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The sun has already sat on its throne, flashing its bright warm rays over the land of the morning calm. The wind blew quietly; allowing large old trees to dance on its given rhythm, with the birds chirping and flying up in the sky, free and unknown where to go. Another day has started for the villagers of the old province of Gwangju; some has already gone to their jobs: fishing, farming, and producing livestock; while some are left inside their houses, just like a normal rural town would.

My alarm rang loudly across the room; I cupped my bed, eyes still shut and hands searching for the main suspect of the sound. I finally found my phone and switched it off to stop the continuous beeping sound. Snuggling my almost worn out favorite pillow, I rolled over the bed and tried to sleep soundly again. Five more minutes.

“Yah Kim Hanbin! How many times have I told you to wake up once the sun rises? Aigoo, the sun will set soon yet you’re still dreaming there. Yah wake up!”

Although I have stopped an alarm from entirely waking me up, I couldn’t stop the piercing holler of my mother; I bet she was downstairs, hands gripped tightly on the basket, planning to go out and shop at the market like her daily routine.

My eyes shot wide open and I covered my ears. I got off the bed as fast as possible, scrambling on the covers, almost falling headfirst on the floor.

“I’m already awake mom! Okay, okay, stop please!” I yelled back at her and fixed my bed. She ended her megaphone-like voice, told me about the breakfast at the table, and took her leave. I sighed and strode inside the bathroom to do my morning rituals. I got out after a while and just like a usual habit, I glanced on my right, where my window was, reflecting a podium-like patio with vines of orchids twisted on its welded metal linings.

A smile crept on my pale lips. There she was.

And like a normal day, I marched downstairs, grinning like a fool and day already complete.

┈ ♡ ┈

Just like my father, I grew up with a paintbrush on hand, eyes on the beige canvas, and a palette on the other. My father would wear a comforting smile every time, and teach me the basic know-how’s when it comes to painting. I practiced with pencils, pens, crayons, and a sketchpad first, but the rectangular piece of paper seemed too small to fit in my raging creativity.  My father then decided to enroll me to an art school, yet I dropped out a month after, saying that the teacher was lame and I would rather learn from my father firsthand.

As years passed by, my love for art has nurtured. I won a few contests here and there, from simple awards like 'most creative' and 'artist of the batch' on my high school graduation day, to winning first prize on local amateur competitions on other provinces and cities around the country. Often times I arrive home late, without any trophy on hand but a new experience I could transpose into an artwork by tomorrow morning.

“Yo bro wassup?” Jiwon, my long-time best friend, appeared out of nowhere at my own-made studio, which was just adjacent to my room. I was busy cleaning up the mess I left a few days ago after attempting to create an abstract with a large canvas almost as big as the walls. Nestling a few bottles of oil paint, I looked towards the door where a figure was standing and arched a brow.

“What do you want?” I resumed my task and opened a large cabinet containing all of my art materials: from brushes of different sizes and use, to various mediums like acrylic, pastel, and oil paint. Placing all of those precious jars carefully, I almost dropped the last bottle after hearing his announcement.

“Nothing, I just thought of dropping by to bring in news, good news to be specific; ever remember uncle Hyunsuk? I met him a few days ago and he told me that he wants to sponsor your exhibit.”

Although Kim Jiwon can be a jackass in some ways, but when it comes to concerns regarding his family and friends, he becomes as serious as a matured man can be. By the way, his family only has a vacation house here at Gwangju, where we met, since my father and his are good friends.

“ man is that real? Where?” My eyes widened, my heart was pumping loudly than I had ever felt it did. For business owners, it’s what most likely to be called an investment, but for artists like me, we feed on exhibits such as what my best friend had just told me.

Jiwon shrugged and roamed around my workplace. “Hmm... he mentioned about Seoul,” he said as he sorted out a few bunch of trash on the corner.

Seoul. That’s the capital city of Korea, our country. Living there are people who are wealthier than I am. It’s the center for everything: business, entertainment, communication, government. And for me, it could be the place to make mine and my father’s dream come true.

Finally.

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 “Yah Kim Hanbin! Do you have anything to buy?”

My mother’s voice rung again across the borders of our house, probably even reaching our neighbor’s too. I looked at my artwork and discontent was evident on my eyes. It’s not good; the past few works had the same results. It does not fit to be on the exhibit.

“Yah son! Do you have—”

“Nothing mom. I’m busy here, bye!” I replied and she bid goodbye as well; she’s heading to the main city of Gwangju to get aunt’s mail, who was living in Kyoto with her own family.

The door closed and silence resumed playing inside the studio. Mom was the sole reason why we are noisy as hell but when she goes out, the cemented walls of the two-storey house gets colder than it usually does.

With my teeth gritting a newly sharpened blank pencil and my foot tapping impatiently against the cold tiled floor, I stared at the blank pad ahead of me. I couldn’t seem to think what to do with it. There were no fresh ideas erupting on my genius of a mind like it usually does, and every time I tried to come up with one it would always be not enough. The exhibit. It’s here, already in my grasp yet now, I could not sketch anything.

