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Oozing winter and fish, Sokcho waited. That was Sokcho, always waiting, for tourists, boats, men, spring.
“My character reaches a point when I know he has a life of his own. I can let him go.”
He had no right to leave. To leave with his story of Sokcho. To put it on display halfway across the world. He had no right to abandon me, to leave me here, with my own story withering on the rocks.
