In the middle of the gallery, he stood before a wall of photographs, many in black and white with dramatic contrast and a soft focus. Each one was mounted on white board and strung together using clamps on the boards. He tilted his head as he scrutinised each of them, making a story in his head. They weren't anything outrageous or eye-catching, but they had a life to them. A single blink of an eye in someone's life, and the strings seemed to lead him in a natural progression of images, as if showing a definite plot to a story.

A colour photo, without a human subject, looked down on a table or maybe the floor, showed a vase of dried and dead flowers, a dark bottle of something—Jongdae couldn't read its label—a gift box with a white bow, and a small bottle of what Jongdae assumed to be aftershave or cologne. There was no rhyme or reason to the collection of objects, and it wasn't a particularly attractive photo. It was very plain, but the more Jongdae stared, the more curious he became, and the more he liked it.

Finally, after minutes of unblinking scrutiny and ignoring others who paused to admire the photographs, Jongdae realised the image showed very little shadow, as if taken in ample light. Even the wrinkles of the withered flower petals showed little definition by shadow.

The card beneath it read: MINSEOK'S MORNINGS

“Minseok's Mornings … So who's Minseok? And why doesn't he have a shadow?”