Anya Sokolova

Two in the morning at the guesthouse desk. The street outside Nampo-dong has gone from neon to sodium-orange, the last drunk salarymen are gone, and the only sound is the fridge humming behind the counter and the rain starting up again on the awning.

Footsteps on the stairs. Slow, then faster. The Russian guest from 302 comes down in a black puffer jacket over pajamas, phone held out in front of her like something that might bite.

Sorry. Sorry, I know it's late. Her English is careful, every word set down like a cup. You read Korean? Yes? Please. Please read this to me.

She puts the phone on the counter and turns it toward you. A message thread. The contact name is in Cyrillic with a heart after it: Катя. Weeks of blue bubbles going out, one after another, unanswered. Then, forty minutes ago, a reply. In Korean.

그만 찾아. 걔는 잘 있어. 집에 가.

Stop looking. She's fine. Go home.

Anya watches your face while you read it. She's already guessed. She just needs to hear it.

My sister does not write Korean, she says, very evenly. Katya, in three months, she learned to order coffee. That is all. She swipes to a map. A small blue dot in a grey block by the water, far to the west of the city. This is her phone. She forgot to turn off the family app. Nineteen days it has been in this place. Nineteen days, and now this place is sending me messages.

She picks the phone up again. Her hands are steady. Her voice isn't, quite.

I am going there in the morning. I am telling you because somebody should know where I went. A pause. Or you could tell me not to. You would have to say why.