He stood outside the door of her shabby apartment building.  The metal address numbers on the side of the building were tarnished.  The hinges on the chipped-paint door were rusted and were in need of oil.  The stoop didn’t even have a roof.

He knew this was not a good part of Seoul—the sound of fire truck sirens rang in the distance, the short whoop, whop! of police cars as they patrolled the street resonating in the night air—definitely not a good part, let alone a good place to raise a child.  The street lamp illuminating the adjacent area flicked ally before fizzling, the bulb fading slowly, taking its light with it.  He was in the dark.  Fighting off a shiver and his nervousness, he pushed the doorbell.

He heard the distant ring echoing inside the hollow apartment, the sound of a wailing baby who was startled by the noise.  He heard her shushing it, the loud creeks of the floorboard as she got closer to the door.  He shivered just before the door opened with a long moan, told himself to get it together.

“Oh, HyunJoong-ssi…” Her voice seemed surprised, almost confused.  She was holding KyuBaek, her year old son, in her arms, rocking him in her arms to calm him.  He had a teal binky in his mouth and was chewing it furiously.  “He’s teething.” She explained with that small, maternal smile of hers.

“Can I come in?” HyunJoong asked quietly, still looking at the child held securely in her arms.

“Oh!  Yes, sure, um, the door closes kind of fast.  Don’t let it whack you.” She replied quickly, switching KyuBaek to one arm, his head carefully perched on her shoulder, his arms loosely wrapped around her thin neck.  “Hang on, I’ve got to put him to bed.”

HyunJoong nodded as the door shut rather quickly after he stepped into the threshold of the home.  The lights in the living room were on, bathing the walls a sickly yellow.  None of the furniture matched any of the other pieces.  There was a fold-up chair leaning against the corner, a hideous, torn, floral-print chair rooted on the one side of the room.

The staircase that faced the door was bare and constructed merely of low-quality wood.  The banister was chipped in places and some of the supporting poles were missing, other had been replaced with unpainted planks.  Down the hall there was a small closet, presumably where she kept additional articles of clothing for the colder seasons.  Across from the doors of the closet was a collection of picture frames hung over the mural of a large, fruitful tree, baring the pictures of her past.  Many were pictures of KyuBaek, smiling just as beautifully as his mother, showing the few teeth he possessed.  Others were pictures of a younger HaeJung—pictures of her proudly displaying her large pregnancy stomach, a sepia-toned photography of her looking nostalgically out a lace-curtain-rimmed window, a black-and-white Polaroid of her strumming a weathered acoustic guitar.

They were family photographs.  But someone was missing.  A father.

“Would you like some tea?” Her voice had startled him.  She carefully closed the door to her bedroom behind her, quietly letting it click.

“Sure,” he had returned, his attention directed away from the photographs.  She nodded once, proceeding to the kitchen.  He heard the sound of water as it poured from the faucet, the metal-on-metal clank! as the kettle touched the stove top, the terse fsk! as the gas was lit, the soft plink! as she gathered cups from the cupboard, but it all seemed far away.

His attention was again concentrated on picture tree, focused on one picture in particular—the Polaroid.  Her fingers were curled, pressing the strings to the frets, a pick held in her right hand to strum.  Her long hair flowed over the front of her shoulders, covering the straps of her summery tank top.  Her eyes were closed, a smile lighting up her face as she played.  He brought his hand up, touching her cheek with his fingertip.

“I had to sell it,” He jumped very slightly.  She was standing next to him in the dark hallway.  “The guitar, I mean.  Right after I had KyuBaek-ah.” –She handed him a cup of steaming tea, cupping her hands around her own.—“Let’s go into the kitchen.”

He nodded, following after her.  The kitchen was rather small, relatively no counter space.  A fold-up table was set up in the middle of the room, a small collection of the essential appliances on the slab of counter near the sink—only a rice cooker, a microwave, a counter-top gas stove.  Everything in the kitchen seemed miniature.  A small sink was put in the corner, a set of small, worn-paint-and-missing-handle cabinets, a too-small refrigerator.  Baby bottles were flipped upside-down, drying on a towel near the sink.

“Here,” She offered him the better of the two folding lawn chairs, seating herself on the worn, fraying-fabric one.

He took a seat next to her, setting his cup of tea on the table. “Did I make it too strong?” She asked, looking at her own cup and smelling it.

“I have a confession to make.” He spoke, his voice a monotone in his seriousness.  He gently took her cup of tea from her, setting it on the table next to his.  He faced her, staring into her eyes. “HaeJung-ah…” –he cleared his throat.—“HaeJung.”

He leaned forward, her cheek with the back of his hand as he looked into her eyes.  Leaning even closer, his eyes slipped shut and he pressed his lips to hers, holding her face to his.  His lips captured hers and she kissed back, her hand touching his arm and pulling him closer.  He pulled away, looking at her, unblinking, as he spoke:

“Saranghaeyo,” He said, keeping the same intense eye-contact with her as he got down on one knee suddenly, taking a velvety box from his right pocket.  He looked at her as he snapped the royal blue box open, showing her the sparkling diamond ring inside.  “Marry me.”