Danpungs coming in yellow and dangling on the tree lining up the street, gunbam roasting brown, bus squeaking to stop at the red light, all embellish the late October which hinted of autumn—my favorite season. In the middle of Seoul’s Shinsadong Avenue, I stood in a queue to a cafe—a two-story building covered with glass flaring in green and yellow reflections of the street. 

As the bell on the entrance fluttered, neon signs blurred the air, and the smell of bakery barreled in and settled. Past the stairs whirling up to the second floor, three tables were pinned against the wall. On the left table, a woman talked to a person who seemed to be the same age as her, both in their early twenties. Golden strips of her earrings glinted off the light coming from the window. She had short hair dyed into a toffee color and it swept her shoulders as she looked up at me. In her face, I could still see a young girl calling out for me.  

“Yura! Do you want to go eat tteokbokki after school?” She slipped through the desks with a backpack bigger than herself. 

My elementary years were muddled up with Juhee, the first two years of school holding my most distinct memories. Although she ended up moving to Chuncheon-do, every other month, I pressed the number she scribbled down on a crumpled paper before she left. But she never answered the phone. Time continued making layers on itself and crisping down every three months, until a week ago when I heard that she had come back to Seoul for college. Among the friends I had kept in touch with, we decided to have a reunion with her along with some others from our elementary school. 

“Oh my god, Yura you became so much prettier!” She was one of the friends who said the sweetest things; she had a high-pitched voice, still a very soothing one that could adorn the whole room. Stepping toward, my arms enfolded around her, and her blue sweater webbed around my fingers. 

“You too! I missed you so much Juhee. Is it about ten years since I’ve seen you?” I asked as I skimmed through her face, the scar that had deepened into her forehead and her thin lips raised. 

“Yes, I can’t believe how fast the time has passed!” 

When I heard about Juhee for the first time in years, I was surprised, then scared. I wasn’t sure if we could be as good as we did years ago or if she remembered anything about me: the handshakes we made, cards we bought from the shop around the corner to our school, the springs and winters we spent for sleepovers. I thought I remembered all the details, like the smell of hibiscus that wafted through the sidewalk when I went to her house. Even so, I wasn’t sure if I was remembering the same days she did, maybe she couldn’t recollect anything but the fact that I was once her closest friend in Seoul.  

Ten years was long enough to forget the textures of rubber grass in our school’s soccer field, but short enough to get back to those days within a minute. The maze of our tangled years became free and vivid as we touched each of them. Under the chandelier twirling around, we talked about our favorite teacher who always had the rusted ring around his wrinkled fingers. He had taught us the ways to make paper cranes and the presents we could make for the people we loved. We thought about the empty class located at the end of the hallway next to the exit door, the windows reflecting the sign blazing in the dark. 

“Juhee let’s keep in touch and meet sometime later. I’ll miss you.” I looked into her eyes which rippled vaguely.

The wind shredded the sky coated in black and carried some leaves along with them, rustling as it brushed the pavement. I sauntered through the lamps as I glanced at the houses on the right, where some I recognized. The village I grew up in, although it changed so much. On the fringe of the block, I saw the rusted gate and a house with old giwa bricks on top. It was Juhee’s old house. On the bricks tinged with the color of brown and scarlet, stained marks of our old doodles seemed to bleach away every second. 

Our drawings came from the evening after the rain, water flinging down from the roof and the trees glinting under the sun shuffling between the clouds. As the sun rolled into the oksusu field on our side, Juhee’s father told us they would be moving to Boryeong the month after. In between the seeds and the dangling yellows, we promised to think of each other every sunset. We walked through our secret path one last time into the narrow way to her house. Under our feet the soil churned and the bushes’ sticks tugged on our clothes. The leaves on the floor mellowed as the years came back to us. I could still see us in the green, waving away.