#ywmeme.1

Unlike so many others in Yangwon, Jaebeom has no issuewith Jojamart. If anything, he rather likes it. It’s one of a tiny handful ofplaces that reminds him of home; the shelves towering above, the almost clinicalwhitewash lighting and the mountains upon mountains of products make it almost identicalto the supermarkets on the other side of the world. Perhaps it’s because he’sgrown so used to them over the years that he struggles to understand the vocalopposition. Convenience at the cost of community doesn’t sound like the worst possibleexchange.

He learned early on that such an opinion is best keptto himself. One of his elders had made that abundantly clear when they beratedhim for it, stammered apologies be damned. Even thinking back to it cause hischeeks to flare a deep red, the memory alone enough to fluster him. And so whenhe makes his trips to the store these days, to top up on supplies or simply forthe sake of nostalgia, he times it so that he doesn’t cross paths with any ofthe other residents.

It’s peaceful as he wanders down aisles, plucking boxesfrom the shelves and quietly humming along to the muzak pumped through thespeakers. The store remains largely empty, with the exceptions of a few otherregulars and the staff. Usually he remains unbothered and uninterrupted, and todayis no different, but rather than leaving him to his own devices as he reachesthe register, an overheard comment from a nearby cashier causes genuine worry.

“I’m sorry, w-why would we be trapped?” He askscautiously, eyes darting nervously towards the door. “Is there… something wrongwith the locks? Should I be feeling.... concerned?”

Jaebeom’s face knots with confusion as the other asksher question, eyes cast downwards over his hands and the exposed skin of hisarms. He sees nothing but tanned skin and the telltale signs of farm work; afew nicks and scrapes from tools he’s yet to fully master and crops seeminglydetermined to protect their harvest, but nothing of any real note and certainlynothing to worry about.

They are an unfortunate reality of this new life, andone he’s grown used to ignoring. If he were to fret over every little scratchhe’d spend more time nursing himself than in the fields. One of the benefits ofmoving had been his hardening to the elements. Nine times out of ten it doesn’teven register in his mind anymore.

As is clearly the case here. There’s no blood visibleon his person, and so he’s as much befuddled as he is concerned. Glancingbetween the woman and his arms, he opens his mouth to speak only to fumble overthe words. A hand reaches up to sweep stray hairs from his forehead, and upon it’sreturn is painted with a tiny smear of crimson and only then does he remember.

“There was, uh- There was a stray cat wandering aroundnear the stall and I was trying to find it’s owner.” He explains with a nervouschuckle. “A kid spooked him whilst I was holding him and he-“ A short sharpscratching motion punctuates the end, partially for dramatic effect. (But mostlybecause he struggles to recall the correct translation.

A slight wince as he tries to wipe it clean, the stingof contact jolting him before the story continues. “I found his owner though,so every cloud I guess…” The smile that follows is warm, grateful that someonehad even paid attention long enough to notice. He’s so used to fading into thebackground, to flying under the radar unnoticed that it genuinely catches himoff guard. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m sure it will be fine. Just needscleaning and time to heal.”