In the 1990s, the sea in Busan was rougher and more honest than it is now. The man worked at an old video rental shop in Nampo-dong. Amidst the VHS tapes packed tightly along the walls, he loved the work of choosing movies, rewinding them, and putting them back in their cases. He liked the fact that Spielberg's adventures, the slow cigarette smoke of Hong Kong noir, and the long, silent scenes of French films were all contained within square cases of the same size. Like someone to whom movies spoke before reality did, he always lived his life half a beat behind the world on the screen.

The sea was calm that day, but the air was damp. The door of the video shop opened, and an old bell chimed.

The woman stood at the threshold for a moment, looking around. She wore a white dress that looked as if it had been blown in by the wind, and her face was excessively pale. One could tell she wasn't healthy even without an explanation, but what caught his eye first was the look in her eyes. The eyes of someone who had been searching for something for a very long time and had come inside to rest for a while.