The Book of Us:

Gravity

It’s all surrounded by an exuberant, lush garden with a little pond in the middle splashed with the white from the lotus flowers, the perfume of spring spreading into the wind caressing the bangs of his dark hair. He looks around, smiling, enjoying the quietness and tranquillity of his, now, patch of land. He glances at the trees, wild and proud, standing between his property and the road that rides there, a green, leafy, natural fence that shadows him from the hot air. He takes one step at a time and enjoys his new acquired place, the papers still crumbling in his hands, the ink still wet, his fingertip still red, the old keys in a ring between his fingers, swirling joyously.

His footfall falls heavily against the aged, wooden, floor, hoisting dust. Every surface is clouded and hazed with dirt and soot, the interior creaking and old and forgotten, but he has plans to restore and repair it all, he is going to bring the gleam back to this place, make it his own home. But, right now, he feels like an intruder, walking into the past, a path leading to patched rooms storing stories that only the walls remember, old pictures hanging still there, with fading colours and broken edges. He takes one, cleans the dirt from the glass and stares into the ancient owner, who smiles back at him. Behind, there is a date: 1890, more than a century ago. Jinwoo hangs it again and notes to keep it in place, a prove of history, of the importance of mementoes.

Even when he is more a stranger than the new proprietor, Jinwoo reclaims a room for himself and piles boxes with his belongings.

He begins to open the cardboard boxes and unpack his things carefully after a cleaning raid that has left him worn to the bones, but as exhausted as he is, he wants to install as soon as possible, before the new semester starts. He has a week to fix the furniture, to change the decrepit pipes and replace most of the old electric wires. His list is long so he tries to make the most of the night before collapsing in bed, lost to the world.

There is a drawer in a corner. He opens the first one, a hand full of his clothes when he stumbles upon a box. He blinks, confused. The real-agent has told him that the house has been inhabited for decades, that the last owners had taken everything with them but the furniture that came with the house (the cabinets in the kitchen, the tables, the dormitory’s drawer, the broken mirror in the bathroom). And, yet, there is a white box that gleams under the moon, iridescent, initials engraved with fire on top of the lid “KJW” in pretty calligraphy. The box is stuffed and heavy, cold under his palms, the surface smooth and clean, made of shells, pearlescent, opalescent. The inside is lined with smoky velvet and holds a pile of withering, shrivelled envelops, all under the name of Kim Jinwoo. He tilts his head, confused because this is his name but it’s impossible that the letter is meant for him (it is because they are clearly tottering and ancient, dotted with time and dim and the paper is thin, creaking between his fingers when he opens them).

He reads the letter with care, under the light that comes from the outside, sitting by the window, the sound of the night as his company. They are from a man named Song Minho, a friend, as it seems, and, according to the date, it was written by 1910, the year of the Japanese annexation of Korea. His heart beats like a drum, excitedly, with every passing page. It is enticing, reading moments from real history, a man talking about uprising and revolution against the Japanese Imperialism at expenses of the Korean population. Song Minho speaks of patriotism and love to his country, of commitment and agitation, plans to return the country to the Joseon Dynasty that has been kidnapped by the Japanese. But he also talks about love, love that blooms inside his heart, to another man, to Jinwoo. And he is in awe at how frank he is about his feelings, how open he exposes them, without a single worry. Jinwoo folds the stack of papers and puts them back into the envelope, hands the following letter and reads it, eagerly, curiosity shining in his eyes.

He stays the night awake, deciphering the meaning of Minho’s words that were written years ago but that feels fresh, new, actuals, as if time didn’t pass, as if they came from more than a hundred years back and Jinwoo is captivated, enthralled, in love with every word poured into it, in love with Song Minho, a commoner that lived and breathed for Kim Jinwoo, the man who he could never have but that could never replace inside his heart. Reading it feels invading, as if stepping into someone’s else private matters, but Jinwoo can’t stop himself, fascinated as he is, breathing through every word written, living the history learn at school first hand.

Dawn finds him still awake, a bunch of letters across his lap, another pile waiting still inside the nacre box. He rubs his eyes tiredly, but excitement beats down his bones, aching and cracking. Sun begins to rise, painting the sky in red and blue, diluting the night, opaquing the stars that accompanied him across the dark, across any new page turned between his fingers, until his sight was worn out and blurry and words fuzz in front of his view. He is beguiled with every detail that Minho poured into his correspondent, how clear the images he wrote nearly a century ago forms in Jinwoo’s mind, pictures and emotions storming, soaking him, pricking him, feeling them deep down, emerging from his heart and enlivening his body and head. It was more than love what radiates through every letter: it was adoration: a bound that time and distance couldn’t break, nor circumstances. It is a living-proof, not only about the history they were scripting back then or the change they both were purchasing (the freedom of Korea, fighting the Japanese occupation, joining the Righteous Army) but a whole relationship that was, then, forbidden, impossible. And, yet, Jinwoo can feel it bubbling, very real, beating between Minho’s words. And he wants to know more, wants to dig into it, dive into the ocean of accumulated letters, waiting to be read, to be dust off.

