Kim Jong Kook walked through the street market on his way back from the gym. He pulled the hood from his black sweatshirt down over his forehead, just above his eyes, hoping to not to draw attention to himself. The two cameramen following him had kept some distance, shooting Jong Kook from afar, but their yellow raincoats were like sun spots and they stood out from the rest of the crowd that gray afternoon. It had not rained yet, but it would soon.

As Jong Kook made his way past the food stands, he heard his name whispered. It was a soft voice but it clearly pierced through the din of the crowd. An elderly woman tending a flower stand had noticed him. He looked over and bowed slightly to the woman. She whispered his name again and gestured for him to come to her. Jong Kook walked over, pulling his hood lower on his brow so that others would not notice him. The two cameramen followed him. One rounded the corner of the flower stand to film the stand and those around it. The other stood a few meters away from Jong Kook, focused on the interaction between him and the clerk.

The elderly woman said that she has been his fan for some time and would like his autograph. When Jong Kook nodded, she told him to wait so that she could find paper. As she rustled through the interior of the stand, Jong Kook looked up over the flowers on the other side of the stand. A foreigner – a white woman with wavy brown hair and light eyes – was walking toward the flower stand. She was wearing a long, flowing white shirt and jeans. Her hands were hooked through the straps of a pack that seemed heavy on her back. But still, her steps were light, and time seemed to slow for Jong Kook as he watched her. The cameraman shooting from the back saw the foreigner, too, and seeing Jong Kook’s interest, walked backward until he could see both Jong Kook on one side of the stand and the foreigner on the other side through the lens. The foreigner noticed neither Jong Kook nor the one cameraman filming her. She was instead drawn to the flowers, smelling one, holding another, and sifting through the others as she unknowingly walked closer around the side to Jong Kook. But one particular flower caught her eye. Unlike the others, which were bunched together, this particular flower was alone in its vase. The petals were white with ends that dipped in a deep purple. She held the flower up to her face and began twirling it, watching as the white and purple mixed in its spin through her fingers.

Jong Kook’s stare was interrupted by the clerk, whom had returned with a piece of paper for his autograph. As he signed, the elderly woman noticed the foreigner twirling the flower and called out to her. The foreigner heard the clerk but did not understand. “Mianhamnida,” the foreigner said. “I don’t speak Korean.” The clerk turned to Jong Kook and, reaching over the flowers that separated them, tugged at his forearm and a