome."
Hae-Rin clicked her tongue and seized the edge of her longboard. Her eyes stayed glued to a small black cat, and she knew, just by her surroundings, that it was abandoned, alone.
With her book still under har arm and her longboard in one of her hands, Hae-Rin made her way towards the cat. The neighbours were busy, she knew, so no one would pay attention to an eighteen-year-old kneeling down and petting the frightened creature. No one would pay attention when Hae-Rin's warm palm soothed the crying animal and, evidently, no one would pay attention when Hae-Rin's longboard stayed on the ground, but the cat was picked up.