It takes Jinwoo an entire week of work undone to go through all the letters (and another week to get over the high and then a few more days to calm down and begin to analyze and interpreted the content, to seize the meaning, the implications, the reality over the facts overlapping). And the semester has just begun and he should be preparing his classes and his house instead of doing research about occurrences that he found out in fraying papers long forgotten and abandoned, events that stretch up to a life-time, lasting until Kim Jinwoo’s last breath, until the moment he died. They managed to mail each other regularly for a long period of time, writing about the future emancipation, the creation of a new Korea and recalling memories of the moments spent together.

Their first encounter and befriending was while fighting with the Righteous Army against the Japanese Occupation, according to some passages, happening around the end of the 1910 year, when Minho moved to Jeolla to fray where Jinwoo was original from, under the command of Shin Dolseok. They battled together and moved to Seoul after their first wins but the army was soon defeated and they both had to flee and seek refugee with the peasants, hiding in the countryside. Minho has related some of their eventualities, dated them, narrated them as if they were happening while writing, fresh and lively (and if Jinwoo closes his eyes, he can picture it in his head: the sounds, the hot breath of the air, the rustle, the rush of people coming, their voices, their actions, everything clear, neat, born out of Minho’s descriptions, inherent to his words, reviving the past, making it present and Jinwoo wants to be part of it, wants to inhale all the phrases he had poured into Jinwoo, feel the same emotions jolting inside his core, the adrenaline fizzing, the haze of making a change, the hassle of being breathing history, crafting it as it went).

And now Jinwoo has on his hands hundreds of those letters, organized by date by the original Jinwoo, preserved with love and care, papers that smell like old books and dust and roses.

Minho was a really good chronicle, with a great sense of wording, always able to recreate events, to fill up the ambience with elaborate descriptions and Jinwoo is captivated with all of his words, with his ability to cage feelings and emotions, portraying them as living elements, like the breezy wind. Reading has been easy, smooth, much more interesting than any of his History Books (and the romance was so thrilling, so intense and fraught, so vivid and full of hues and colours, it had endured time and distance and, yet, it was still bashing, alive, ploughing on despite having everything against it, against them.

Jinwoo is so immersed re-reading the letters, that has forgotten the time (lately he has been living inside envelops and frayed papers rather than in his own house, much to his friend's amusement, mumbling and hesitating about names and dates and events they can’t recall).

Kim Wonpil is the one pinching him out of his revelry, tutting his tongue with displeasure, grunting at the mess of boxes still unopened, at the dust covering the corners, at the general abandon of the place and its owner.

“Hyung, what’s this and where have you been squandering your time on?” he wonders, a brow raised, the door opened, letting in rays of the sun, the warm wind of spring. Jinwoo squirms, surprised, getting up from the floor. “I thought you owned a couch already,” Wonpil jokes, reaching to hold Jinwoo’s arm, to prevent him from tripping. “I also thought you owned manners,” he adds, giggling, walking in.

“I’m sorry, I’ve been busy,” Jinwoo apologies, half-asses. Wonpil’s brow raises higher, puzzled. “Maybe not with the moving but something came up,” he explains to a doubtful Wonpil. “I slacked a bit, lately, but I’ll be back on track in no time. I just need to...”

“To get your tests ready. Your students have forgotten about you, I’ve been covering you for a week!” Wonpil retorts.

“No, you have not!”Jinwoo protests, indignant. He might delay his obligations, but not to this point. Now Wonpil is chuckling at his reaction.

“Of course not, not yet, but if things keep going this way...” and he smirks and Jinwoo has the urge to punch his friend.

“Look, I found something fascinating and I’ve been studying it. And no, it has nothing to do with classes or the course, it’s something that was in this house,” he says, handing him a bunch of letters. Wonpil glances at it, curiosity peeking through his eyes. He takes the first one and skims over it, mumbling with teeth among his lips.

