The morning market alley is always wet:the smell of fish and the sound of rubber boots.Sitting by a stall,I stare at the radish an old woman has cut.A piece falls to the ground,and a dog comes and eats it.
The woman at the tteokbokki shop speaks to me:Young man, how are you today?Have you eaten?Why are your hands so cold?
I wave my hand and shake my head.My heart is not ready yet.The truth is, I fought with someoneand ran away into this alley.
Then a child stops in front of me.He hands me the balloon in his handand says, Mister, you can have this,then runs back into his mother's arms.I take the balloonand just look at it for a long time.
I did not write a letter.I simply tied the balloon at the entrance to the alley.The string loosens in the wind and catches on a streetlamp;the red rubber slowly fades.The child probably will not remember.I get up and go home.