Kris took a plane, a train, and his own two feet to make it back to his old neighbourhood that was just on the outskirts on Vancouver. He traced his footsteps from the old worn out bus station all the way down to the small soccer field. He never thought he'd miss the crinkling of the dried leaves as he passed through the quiet suburbs. It was so different from the city of Seoul, the place he currently considered "home"

He took the long way home, past the 7-eleven and past the cement block that had his name etched in. He walked past the swings that gave him his first love and past the small bungalow with the fading red windows and peeling black shingles. He walked past it all, not noticing all those small details that were once so precious to him. He stood right by the mailbox, the same mailbox that he stood by every morning, waiting for something, or rather someone. He rested his large hand on the rusty mailbox as the doors to his house creaked open.

Soon after the doors swung open, arms were swung open as well and the sound of laughter and tears drifted through the cold, late-autumn air. 

"Come in, Yifan," said the woman who held her the tightest. "There's someone here who would like to see you."