“The Liberation Army!,” he exclaims, chuffed. He reads carefully now, taking a seat on the floor. Jinwoo follows suit, analyzing his expression, the curb of his mouth, the gleam of his eyes whenever he reads a new sentence. “OK,” he says, folding the papers, fitting them inside the envelope it has been taken from. He looks amused and he watches Jinwoo with understanding, “I get you, this is really a thing. You want to know more, right?” and Jinwoo nods, Wonpil reading his mind. “College is such a wonderful place, with that massive library, all these history teachers and researchers,” he says, mockingly, with a crooked grin. “You haven’t considerate it, right?” and, again, Wonpil has gotten him.

“Too caught up with it to think ahead,” Jinwoo excuses himself, “but I’ll do it tomorrow after class,” he promises.

“Keep me updated, this that you have in your hands feels like a real discovery,” he adds, excitedly.

They spend the rest of the afternoon moving furniture and relocating a couch, much to Wonpil’s delight, who sinks into it until dinner-time, Minho’s letters in one side, Jinwoo’s notes in the other, his eyes dancing.

Jinwoo covers the box with a manila envelope and wraps it with lace, locates it gently at top of his bag and drives to Seoul National University, where he teaches and where the Kyujanggak Institute for Korean Studies is established as well.

He feels so stupid now, walking through the college campus, holding part of history to be examined, dissected, compiled and crosschecked. He should have thought about it first, but he has been so focused on the emotions depicted, lost in the love they shared, he forgot that it could be considered a material heritage, a proof of Korean resistance, the fights, the struggles citizens when through during the Japanese Rule and, after that, the devastation of the civil war, the aftermath of the division of the country in two, split at will by foreigner powers. He has done his own research, of course, has read about World War II and The Korean War, has dug into it, but only superficially and only looking to find the names he holds dear (because he feels it’s right that the descendants of Song Minho or Kim Jinwoo inherit this treasure, decide what to do next; Jinwoo is not the legitimate owner, he has only found them by accident).

He knocks and a soft voice invites him in.

The room is dim, the air is heavy and he breathes in sterile air. All around, preserved in Plexiglas vitrines, exposed, exhibited, there are relics from ancient Korea, replicas of crowns, ceramics, a recreation of a town. Jinwoo glances over them and the same voice talks to him; explains them to Jinwoo with academic precision. Jinwoo turns around to face Park Sungjin, professor of Modern History, smiling at him warmly.

“It’s nice to meet you, Professor Kim,” he says, shaking his hand. “I’ve heard you have something you want to discuss with me?” he asks, pointing at his desk, at the pair of chairs waiting. Jinwoo takes it, carefully removes the stack of letters from his bag and leaves them slowly at the desk. Sungjin looks at it perplexed. “What is that?” he exclaims in wonderment.

“I recently moved and found them inside a drawer,” Jinwoo explains, opening the lead, revealing the box’s content. He extracts the first letter, the oldest one, and hands it to Sungjin to examine. He puts in cotton globes and, using tweezers, he puts the letter in a lectern to study it. He reads it through magnifying lenses and smiles further at any new discovering.

“This is amazing!” he proclaims, first reading finished. He slightly bounces, bubbling with excitement, “it’s been a while since a private collection came to my hands,” he says, “what do you want to do exactly with it? Donate it to us for examination?” he smiles broadly, expectantly.

“Well, my name is Kim Jinwoo, but these letters don’t belong to me or my family. I have nothing to do with them, I just… It’s a mere chance that they came to me and I would like, if possible, to let the right owner decide so I guess all I want is to find out who these belongs to,” he tells, stumbling at the end, looking at how Sungjin’s happy eyes become dull and serious, all bubbles are blown away.

“If that’s the case… I’m afraid I can’t be of help. But I can tell you a few things that might make easier your tracking,” he says, seating down again, looking with pitiful eyes at the document. He reaches out to touch the paper, rubbing it between his gloved fingers, “this is vellum, made of cotton, but expensive at that time, so it hints that he was from the upper class, and his writing is very sophisticated and refined, which suggests that whoever Song Minho was, he had studied, maybe he was a scholar or a poet, but I’m not an expert in this field and the name says nothing to me, sadly,” he exposes, “but, can I ask you to have a copy? I would like to enquirer into it further,” and there is a pleading note lingering in his voice and stars flashing in his eyes and Jinwoo can’t deny his petition, not when he has been so willing to aid him, so he nods. “You are also a professor here, have you tried to do a cross-reference through the university site? Unlimited access to all the books, you can get some citation about your man,” he suggests and, really, Jinwoo wants to smash his head for his full incompetence.

“You have been very helpful,” he says, a few hours later, with the letters wrapped again, safely now in a container that Sungjin has provided him.

