The carriage ride back felt longer than it should have.
Min-jae sat stiffly in his seat, the faint smell of crushed fruit rising from his clothes as the wheels rolled over uneven stone.
He could feel pieces of pulp sticking to his skin beneath the fabric. His hair felt heavy, as if several fruits had chosen it as their final resting place.
He stared at the window, pretending he was somewhere else. Anywhere else.
When the carriage finally stopped in front of the house, Min-jae let out a long breath. He stepped out cautiously. The afternoon sun shone directly on him, forcing an unpleasant warmth over the already sticky mess that clung to him.
His coat, once clean, had become a battlefield of stains.
Red streaks. Yellow blotches. Something brown that he did not want to think about.
He climbed the steps with the resignation of a man walking toward judgment. A mashed tomato slid off his shoulder and landed near his foot. He forced himself not to look at it.
