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He had always had trouble reading the tone of her voice, just as she had trouble with his own. It mattered not: she was teasing, or she was mischievous, or a rare day of good humor had seized her and she was merely excited. That spring day, too, he had been unable to discern the reason behind her smile.
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As she falls, the weight in his arms is almost nothing—it is almost as though a passing breeze has taken her shape. Before Yi Sang can comprehend why, yellow overwhelms him. The spicebush blossoms are so bright among the empty fabric of her clothing that he is suddenly standing in a sunbeam in the spring once more, in a mountain clearing filled with flowers. He is years younger. The breeze is warm, and carries with it that piquant scent, so strong that it makes one’s head spin. The sky is blue, and the flowers seem to go on forever. He feels the warmth of Dongbaek’s hand on his, one pinky brushing against his own.
The blooms scatter, one last time.
Yi Sang does not chase after them.
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