There was a note pinned to the door of my room, in French. Kerrand was asking if I’d like to go with him to the nature reserve in Seoraksan the following day. My day off. He’d remembered.

SNOW CAME CRASHING DOWN, loosened by the beginnings of a thaw, plummeting into the streams, bending the bamboo beneath its weight. A windless day. Kerrand was walking up the hill behind me, following in my footsteps. I’d lent him Park’s snowshoes. He kept stopping and taking off his gloves to run his fingers over a tree trunk or an ice-covered rock. He’d listen for a moment before putting his gloves on again and carrying on up the hill, more slowly every time.

“Winter isn’t very interesting,” I said, beginning to lose patience. “Soon the cherry blossoms will be out and the bamboo will be green, you should see it in spring.”

“I’ll be gone by then.”

He stopped again and looked around. “I like it this way, unadorned.”

We’d reached the grotto, a small cave temple with statues of Buddha set into alcoves. Kerrand studied them closely. He wanted to know about Korean mountain myths and legends. For his character. I told him the story my mother used to tell me when I was little. The one about Tangun, son of the Lord of Heaven who was sent down to the highest mountain in Korea, where he took a she-bear for his wife and became the father of the Korean people. That mountain had symbolized the bridge linking heaven and earth ever since.

We climbed for two hours and then stopped to rest on a rock. Kerrand tightened his laces, took out his pen and notepad. He began sketching bamboo.

“Do you always carry it with you?” I asked, pointing to the sketchpad.

“Most of the time.”

“For your rough drafts?”

He frowned, irritated. He didn’t like that expression. It meant nothing to him. A story evolved constantly, every drawing was as important as the next.

I was starting to feel a chill. After a while I leaned over to look at his drawing.

“They look like dragonflies.”

He held the drawing at arm’s length to examine it.

“They do, don’t they. It’s a terrible drawing though. I can’t use it.”

“Why not? I like it.”

Kerrand looked again at the sketch. He smiled. Then he walked over to the cliff edge and looked down at the valley below, its outlines blurred in the mist. Crows cawing.

“You’ve lived in Sokcho all your life?”

“I went to university in Seoul.”

“That must have been a shock to the system.”

“Not really. I lived with my aunt.”

Kerrand looked blankly at me. Sokcho was crawling with people in the summer, I said, because of its beaches. Seriously, it was just like Seoul, especially since they’d filmed that drama series here with the famous actor. Fans came in their coachloads. First Love. Had he seen it? No, he hadn’t.

“Why did you come back?”