Ji-hye and the Woman of Dawn

Dear Appa,

You always told me to watch the quiet things— the way leaves turn just before the wind, the stillness between two notes in a song. I didn’t understand it then. I think I do now.

There is a woman who practices tai chi every morning, just outside the library. She moves like the sunrise itself—slow, deliberate, certain. No audience. No applause. Just breath and motion and something that feels like peace.

I don’t know her name. No one seems to. She arrives before the city wakes, her silhouette framed by grey buildings and soft gold light. Some mornings, I write about her instead of cataloguing irrigation manuals. (I keep those pages in my bag, not in the shelves.)

She reminds me of your greenhouse, and the plant you sang to. Of the rhythm in your hands when you trimmed its leaves. Of the lullabies I pretended to sleep through, just to hear the end.

Maybe she’s like you—teaching the world in silence, offering grace where no one thought to look.

I hope you’re well. And I hope your voice still finds a place to land.

With all my love,
Ji-hye