The temple was built into the cliffs above the beaches. The nuns were meditating, we’d have to wait. A fine rain began to fall, dampening the ground. Then, suddenly, a downpour, rain funneling down on us, falling in torrents. We took shelter under the overhanging roof. A raspy sound of chanting filtered through the walls. Echoing across the courtyard. The building was dotted with statuettes of dragons, snakes, phoenixes, tigers, tortoises. Kerrand walked around inspecting them. He stopped in front of a tortoise, knelt down and touched its shell. A nun had told me during a school trip that each animal corresponded to a different season.

“There are five of them,” Kerrand counted.

“The snake is a kind of pivot point, without it the seasons can’t change from one to the next. The tortoise is the guardian of winter. In spring, the dragon has to find the snake or the tortoise won’t allow it to pass.”

Kerrand nodded, poked his finger into the fold of the neck, studied the joint where the figure was attached to the wooden base. He stayed there, not moving, for a long time.

In the distance, up on the bluff, a pagoda in the mist, merging into the sky. We ran toward it. The rain was drumming on the ground, blurring the horizon beyond the barbed wire on the surrounding beaches. Bunkers at regular intervals, sub-machine guns protruding from openings. I pointed them out to him.

“I imagine the beaches in France are less threatening.”

“I don’t like the ones in the south very much. People flock to them but they never look too happy to be there. I prefer the beaches in Normandy. Colder, emptier. With their own scars from the war.”

“A war that finished a long time ago.”

He leaned against the railing.

“Yes, but if you dig down far enough, you’ll still find bones and blood in the sand.”

“Please don’t make fun of us.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’d never do that.”

“What I mean is you may have had your wars, I’m sure there are scars on your beaches, but that’s all in the past. Our beaches are still waiting for the end of a war that’s been going on for so long people have stopped believing it’s real. They build hotels, put up neon signs, but it’s all fake, we’re on a knife-edge, it could all give way any moment. We’re living in limbo. In a winter that never ends.”

I turned back to face the temple. Kerrand came and stood by my side. My hands were shaking. I looked straight ahead.

“Last summer, a tourist from Seoul was shot by a North Korean soldier. She was swimming in the sea. She hadn’t realized she’d crossed over the border.”

“I’m sorry,” said Kerrand. I looked down.

“But I don’t know anything about your country, do I? Sokcho is my home. This is all I know.”

“Sokcho and—”