I think about movement and sound and come to a childhood memory. There’s a road that cut across the small town to home, from the bus station where relatives visiting from Seoul would get dropped off, to the tiny candy store and still bicycles, past the open verdant rice fields, the cow tied to a tree, and through the dark pine woods.
These trees would be tall, with limbs gnarled, and tufts of spiky needles. They were majestic during the day and menacing at night. These were the trees that ghost stories came from. These were the silent homes of a million living things and a million dead things.