“Oh! Kim Jinwoo was the owner of the house, right? Maybe you can explore the property documents… The National Archive should have land registry… I can get you a pass to examine them. For Song Minho, from his writing style, I’m pretty sure he was born in Seoul or nearby, and the surname… it’s not that common, perhaps you will have more luck looking into him. A rich family from the capital city, named Song, not sure there will be many, unlike Kim, which is one of the most spread family names. Let me know about your queries and you know where to find me if I can be of more help,” he says, walking Jinwoo to the door, shaking his hand once more.

Jinwoo skims the screen, types again another entry, change the keywords and prays for better results. Press enter and waits.

A hundred entries show up. Jinwoo selects the first one and reads the article, but it says nothing about his investigation so he closes it, opens another file, tries again, crosses another idea from his notebook. So far he only has a few links and a thousand books to suggested about the period, literature and genealogy; at least he has been able to pin Minho’s occupation: as indicated by professor Park, he was a mild famous poet at the time (Jinwoo has perused some of his works and the style and rhythm match with the flow of the letters, all of them referring to such a great, obscure love, ephemeral, ethereal, infinite like the sea and the sky, shimmering, the feel of touching the sunlight with his hands). It was beautiful.

But that’s all he has and it has been a month and all his threats and records are ending lines that provide no results (leading to some other topics and person and Jinwoo has been avoiding reality for too long, has been postponing his assignments as a professor).

“You are too catch up in it,” says Wonpil, sprawled on top of Jinwoo’s desk, scoffing at his investigation. “You should focus on preparing your lessons and classes,” and Jinwoo hates to admit that he has been procrastinating too much, favouring his letters over his job, his whole career that it at steak.

“I’ll post the grades in an hour. And make yourself useful and get out of here, you are distracting!” he pushes him out but Wonpil persists, staying in with him.

“Just in case you forget again”.

This time Jinwoo doesn’t; he publishes the grades and goes out with Wonpil, just to hear rumours and gossips and to have a good laugh with his friend. It’s nice to be out, actually, not surrounded by books and documents and crumbling letters (as beautiful as they are).

It’s 3am and Jinwoo is still in front of his laptop, typing names and dates, documenting poems, feeling the link closer: he has found that Song Minho passed away without descendants (he never married, remained a bachelor though Jinwoo knows better, he has discovered the truth, the reason why, a reason who had a name and his heart), but he had a little sister and, searching for her, he has stumbled upon another dead end. But it’s something and, for tonight, he feels accomplished. Tomorrow he will go the National Archives, look for the heirs of Song Minho to hand them the legacy he holds by coincidence.

“I’m looking for Song Minho,” Jinwoo says to the front desk girl. She smiles at him, eyes on the screen. At the other desk, a boy is staring at Jinwoo. He is cute: tall and tanned, a bit rough but his eyes sparkle and, when he tilts his head at his direction, curiosity peeking through his lips, he beams.

“I’m Song Minho,” he introduces himself, hand-stretched to clasp his. “Why are you looking for me?” he wonders, then, with Jinwoo’s fingers interlaced in a strong-hold. Jinwoo blinks at him, startled.

“My name is Kim Jinwoo,” he says, his brain trying to proceed what’s going on, “and this might sound a bit insane but…”

“Kim Jinwoo?” he is cut off by Minho’s excited exclamation. He is rummaging through his stuff, busy looking into his hand-bag. It takes a few seconds for him to handle Jinwoo a bunch of letters (letters that are a mirror of his ones).

“Oh, God!” Jinwoo is awestruck. This is surprising, unexpected, like magic. He takes out his box, the one he has been toting around and puts it into Minho’s embrace.

“What is this?” he carefully opens the lid, takes out the first envelope, reads in awe the names, the calligraphy, taking into every little detail. “Where did you find this?”

“I recently moved and they were inside a drawer… I was looking for the owner,” he explains. “But I think it belongs to you,” but Minho is shaking his head, mumbling nonsense.

“I was looking for you, too!” he finally exclaims, giving him the letter he had. It is under Kim Jinwoo’s name, a reply to Minho, the match to the stash he has. This is a miracle.

“I have nothing to do with it…” he stutters, grasping what Minho is implying. “I’m not related to them in any way or form it’s just a very odd causality,” he explains, pushing the paper back to him.

“Wait but… You are Kim Jinwoo, right?” he inquires, half-suspecting, half-intrigued, and Jinwoo nods.

“And you are Song Minho,” he points out, serious. “A relative of the poet, perhaps?” he asks but then it’s time for Minho to negate it.

