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The sky turns from dreary gray to drizzle to downpour before Himchan even remembers that he had left his umbrella at the studio yesterday.
There was no way to avoid getting more wet, no choice but to make a dash from the bus stop to his apartment. He purses his lips, the way his grandmother always hated. Your face is so handsome. Why would you waste it on such an ugly expression? she'd say. If she were here right now, she'd grasp his chin and smooth out the wrinkles around his mouth and then bribe him with a milk candy, he thinks. The corners of his mouth turn up into a rueful smile despite himself.
Monsoon rain comes down with an obnoxious persistency. But the droplets are warm and not entirely unpleasant as they drench his clothing. When he was younger, his grandmother would could visit during these summers. Her trips would bring about impromptu trips to the convenience store for ice cream and his mother would play old music--not even the trot cd's she'd play on repeat but cassette tapes of traditional music, the rhythms of samul nori and sanjo filling their shoebox apartment. They're faded memories by now, clouded with the golden haze of time and growing up.
Himchan always thinks about his grandmother around this season, although it gets easier with each passing year. His grandmother probably wouldn't approve of the music he makes now. Too rough, too loud, too much like noise, the words roll off his tongue with ease. His mother always says out of all the grandparents, he resembles her mother the most, but he thinks she means in personality rather than his grandmother's round face and flat nose.
He had picked up janggu and daegeum of his own volition, not out of some sense of homage or obligation. When he'd play-- when he'd play well--the sound would expand beyond just the notes, take on that golden haze. There's something very sturdy in their notes; listen hard enough, and you could almost fall into the sound, feel something centuries-old tugging you in by your blood, even if your mind could not understand.
The convenience store peeks over the hill. He breaks into a light jog, with home only a couple blocks away and the dampness starting to sink into his bones.
His grandmother probably wouldn't even recognize this area now, with buildings renovated into smooth brick and endless glass. She'd probably find his apartment sterile, too white and spotless, not enough dishes or food in the refrigerator to make it feel like a home. It's easy to how transient this time has been; his grandmother feels like she comes from an era so far back their lives shouldn't even have overlapped. There had been no fuss when the traditional herbs weren't working and she had refused medication. It was, of course, the way things were meant to be; she had no wish to keep a spirit that longed to leave through chemicals means (and here, Himchan remembers with startling clarity, she would wrinkle her nose in disgust).
He takes a quick right at the top of the hill, glancing at his distorted reflection on the wet surface of the shop window. His eyeliner is probably smudged all under his eye, but it doesn't matter. No one's willing to go out in this weather, much less pay attention to the poor guy who looks like a drowned animal. At one time, he never would have imagined he's be sporting eyeliner or designer jackets or blonde hair on a regular basis. His father had chastised him for putting his education on hold to train. To be a professional musician requires complete dedication--no time to hold his breath to dance and sing, lest he lose a chance for a career in this slowly-dying craft.
His mother never said anything. Perhaps she could hear how the janggu notes had lost their rich, golden roundness. His teachers told him that this wasn't a matter of the instrument or his own technique. He needed to find something more. Though he knew it wasn't what they meant, what he looked for was an audition address and a song to practice within his vocal range.
If anything, his grandmother had taught him that some things must be allowed to pass.
When he finally makes it to his apartment, his fingers flit across the key pad and with a click, the door unlocks. Himchan is careful to squeeze out what water he can from his coat and leaves his trainers lying over a wrinkled gingham mat.
Even inside, a pitter-patter resounds throughout the apartment. Monsoon rain comes every golden summer and permeates every inch of the city in endless waves, but eventually, it too leaves.