Present.

The bus comes to a gradual halt at my stop and I get off, thanking the driver in what is probably an unintelligible murmur, and would be considered by society as 'rude'.

I don't really care, though, because almost all my thoughts have flown out of my mind.

I feel the all too familiar grip of anxiety and a distant sadness, two emotions that have never ceased to plague me every time I get off at my stop, even though years of the same routine should have dulled their hold on me a long time ago.

I steel my shoulders, walking towards the cemetery.

***

March 27

Last year

I steel my shoulders, walking towards the cemetery. I don't have any flowers or anything that people usually bring to graves.

Those kinds of things, I tell myself, are for people who have not yet let go.

I suppose I can never really let go, though.

Her grave is on the far side of the cemetery, and I'm reminded of when hers was one of the only headstones in the area.

Now, the whole cemetery is almost full.

I wish I could close my eyes, but I force myself to keep them open as I make my way across to her. It makes me feel a little more comforted on the inside, referring to her resting place as 'her' instead of 'where she lies'. Sometimes it makes me feel like she's still here.

It's still raining, but I sit down on the slick concrete anyway, right in the middle of the path. It doesn't matter; I'm the only person here.

Rivulets of rain slide down my hair, my face, my cheeks, like tears, and I push them back, but they keep coming. I prop my legs up, resting my forearms on them.

"Hi, Mom," I say. The rain argues with me, but I know she'll hear me.

Despite everything, I smile, for the first time in all the years that I have been visiting her.

"You know, usually, I don't really have anything interesting to say when I come here," I tell her. "But today, I met someone, Mom. Her name is Yoona."

I imagine Mom sitting next to me, pulling me into a hug with a smile and saying, "I'm sure she's a lovely girl."

"She reminds me of you." My voice goes quiet then and my throat starts feeling thick. "She puts her finger up to her chin when she thinks, and she doesn't let her pinky finger touch anything. She even asks too many questions."

I laugh then, because it's the only thing I can do apart from cry. And I won't cry in front of Mom.

"Do you like the rain, Mom?" I ask her. "I realise now that I have no idea whether or not you did. You just continued life as if it wasn't raining."

Of course there's no reply. But I think I kind of wished that Mom would say something, even though I know she can't.

"She loves the rain," I continue. "I know all you'd say now is that I'll get a cold from sitting here in the rain and that I should go home. I almost didn't come today, actually, because I knew you wouldn't want me to. But I'm glad I did, because I met her."

I imagine my mom smiling, her cheeks rounding and turning a little more pink. I think she would have said something about Yoona being lucky. "Aigoo, my only son is falling in love," she would have said. "I thought no one could melt his ice heart. I thought you would never look at anyone but me, son."

And I would have smiled, like I am now, and said, "She's so beautiful, Mom. I barely know her, but I love her already. Is that a bad thing?"

I imagine her shaking her head. "No, Lu, of course not. If you're happy, then so am I."

"I hope you have your own happiness, too, Mom," I say. "I hope you've forgiven Dad up there."

I've told her this about a million times. It hurt me growing up to see how lonely my mom, who had been single ever since my birth, was every day.

I hadn't once thought, in all my years of childhood, about what it would be like to have a dad who played with me and taught me all he knew. Instead, I'd thought about what it would be like to have a dad who loved my mom, and only her.

I'd tried to fill the gaps in her heart by being everything she needed me to be, but in the end, it wasn't enough to stop her from leaving me. Sometimes I thought it was because I didn't hold onto her tight enough.

"I love you, Mom," I whisper.

I imagine her pressing her forehead to mine and saying, "I love you, too, Luhan."

I think about how I would have taken Yoona to meet my mom. They would have looked after and loved each other, maybe even fuss over me like I was a little child.

"I wish you could meet Yoona," I say. "You would love her."

In my mind, I hear my mom's voice. And she's saying, "I'd love to meet her."

As if she's still alive to meet Yoona. As if I can arrange for them to meet tomorrow.

Tears threaten to spill over and I know that I could cry right now if I want to, because it would make no difference; the rain would just wash my tears away.

I'm tempted to, and I'm really close to just letting myself sob.

But I hold it back. I won't cry in front of Mom. 

I get up after a few shaky breaths and say goodbye to her. Then I walk across the stone path to the church and let myself in.

I'm dripping water all over the floor, but a nun—I know her from all my visits here—brings me a towel and drapes it over my shoulders. 

I'm still not ready to speak, so I give her my thanks through a smile; she seems to understand and shuffles quietly away. 

Candles are lit near the altar and between the ends of the aisles, casting an eerie glow over the otherwise dark place. The rain sounds distant now, as though a thick door has been closed on a loud conversation. 

Rubbing the towel absently through my hair, I sit down at the back of the church in silence. 

There's no one else in here except for a few other nuns and a man sitting at the front, his head bent over so low that I can only see his shoulders.

I copy his position, kneeling over the wooden pew and bending my head. 

Usually, on my visits here, I pray for my mother and for the strength to carry on. But today, I have someone else to pray for. 

Even though I know she doesn't need anything but luck, I pray for Yoona, for her happiness and for more rainy days.