“I suppose you could call me sunbae. It means older, respected person usually in the same profession. If you were a lawyer, anyone who passed the bar before you would be called a sunbae, although if you weren’t close you would have to add nim, so sunbaenim. I am older than you and very respectable, yes?”

I’m starting to get it. “Yeah.”

Oppa. I try it out in my head, but the word doesn’t feel right. “Is it too American of me to call you Yujun?”

“No. Call me what you like.”

There’s something vaguely unsatisfactory about this, but I can’t pinpoint what it is. But I don’t want to dwell on it because as I told Yujun, I only have eight more days left in this city and with him. I concentrate on the smooth pavement under my feet and the soft, warm breeze in the air as we make the climb up toward the tower. Tall trees on either side of the wide road make this path feel private despite the occasional bus that barrels its way up the hill. The city seems far away from this canopy of green.

“I can barely hear the highway,” I say.

“It’s nice here,” Yujun admits. “I like the Seoul Forest, too. The nice thing about Seoul is that there’s always a place to hide out if you need it. Here, the Bukhan Mountain. Spots along the Han River. There’s an island called Seonyudo in the middle of the river. It used to be a water-purifying facility but it’s been turned into a park. And . . .” He trails off, slightly bemused by his torrent of words. “Sorry,” he says. In the darkening twilight it’s hard to tell if he’s blushing, but I think he’s slightly abashed. He loves his city and I find that utterly endearing. “It might seem overwhelming, but it’s not all concrete and glass and dust,” he finishes and tucks his hands inside his trouser pockets.

“I love it,” I tell him. “What little of it I’ve seen, I love. Even the concrete, glass, and dust.” As well as the mass of people, the humid heat, and the language, because all of that is part of this place that felt like home the minute I stepped off the plane and saw the sea of black hair.

“That’s good, then.” The hint of self-consciousness has disappeared.

“Tell me about the mountain. The one we’re on right now.” I want to hear him talk.

“It’s the south mountain. San means mountain. Add nam to it and you have south mountain. This is part of the old fortress road that follows the ridges of the four main mountains in Seoul. Back in the Joseon dynasty, we used a series of fire beacons, a bongsu, to spread messages. The one here’s called Mokmyeoksan.” He points to his left, where a flight of stone stairs appears. “It’s up that way—a bit of a trek, so we’ll have to do it another day.”