The seasons turned on the island with a gentle, predictable grace. Min Jae found a deep satisfaction in marking their passage not by board meetings or fiscal quarters, but by the changing light in Seo-jun's studio, the specific birds that visited their feeder, and the cycle of planting and harvest in their garden. The frantic energy of his former life was a ghost, a story he could recall with clinical detachment but could no longer feel in his bones.
He had become a student of small things. He knew the exact way the morning sun hit the hand-glazed tiles of their kitchen backsplash, creating a pool of liquid gold. He knew the weight of a perfectly ripe tomato from their garden, warm from the sun. He knew the particular scent of Seo-jun's skin after a day spent painting—a mix of linseed oil, turpentine, and his own essential saltiness. This deep, cellular knowledge of his own happiness was a luxury that never grew old.
