The Door They Forgot

Dear Minji,

I spoke with Jun-seok yesterday.
You’d like him—sharp tongue, quick smile, always three answers behind every question. He knows Pyongyang like it’s a story he keeps rewriting. I asked him for a place. A real place. Hidden. Empty. Ours.

And he delivered.

It’s a basement. No—sub-basement. Three floors below the central metro station, somewhere under the government district. I know, I know—that part alone sounds like the beginning of a bad idea. But listen:

There’s a corridor. White tiles, dim green light. And in the corner—a door. Plain. No label. No warnings. Just a frame set into the wall like it forgot it was meant to be seen. No one notices it. But it opens.

And below?
Silence. Dust. Endless concrete.

It’s perfect.

No cameras. No checkpoints. No footsteps echoing official intent. Just old infrastructure, long abandoned by anything but the occasional water drip. I brought a flashlight and a portable speaker. The acoustics? Unreal. Tight. Resonant. Like the room has been waiting for sound.

This could be it, Minji. The space. Our space.

A rehearsal room. A studio. An archive. A sanctuary. Whatever we need it to be.

And of course I thought of you.
Of VV hats and red hotpants and that look in your eyes right before a drop hits.
There’s enough room here for all of it. For you.

I’ll sketch the route.
But fold it into your sock when you travel. And burn it after.

Stay loud.
Tae-jin