word count; 877

The shattering of ceramics on brickwork and the cries and pleads from Jimin is something Yoongi could never really forget, even if he tried.

***

Yoongi stepped off the train and into what felt like the Arctic; Busan in the winter is hard to bear and he knew firsthand how bad it could get. Heaving through the blanket of snow, his mocha coloured combat boots hauled behind him. The young man tried his best to quicken his pace, but it had been a while since he had been here, it was like stepping foot into an entirely different neighbourhood. The familiarity of the quiet town had now subsided. Yoongi had become used to the hustle and bustle of city living; the gentle hush of tranquillity felt foreign to him. White flakes gently descended upon his woollen, navy trench coat. He was lost in thought, or rather, blank thoughts; merely basking in the ambience of a town once forgotten. He was captivated by the purity of snowfall but the grey skies left Yoongi with an uneasy feeling he couldn’t shake off.

The brownstone apartment towered over him like vigilant parent, a cloak of insignificance weighed upon his shoulders. His 6 foot frame had barely fit through the front door; his height was something he had to thank his father for. The young man’s footsteps sang a melancholy tune as he made his way down the bleak and barren corridors. A certain chill pricked his spine like millions of tiny needles. SORRY, HEATERS OUT OF ORDER. The crisp air evoked memories he had tried so hard to bury. The chipped brickwork gave the building character; it was something he always marvelled over. The beauty of the architecture in town was one of the few things he and Jimin could talk about for hours.

The broad shouldered blonde mustered up the courage to knock on the mahogany hardwood door. Yoongi tapped his hands rhythmically against his thigh as he rummaged through every inch of his mind, deciding what to say. The severity of the bags that sunk relentlessly beneath his eyes seemed more noticeable than usual, an indication of the minimal sleep he had to desperately fight for the night before. A wave of discomfort rushed over him as he tugged at his burgundy scarf.

No