The wind had the tip of his nose ruddy, and not even his high collar and thick scarf could keep the cold from creeping its frigid fingers down the milk tea hue of his neck. When a random drop of melted snow fell from the coffee shop roof onto his exposed cheek, he hissed. Yet the weather was his favorite. The whistle of winter sang across the door chimes as warmth gave hunt to the intruding boy and cold air.

The simple chime of the jingle bells attached to the door brought about the same greeting that was always given to customers. It was only when the barista glanced from cleaning the display top that he noticed his regular customer.

"Oh, Jiyong. The usual?"

A nod quickly answered the question as he laid the correct change next to the register.

Jiyong disrobed his suit of wool and fleece. After draping everything on the coat rack next to a heater vent, he wound his way through tables that were almost all empty, to his favorite place. The hidden little alcove behind the large burgundy and grey silk screen that spread its folds like the warmest arms welcoming you home.

Tucked into the small space was an old oversized leather armchair with cracks riddling the bottom edges. A long, low wooden shelf stood under the massive window that looked out onto the kitchen garden of the neighboring building. While candles covered the top of the sturdy piece of furniture, the shelf were overflowing with all of Jiyong's favorite books. He had been adding to his collection for the three years he had been a patron to the shop. Kneeling down, he ran his fingers along the well worn spines until he plucked out the most recent volume. A thick book of poetry by his favorite poet, a young man that used a pen name and titled each collection with a color. This particular one called Indigo.

"Here you go. Enjoy."

The barista named Taeseung set the steaming chai latte on the corner of the wide window sill before disappearing back into the reality behind the screen. Jiyong left the cup to cool as he folded his legs comfortably under him in the chair.

As he wiggled into his warm indention, Ji realized something unusual. The normally cool leather was warm, as if someone had sat there not five minutes ago. Passing it off as a result of the nearby heating vent, he opened the book. Quickly he found his favorite poem. A clashing of metaphors and use of rich imagery is what at first drew him. After numerous read, he began to dissect the lines. It was in fact a self portrait through words.

The poet had opened one very private section of himself in the poem. It left the reader on edge, exposed along with the author. Raw emotion oozed from the black print, leapt up from the page, and dragged his finger along with the words. He was afraid to admit the burn that caused his fingertips to pulse.

One line stood out from the rest to Jiyong. He had highlighted the line repeatedly. Reading it from the page was unnecessary when he had memorized it two weeks before.

My scars have all become sunken mine shafts.
Let them rest.
Leave them hollow.

After finishing the page, he glanced over as he picked up his drink. The heat had caused the window to fog from the outside cold. Faintly, so much so he had to look twice, written words appeared magically. When he lifted the cup the writing disappeared along with the fog.

Bending down quickly, he huffed his warm breath along the pane so he could read the secret message. The carefully written words stretched along the right hand side of the window in minuscule print. At first he thought it written by a lovesick teenager until he made it to the second line. With a sigh, he quickly scrawled the poetry into the blank margin of his book with a pen he kept stashed in the back pocket of his jeans.

Love is neither joy nor pain.
It is the relinquish of boundaries and engulfment of senses.
Love is the hope of luck.
Tomorrow will never taste the same.

As Jiyong sat, beginning to ponder over who could have left the message, his phone alarm rang alerting him of his first lecture of the day.

Reluctantly, he tucked his book back among its relatives and guzzled the luke warm chai. He was still running the lines through his head as he said farewell to the counter boy. All the way to the university campus, up the stairs to his classroom. Finally the greetings from his students woke him from his thoughts.

"Yes, hello. I am Professor Kwon and will be teaching your Literature class for this semester. As I call roll, please answer with your favorite author, work, or quote. First, Bang Lee Joon..."

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