The photographer's grandson

 

 

 

 

In a small bustling village lives a lovable niave boy called Nam WooHyun.

he finds himself face to face with a unknown girl from seoul, who takes pictures, always hiding her face.

A story of bittersweet first love, of fated strangers and inevitable goodbyes.

-Photographer's grandson

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Inspired by the MV

 

 

 

The boy with the hazel drenched eyes , balanced his back against the blurry window seat,his matterless energy dissipated.Could I go back to the days,where I met you several thousands of times

The air was blowing , coating his first dissociated pattern in life.Of course no one spoke back.

 

He vowed himself to be alone , here in his room.

 

The pictures stood, contrasting against his pale soft hands.There were 41 of them. Shot of cut memories,Of all the trips she endeavoured in this little town. He himself, had participated living in this town, for 20 years .It was the forgotten beauty of his village, that the vivid photos gave him an insight on how she saw it. How did she see me through her dusty coloured eyes.All he had known, were the few people that had walked alongside him. The taste of sun dried crispy fruits, their smell wafting in his nose, just a toddler.Helping his grandfather fetch the daily groceries, 2 hours away and the ajummas who loved to give him many spicy red dishes to eat and take home thinking he starved himself, judging from the look of his sharp defined bone. But he never was the one to gain weight, just lose them like penny coins.His lips curved upwards, the picture gently with the fingerprint of his thumb .

 

She took many, he thought looking at the fragment of the cherry blossom trees ,that lay there innocently within the white frame of plastic paper polaroid.There was another picture, this time, it wasn't of another of the countless inanimate objects she was so fond of taking.There was a trickle of black smudged in this person's face, the hair blowing in the midsummer's evening. The pristine white coloured shirt tucked in his blue denim jeans. He could remember the feeling of the fabric against him.With startling knowledge and a hint of hurt at not realizing, he came to terms with what the picture was showing,It was of him.It stole his breathe like a thief in the night, as if it was yesterday , that he heard the shuttle of her camera closing over him .Remembering standing there on the bridge, his hands holding a typical  transparent umbrella cocooned ,and resting on his composed shoulders. It had been  a well polished summer's day, the green petals belonging to the trees juicy from the sunlight. The green flowers have bloomed as he humorously like to say to his friend ,who'd never supported his nonsensical stories, chatter of daydreams.

 

And that's when he saw her, although she was just a background then. A person with no face that walked the place he called home. A identity that he gave no name or existence to. No attachment of strings.He had never seen her face that well, never knew completely what she looked like. She was like a lollipop stick , she had an identity of a girl , but he never remembered the features within her face.Funnily,She frequently would be carrying a bulky piece of camera that she liked to take pictures with, always  hiding her face with the curtain of bright metal.And for some reason, she had decided to snap him, on the bridge, just pointlessly standing there in the summers embrace.Maybe that's where it all started.