I threw the pen away and groaned, a mixture of disappointment, anxiety, and frustration filling up within me. My hands almost clearing my face away, rubbing skin to skin, pulling my hair to perhaps help emit just one point to engulf in a canvas.

However, there was none.

, what now?

┈ ♡ ┈

 “Son, relax. Don’t stress yourself; it will get inside of you soon.”

My father would hold my shoulders and give it a light squeeze. He says the same line every time he sees me too frustrated about painting; mostly the case is lack of inspiration, what story to tell in a white board. He will coax me to join him for a drink and I will concur, and we would go out at the nearby coffee shop to sit and talk about things, a large part of it focused on our first love.

“Pops, how do you think of an idea to paint?” The thirteen-year-old me asks, curious about how as hell could my father think of something when there was totally nothing to come up with.

My father sipped the hot black espresso poured inside a beautifully made porcelain cup, with streaks of gold lines surrounding it as its design. He released a sound of content after drinking something that has warmed his body. Placing it again on the table, he glanced at the entrancing scenery beside: a normal afternoon of the province. Some people were walking with a fixated destination in mind; some were busy doing their day’s job, while cars on route to somewhere carried the others. There were also children--so innocent, so full of hope--playing tag outside their homes, giggling and running along the wind’s blow.

“Would you agree on me if I tell you now that painting takes a lot of time?” He asked me, and I creased my brows, as I could not catch the point of telling it. “To come up with a masterpiece, you need not a single brain cell in it, well scientifically yes it does, but art was, something different. It comes from the heart of the painter himself. Often times you will encounter such artworks that evoke cultural beliefs, opinions, and such; because that’s what’s inside the artist who created that. If you want your works to leave an impression to others, you must not think what to do rather feel what you want to do.”

“What do you want? Do you want to tell a love story? Do you want to show a magnificent view of a hidden part of nature? Do you want express an untold emotion, of rage, of happiness, of whatever it is? Or, do you rather want to spark and inspire a will to others who will lay eyes on your canvas? Tell me son, what do you want now?”

My father asked me; my eyes averted from his as mine glanced sideways. Crumpling my dusty shorts, a yellow paint smeared on its hemline, I pressed a sigh and a smile started to form on my before frowning lips.

He chuckled at my reaction. “That’s it son. Do you have anything now? Just remember that an idea doesn’t come if you think of it, it will just come to you naturally. It may take a few hours, days, weeks, months, or hell even years! At least something did. It’s worth the wait.”

┈ ♡ ┈

 “Oh by the way son, someone’s transferring to the house for rent besides ours. Can you believe it? We’ll finally have a neighbor!”

I heaved a deep sigh before pressing the remote button to change channels of the television. Listening to my mother’s constant chatter doesn’t help my case at all. I have been doing the same thing for the past two months already; waking up, helping with the house chores, and working as my mother’s assistant at her catering business. I have been doing all of this in hopes that something will spark as a new prospect of my art but none comes each and every day.

“Yah yah yah yah! That drama was good don’t switch- yah!”

I ignored my mother’s bickering and searched for an interesting show to watch, but in the end I decided to tune in at a variety show with an expectation that it could make me laugh but well, like any others, it failed.

Sprawling on the couch, I gritted my teeth and groaned in frustration; surprising my mother, who was a seat beside me, busy folding the newly washed clothes.

“Jeez what’s wrong son? Yah Hanbin-ah!”

I stood up and went upstairs--to my room--where there's silence, so I could have  a peace of mind. Nestling inside the warm sheets, my eyes darted the cold ceiling above me. If this blank white space could turn into an artistic ceiling... I heaved a disappointed sigh. As I could not imagine a perfect design to paint on it. It has been taking so long to come and it worries me.

Another collective sigh has been heard before my eyes slowly drifted to sleep. Perhaps tomorrow would be the day, if not, the next. At least something did. It’s worth the wait.

┈ ♡ ┈

The next morning, I woke up neither from the sound of my alarm nor from my mother shouting. It was as if I was dreaming of something and it ended in a snap, which probably woke me up.

Getting up, I stretched my arms and rubbed my eyes. Preparing for today, I went to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. After prepping himself, I slumped back to my bed to lie down and stare at nothing, but I got up almost immediately after noticing an unusual figure at the balcony of the house next door.

As I look at it, I realized it was a girl, sitting on the chair outside her room’s terrace, her eyes shut and her head bobbing slowly to perhaps a sound coming from the earphones plugged on her ears. Her hair tied in a loose bun, with some covering her face.

It was a calming view; it was as if I was looking at a fallen angel just a house next to me.

She was oblivious of everything, like she was on the other side of the world.

Little by little, a smile began to appear on my lips. The frown was long gone.

┈ ♡ ┈

 “Dad! I’m home!”

A young boy, who had just started middle school, came rushing towards his father at the latter’s workplace, holding what it seemed like a ripped off page from a sketchpad.

