الصوت المشترك

She had not been looking for him that night, and he had not been looking for her—which was perhaps why it worked. It was the kind of Seoul rain that comes fast and without apology. Hannah had ducked into a covered alley behind Insadong, a linen tote over her head, her chef's knife roll tucked under one arm, her new work permit still damp in her jacket pocket. She had been in Korea for seven months, and she was already exhausted in the particular way of a woman who had survived one version of her