Murmur Over Tea

Dear So-young,

Your letter arrived like a hush in the room—a soft tremor I could almost feel beneath my skin. I read it slowly, as if each word were breathing.

I know the murmur you speak of. I’ve felt it, too. It threads itself through the streets, coils around stairwells, hums between books on dusty shelves. Sometimes it’s no louder than a heartbeat; sometimes it rustles like paper touched by an unseen breeze.

It feels as though the city itself has begun to listen—and perhaps, to answer.

Thank you for the small box of postcards. They sit by my bed, tied with your red string. I pull them out, one by one, and wonder who sends words to Hope, or Freedom, or The Light. Each card feels like part of the murmur, a fragile note in some secret melody being composed all around us.

Your words remind me why I keep writing—even when my stories stay hidden between books on irrigation techniques and coal production. Even when no one reads them. Because I believe that murmur is growing, card by card, word by word. A net being woven, just as you said. And I want my words to be one of its threads.

If you find another card without a name, save it for me.

Quietly listening,
Ji-hye