“This makes no sense,” Minho fumbles, “I’ve been searching and researching to find the person this belongs to and I end finding you, who has the other set of correspondence and, yet, have nothing to do with them,” he sighs, dejected.

“What about you? Are you… related somehow?” Jinwoo queries again, not wanting this to end. It would be so devastating that, after so much work, this will be how it finishes.

“Can you believe my case is the same as yours? I moved out of my parents, find this lovely, eccentric house and stumbled upon a footlocker full of drawings and papers, all about someone named Kim Jinwoo. And you are… you look exactly like him, but aren’t related. It’s madness,” he tells, exasperated. “It’s just too big of a coincidence to not be connected somehow,” he fumes, decided to make it make sense. Jinwoo smiles.

“Do you want to talk about it over coffee? We can make some speculations and wild guesses if that.” Jinwoo isn’t sure about it, he is not the type to ask first, to engage into this sort of things (he is cautious and timid but there is something about Minho that draws him in, something captivating and he wants to know more, wants to meet him).

“Sure!”

It’s so easy to talk to him, even about the most random stuff. Minho rambles about soul-mates and red-strings and, as he says it, Jinwoo feels the logic (a logic his head negates but his heart senses).

“They had such a passionate story,” Minho says, reading Jinwoo’s bunch of letters. Jinwoo is doing the same and now he can have the whole picture displayed in front of his eyes. A story of love and respect and admiration, a story that crosses the borders of time and space, a story about feelings so deep-rooted, not even death could erase, replace. Song Minho wrote the most beautiful poems and drew such lovely images with Jinwoo always in mind (everything he ever did, it was for Jinwoo).

“And, somehow, we ended being the guardians of it,” Jinwoo jokes and Minho’s laugh is very pretty when he joins him.

“And we are Kim Jinwoo and Song Minho, feels like we were destined to find, to meet,” he adds, a mischievous glint twinkling inside his eyes, a hopeful note at the end of his sentence. “Maybe we are. Maybe this is the universe grand plan for us,” and Jinwoo is confused, wishing he was serious but knowing that it’s impossible, that they have just spent two hours together, that it is too soon, too rushed, hasty. And, yet, despite better consideration, he wants it to be true. “I don’t know much about you but there is something… as if I have known you, as if you were part of my life, maybe in another lifetime,” and his voice is grave, solemn, there is not a hint of wit or humour, not when his hand falls upon Jinwoo’s and it is warm and delicate when his fingers find a way to interlock with his, holding his hand over the table. “I would really like to discover more, to do more with you, Kim Jinwoo, who feels like gravity, unavoidable, intangible, beating through my heart, binding me with you.”

Maybe it’s not fully reasonable (perhaps the conscious part of Jinwoo fails to find the logic), but he has sensed it, too, the force, the clash, the way he feels much more like him with Minho. Maybe it’s, like he has said, unavoidable, the destiny, he will find it out with time.

That night Jinwoo calls Wonpil, explains his whereabouts.

“Soul-mates!” he claps, overjoyed, “this is it. You told me that you fancy him even when you just met,” he recalls, “and I never have seen you so excited about a new acquaintance before. Not even Park Sungjin, the most handsome history professor, who was hitting on you. And you ignored him. But you are all smitten and fizzy about this Minho mate, who happens to own the other bunch of letters, this has to be the universe calling you, giving you a chance,” and Jinwoo is immediately regretting having tell him that, anything (Wonpil is a romantic and Sungjin has been nothing but nice to him, he wasn’t flirting, and neither has Minho, despite all his digressions about time-lapses and travels, about feeling a deep connection at first sight).

“Well, for your information, I accepted his proposition and we will meet again, go for a quick lunch, talk about the letters, see if we can unite forces and discover the real owners,” he heaves against the phone, the air tasting like Minho. It feels strange to have a name scrambled all around his bones, so prone to his mind when he means nothing to him (when he is only a pretty face and a nice company, the oddest stranger he has come across).

“I don’t think you are time-travellers, as he so much predisposed was to believe, but soul-mates, that sounds like it!” he provides, his insight so clean that Jinwoo is inclined to agree if only he wasn’t a professor of Psychology and knew better that such a thing is just a product of novels and imagination. But, even if he won’t admit it, deep down, the word feels right, feels idly mild, correct.

“I’ll let you know what it is next time,” he says, ready to hang up.

Minho feels like home, with his hands clasped, his head on his shoulder, the light from the screen shimmering inside his eyes, head fuzzy with sleep, both on the floor of his eccentric house. He covers Minho with a blanket, keeps reading the information they have gathered about Kim Jinwoo and Song Minho.