Let's call him Suho. That's not his real name—but for the sake of his privacy I’ll not state his real name. In this world where one could google up almost anyone we need to be careful with giving out information about ourselves and even those we care about. With potential murderers and psychopaths prowling on the world wide web, there's no sense in taking risks.

And Suho has had misery enough for his twenty-four years of life. He didn’t need any more lack of privacy or gold-diggers.

He came from a wealthy and one of the more renowned families. He wa a good son, got good grades, went to church every Sunday with his mother and brothers. He even visited the company with his father and attended stock related meetings. He was as regular as clockwork. His father, a third generation Chaebol took family name, wealth and the concept of descendants very seriously. He was as steady as they come.

His mother kept a clean and tidy house by commanding a small army of servants, oversaw menus for special dinners and planned all the parties that they held to perfection. She had a sharp tongue when it came to most people but when it came to Suho-her last born, her youngest- she couldn’t help but melt. Suho was grateful for this because it allowed his to talk to her; tell her things that he couldn’t tell his father.

Suho took up Business Management at school and also visited the production plant every evening to ensure that he learned quickly and learned well. Sometimes, on a rare evening when he was free, he would take a walk on the banks of the Han river or drive to the beach. But so much free time was a rare luxury, so he decided to depend on other things he liked such as reading a book by the roaring fire during the long loneliness of winter. He never had much to do with girlfriends—though it wasn’t due to lack of girls throwing hinting glances, asking him out politely, or blatantly hitting on him.

Two years ago, on his twenty-second birthday, he was at the production plant when a fire broke out, unfortunately for him, he was stuck in a room when a burning beam fell right on top of him. Help arrived soon but it  was too late, leaving Suho stumbling in the nightmare of sudden blindness.

He was rushed to a hospital, operated on immediately for internal injuries and broken bones. But both eyes were destroyed. He could see no more.

The other wounds healed in their own time, though their scars would disfigure his flesh the rest of his days. But the scars on his mind, though invisible, were even more obvious. He hardly spoke a word, hardly ate or drank, hardly slept. He simply lay in bed, brooding and sightless. Nearly four months. Not even his mother could pull him out of his deep dark recess.

However, there was one nurse who seemed to be able to draw some small spark of human response from him. Let's call him Lay—a weird substitute for his Chinese name, but I lack creativity when it comes to names. He was a good Buddhist boy, with the desire to serve humanity. That’s why he took up nursing.

His father, a carpenter in China, suffered from gout for a long while before his demise and it hurt Lay to not be able to do anything to ease his misery whenever he had an acute reaction. He was a decent father, providing them with what he could, given his measly means but he tried. His condition made it difficult for him to have a steady income and he would have to sometimes go a whole month without work if his acute reaction didn’t subside.

His mother with a quick hand and a soft heart would help not only her father but also many of the ailing people in his tiny village. She wasn’t trained as a medical professional but she did what she could with herbs and nimble fingers that was probably where Lay got his desire to become a nurse.

Lay did well at school, had trained as a nurse at a famous Beijing hospital, and now, at the age of twenty-one, was a staff nurse in South Korea’s biggest hospital. Lively, though fundamentally serious, a singer with a sweet and gentle voice and a way of his own with Chinese folk folk songs. He never had much to do with girlfriends—though it wasn't from any lack of young women who'd set their eyes on him. But lately, he had been noticing that it wouldn’t have mattered how beautiful or sweet or soft spoken or smart the girl was because he didn’t have the eyes or the desire for a girl.

But now his heart was moved by Suho, for there was something of the little-boy-lost about him that brought tears to his eyes. True, Suho couldn't see the tears when he came to the room to change his bandages, yet he was afraid that his voice would betray his emotions.

In a way Lay was right about his voice, because it was the lilt and the laughter of it that dragged Suho back from the depths of depression and self-pity, the warmth and gentleness and strength of Lay’s words, the blessed assurance with which he spoke to him.

And so, as the long dark length of his days turned to weeks and months, Suho would listen for Lay’s footsteps and turn his sightless face toward him; like a sunflower bending for the sun.

He would wait in the morning for Lay to walk in and wish him a “bright morning,” they Lay would go on to describe to him about the sky- whether it was cloudy or sunny, whether the sky was a clear cerulean blue or scattered with white fluffy clouds. He would then turn on the TV and put on the music channel so that Suho could start the day with some beautiful music.

At lunch time, Lay would bring in the tray and place it in front of Suho. He would slowly bring one bowl after under and place it under Suho’s nose, asking him to guess what it could be. And if