The old man raises his gray eyebrows in surprise. "You?" He blinks. "Why would you want to work here?" He doesn't ask you rudely, and you get the feeling that he's asking because he honestly doesn't understand why you, a young girl in school, would want to work in a boring old clock shop. 

"I need a job ... " you trail off, not wanting to explain your predicament. He continues to stare at you with his sharp, energetic eyes, a part of him that contrasts with his otherwise aging body. 

"Do you need a job, too?" He turns to Daehyun, who has finally let go of your hand. Daehyun shakes his head, and the old man merely grunts as a response. Returning to you, he says, "Are you busy right now?"

"No," you reply promptly. The old man leans back and starts to walk away, obviously expecting you to follow him. After some hesitation, you look at Daehyun, who is quietly standing by your side. "Are you ... ?"

"I can't stay," he informs you. "Actually, I kinda want to get changed," he jokes, looking down at his damp blazer. You let out an embarrassed groan, and laughter twinkles in his eyes. "It's fine," he assures you. "You're okay here, right?"

You smile. You want to say a million things to him right now as he starts to exit the store. You want to ask him why he's done all he has for you, and why he's stuck with you all this time. What is it about you that he goes to such an extent? You want to tell him how thankful you are, for his being there when you most need him, for his being here when you don't even know you need him. But all you can manage is a little wave, and you whisper, "Goodbye," in a tone that sums up all your emotions just as the bells above the door tinkle in his absence.

"Are you coming?" The old man asks you brusquely, breaking you out of your reverie.You whirl around, ready to tackle this hopefully easy job. 

"Yup," you say, following him as he goes around the counter. As he passes shelves and shelves of clocks that range from small, to large, to downright wild, he asks you about your availability.

"You can come after school, yes?" He questions you as he picks up a strange looking device. It doesn't even look like a clock. You can't spot the hands. "I won't need you every day. We hardly have people come in. I do the repairs, you set up appointments. I'm too old for sitting around waiting for people to show up," he murmurs, exaggerating this fact by taking forever to straighten his bent back. 

"That's fine," you tell him. He corners a shelf and flicks an invisible piece of dust off the clean wood before reaching over to open a door that had been hidden by the decorated furniture. "Okay. This," he says, switching on the lights to reveal a small workplace. It's a workshop of a sort; you can tell by the unidentifiable tools that lie around on the unvarnished desk, as well as the little metal pieces that gleam from the wall. He pulls out a drawer and shoves aside a number of papers, stirring up brown dust that puffs in the air at his choppy movements. You resist the urge to sneeze and instead take a step back as he rifles through the drawer, searching for something. Finally finding it, he pulls out a lonely, faded silver key that hangs off a rusted key chain and gives it to you. "This is my spare key. Understand? We close at five. You simple close all the curtains," he continues, walking out of his office and closing the door behind him with an affirmative click, "and make sure to lock the front door. Nobody is going to steal anything," he snorts. "Nobody cares for watches like these anymore. But there are still some people out there ... that still care for old things like I do." He finishes, his voice taking on a wistful tone. He waddles slowly to his counter, which is empty except for a stand that advertises dated magazines. He grabs a notebook from the drawer in this counter and opens it, pointing to the thin pages. "You write the names here for who wants their watch fixed. Model of the watch, what time they came, what time they want to pick it up. They don't pay until they pick it up. If they're coming to buy anything, we only take cash. See?" He points to a sealed black box, that most likely contains money. "We trade too. But trading days are only on Mondays and Wednesdays, so you won't be doing that. I'll be here. I won't need you then."

You're starting not to like this job, and you haven't even worked yet. Besides the fact that it'll be most likely uneventful, you'll be alone. What are you going to do? Maybe you can bring some homework with you to do, although you doubt that an uptight man like him would allow you to stray from your work, however sparse it may be.

"Does it get busy?" You ask him, trying to look interested. 

"You'll get payed on Mondays," he continues, as if he didn't hear you - and maybe he hadn't. "So don't worry about your wage. I'm sure that's the only reason you came here," he comments gruffly.

A little miffed, you protest, "That's no - "

"My grandson comes sometimes to help me out if there's too many watches to fix," he interrupts you. "He's a good kid. He's just a little opinionated." He gives you a pointed look. "You probably won't like him." Before you can reply, he adds, "and you can call me Mr. Lee. Just Lee. It makes me feel young if you call me that."

"O - okay," you nod. This guy might be peculiar, but he is definitely entertaining, and his frankness endears him to you. You can't help but smile at his blunt honesty. "Do you ... want me to start now?"

"If my grandson comes ... He usually does. I wonder why he's late today. He normally comes straight after school." 

Your ears perk up at this. "What school does he go to?"

"Oh ... that strict one up there. With all the rich kids. I don't know why he wants to go to that school so much. They're all hot heads over there."

You're insulted that he'd describe your classmates like that, although it shouldn't be your concern, since you're technically not a part of that stereotype anymore. Still, it hurts the ego you're trying so hard to maintain. But what Mr. Lee said doesn't make sense. Wouldn't his grandson be labelled as part of that group for attending that school? You want to ask him, but without having to say a word, he explains it to you.

"He could have gone for a scholarship somewhere else," he says ruefully. So his grandson is a scholarship student. You've only ever met one scholarship student - Daehyun - so it hadn't occurred to you that there might be another. Before you can ask who he is, the bells ring at the presence of a guest. You look up simultaneously with Mr. Lee just as he shouts excitedly, "Oh, Jungwoo! You're here! I finally hired someone. Come meet her."

When your eyes land on that familiar, cruel face, your heart drops. You feel cold surge through your veins as this boy, whose name is no longer a mystery, boldly meets your gaze. With a sneer on his lips, he states dryly, "Looks like the queen couldn't handle being alone."