The middle-aged man took a halt from mixing oil paints and turned to attend his son, who was grinning widely and excitedly flapping the piece of paper to show him.

“Dad! Dad! I made this one on our art class. Look I got a perfect score!” I squealed and my father grabbed his glasses to look at my artwork. It was a portrait of a lone tree planted on a hillside; the colors used were sad, the variation was great, and considering it was from a twelve year old me, it was truly amazing.

“Good job son! How did you manage to do this?” He asked. He was obviously proud of my work. Years passed by and all I did was too improve my skill, which I inherited from my very own father.

I frowned and tried to remember how such a picture did come out from my mind. “Ah! I saw that tree when we went out of town last month. The tree was all alone, and it really looked gloomy.”

“I see,” said my father. He patted my head and resumed with his work. Today he had thought of trying a landscape abstract of the city life. As he was busily churning a medium sized can, I was left staring at one side, curious about everything around this crowded four-cornered room.

Minutes began to surpass, my father had already began tracing the details with a 4B pencil, carefully drawing out the lines and curves. I was like a statue, dazed at how meticulous the work was.

I had been there for about an hour, watching my father spread the assorted colors, and how a blank empty canvas turned into a wonderful work of art; well not until my mother came down looking for me.

“Aigoo son, I’ve been looking for you all around the house!”

Before I left, I kissed my father goodnight and gazed at the half-finished monochrome picture of the city, it looked cool.

I will do something like that someday.

I will be like my father someday.

┈ ♡ ┈

It has become a regular sight to see the girl next door. On mornings, I always found her there, on the balcony, where I first saw her. I found her amusing; all she did was sit on that empty wooden chair, close her eyes, and listen to the music coming out from her phone; sometimes she reads a few books too. I would watch her for a good few minutes before I go downstairs to begin my day.

After lunch, the girl would not be on her usual place, and it continued until evening, where I would wait for morning to come to see her again.

┈ ♡ ┈

One morning I saw a different scene outside my window.

Instead of earphones or a book, the girl was looking on a distance, this time with a guitar on her lap, plucking a few strings here and there.

I was surprised to see her with something other than her phone or a hardbound novel. It looked like she was lost on her own world, swaying her upper body to the rhythm of the sound the guitar creates.

She stopped strumming and picked up a pen; I tiptoed to peek at what she was doing. I found out she was writing something on a page of a notebook. What was it— was it lyrics, or perhaps chords of a song? I could not help but to ponder. Nevertheless, whatever it was, something was growing inside me. A spark. An ignition.

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 “No mom! I don’t want to-”

“But please son, do it for me please? I am in a hurry and as much as I want to, I cannot. Please, pretty please?”

I pressed a defeated sigh, much to my mother’s delight. I snatched the heavy box of rice cakes from her and she smiles widely, almost attempting to kiss my cheeks if only I am not attentive.

“Bye son! I’ll be home late. Make sure to drop them off, like right now, because it’s best served hot!”

Hearing the door slam, I groaned in frustration. Why was my mom such a forgetful person that she even forgets to give welcoming treats to her new neighbors? Another heave of sigh was heard. Perhaps that was also, why nobody wants to move next door. The Kim’s are hostile.

As much as possible, I did not want to do anything that concerns our new neighbor. I was afraid that I might encounter a conversation with her, and I thought I’m not ready yet for that one. Come on, I am almost a percentage close to being an unsociable freak. If not for Jiwon, who dared approached me at third grade; I wouldn’t have a single friend.

Scratching my head in aggravation, I was left with no choice but to deliver the box and talk to anybody who will open the door for me, greet him/her a belated welcome to the neighborhood, and make an abrupt leave. I might look like a total weirdo in the end but it’s not like our family wasn’t anyway.

After giving myself a bunch of encouragement, I knocked on the mahogany painted door three times and waited for someone to open it. What if I will just drop the box outside the door and run back to my house? My mind was running with nonsense thoughts that I haven’t noticed a figure already standing in front of me.

“Yes, what was it young lad?”

I snapped out of the train of thoughts and saw a woman, probably in her forties with those crooked brows and creases on her face, looking at me with a warm smile etched on her lips. I cleared my throat and fumbled on what to say. In the end, I greeted her good afternoon and told her about the rice cakes.

“I-I’m sorry if it took long, I mean, my, my mother- she gets forgetful sometimes,” I said and sheepishly grinned, my head ducked low, facing the floor.

“Oh goodness, you don’t have to! But thank you nonetheless, you’re name is?”

“H-Hanbin. I’m Kim Hanbin, ma’am.”

“What a manly name. You know you do look like around the age of my daughter too, oh-” the woman looked behind and scanned the house, “but sadly she isn’t around at this time. I hope you get to know her someday. Her name is Hayi.”

Hayi. What a beautiful name.

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a/n: alright! how's that for the first half? :D i hope ya'll liked it. i'll be posting the last part sometime tomorrow or the day after. I have to hurry now though, I still have my last class in 16 minutes hehee~ (by the way, i deeply encourage you to post your thoughts. yes, there below. thanks!)