I

Jonghyun is five when he first discovers me. Being the youngest of his gang, he is sent to retrieve the ball that had rolled to the base of my trunk. He picks it up, and lifts his chin to look at the entirety of my trunk. His small hand comes to feel the rough bark and he forgets about the ball for a bit when he realizes that the branches on top are perfect to climb. He clambers up, sliding his small feet into the ridges and unevennesses, grabbing nearby branches and finally sitting down in a bend at the top. From there, he can see the whole park, and his friends playing at some distance. A wind brushes through the leaves, and his soft hair ruffles. A small, content smile lifts his lips and I know this won’t be the last time I see him.

He clambers back down when his friends start calling for the ball. Walking over to them, he throws the ball to them and is just about to join them when his mother storms all the way from his house to his side, twisting his ear up.

“Did I give you permission to play, you son of a bastard?” she hisses in his ear, and his friends turn away because they are embarrassed for him. Jonghyun whimpers and begs her to let go, it hurts- but she only twists harder, physically dragging him back home.

He never comes back to play with his friends again.

He is a quiet boy of sorts; a quiet, emotional boy. The next time I see him – a few days later, he is crying. I don’t know whether he knows that tears are cascading down his face. He climbs up my trunk just like he did before and settles himself into the spot he’d claimed as his. He latches himself onto a thick branch and sits there for a while, letting the wind dry his tears and letting my branches hold him in ways no human had ever done.

When the sun finally sets, and he realizes it is time to go, he clambers off and presses a hand to my trunk before walking away with small, hunched shoulders and fisted fingers. He walks to his house with one of my golden-brown leaves tucked into his pocket.

I do not see him for a long time after that.

Kibum is four and a half when he finds me. He has strayed from his grandmother, who stopped to talk to other grandmothers, and had discovered a few sleeping dogs. Being the curious little child he is, he had poked at their noses with a stick. The dogs had chased him, barking and spittle flying, all the way to me. Kibum runs, eyes wide in terror and small legs carrying him as fast as they can. He hides behind my trunk, sobbing, waiting for the dogs to lose interest and go away.

They do, but his sobs don’t recede.

His grandmother finds him a little while later. She tucks him into her shoulder and lets him sob to sleep as she walks home.

They come back every day after that. Kibum’s grandmother sits and chats with the other grandmothers while four-year-old Kibum watches the other children play.

Kibum is not a quiet boy; he is curious and observant and far too clever for his age.

Jonghyun comes back to me three days later, and this time, he is six and it is the first day of school. He wears a uniform and has a bag on his shoulders, but his hair is uncombed and the front of his shirt is drenched with milk. His cheeks have silver tear-trails and the faint smell of second-hand smoke and alcohol emanates from his small figure. He sits at the base of my trunk, biting into a peanut-butter sandwich which, guessing from how messily-made it is, had probably been assembled by Jonghyun himself.

He turns to me, “Namu-ssi,” he says in his voice heavy with tears. “I don’t think my umma likes me very much.”

“She said I was good for nothing and she wished she had abrot- arbot- aborted- me-” he stumbles over his words. “Do you like me, namu-ssi? My grandmother told me not to disturb trees because they might be sleeping… am I disturbing you, namu-ssi?” He looks up at me, expecting an answer.

“Why are you talking to a tree?” It is curious, observant, five-year old Kibum.

Jonghyun is startled: he jumps up and drops his sandwich. “I- I-”

“You do know that trees can’t talk, don’t you?” Kibum asks. “Because they can’t.”

“Of course I know trees can’t talk!” Jonghyun defends himself. “I was talking to my- my dog.”

“Your dog?!” Kibum’s eyes widen. “I don’t like dogs!” he backs away from Jonghyun, fear on his features. Jonghyun reaches out a hand to stop him, but Kibum is already turning and running away.

Jonghyun realizes his sandwich is on the ground, just as muddy and miserable as he is, and his shoulders shake with the effort of holding in his tears.

“Kim Jonghyun!” a shriek sounds through the park. Jonghyun startles again, and this time, he is the one to grab his bag and set off running before his mother can find him.

Kibum comes back a little while later, still cautious and curious. He seems disappointed that the other boy is gone, but he sits down, eyeing the sandwich in the dirt. He does not leave for a long time, until his grandmother comes back and takes him back home.

Jonghyun comes back from school later that day, his uniform torn and his shoes missing. His bag is open and it is empty, as if all his books had spilled out as he ran. He is not crying, he is not smiling. His sandwich from the morning is not there; a bird having feasted on it before. He sits down where Kibum had sat a few hours ago, and hugs his knees to his chest.

He does not seem like the other six-year olds who play in the park like there is no tomorrow. He seems more like middle-aged men and women, stressed, depressed and wanting nothing more than to vanish off the face of the Earth.

Kibum and his grandmother walk in, then, and Kibum heads straight for the tree. He sits down next to the older boy in silence.

“I’m sorry,” Kibum says. “My grandmother told me to say sorry if I do something wrong, and I made you drop your sandwich so I’m sorry.”

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