Sea Glass

By Celeste Avonne

Song-jin lives by his own terms. He keeps to himself, maintaining a life of solitude and study. As a climate researcher, Song-jin dedicated his life’s work to the plight of the endangered wetlands of Busan in order to distract himself from his own mortality.

Tae-yul lives on the scrape. He crashes from scheme to scam, hoping to land his next big break, but more often winding up with bruises and busted ribs. As a paparazzi photographer, Tae-yul chases other people’s dreams because he’s too afraid to pursue his own.

But everything changes when Tae-yul discovers Song-jin on the beach, all alone, digging for clams. In a chance meeting, Song-jin gifts Tae-yul with a piece of sea glass. Yet what was meant to be a small token exchanged between strangers turns into a catalyst, compelling Tae-yul to dig deeper, to uncover the secrets of this mysterious man who loves birds and dances for clams.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Celeste Avonne
• Release date: May 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463992098

Celeste Avonne

Celeste Avonne is a novelist, a mom, a journalist, and teacher. She writes characters who struggle with racial identity and LGBT+ representation. She graduated from Texas State with a degree in writing, taught in the public school system for a decade, and lived in Korea for a year. She loves cats, fanfiction, cookies, and travel. She currently lives in San Marcos, Texas, with her son, her fiance, and their friendly feline overlord. She believes wholeheartedly that stories will save the world.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Every morning, at the cusp of dawn, a man ambles along the delicately arched shoreline of Haeundae Beach. Pants cuffed, hands in pockets, he matches his stride to the pace of the tide as he gazes out to sea. His jacket engulfs him, softening the juts of bony shoulders and elbows, making him appear as formless and rumpled as the surface of the sea.

On warm days, he sets a metal pail in the foam beside his feet. He works his toes into the loamy sand until they snag on the shells of clams. Then, quick as a cat, he snatches them up, tipping them into his bucket as he grimaces a small smile to the horizon.

He is neither old nor young now, neither gleeful nor sad. But if you try to speak to him, even so simple a greeting as a morning hello, he drifts away with a bow and an apologetic grin.

Some say he lives on the hiking path between Haeundae and Oryukdo. But there’s nothing there, only birds and caves and trees. Others suggest he doesn’t live at all, that he’s a ghost who haunts the beach in search of his lost love – perhaps Haeundae’s famed mermaid, Princess Hwangok? – and that once the sun fully crests, he vanishes like a breath in winter warmed by the season’s change.

A few men hold the truth of the other, a secret buried safe inside, the hidden treasure of one man’s life. They watch from windows in a tower nearby, eyes fixed on the wanderer as he walks, watching the sunrise and fetching his dinner from the sea.

Every morning, a watcher peers down from the window, his breath fogging the glass as he breathes a silent prayer. Another night softly crumbles into morning, a night of no promises yielding to a day of measured breaths and counted heartbeats.

But it’s another day, nonetheless. As long as he’s there on the beach, then everything will be okay.

One.

Nam Ki-moon hung up the phone and turned to him.

Well?

It’s not great, Ki-moon said.

He wore a tweed jacket, the kind with the patches on the elbows, the kind that made him look more like a professor than a student. This clashed vigorously and with the ripped jeans and t-shirt spraypainted with the American phrase F the Police, but on Ki-moon’s lanky frame, it all worked.

But can you live with it?

Ki-moon paced the short, dingy hallway, his heavy boots creaking on the floorboards. The motion stirred up construction dust and nicotine. Song-jin rubbed his nose to ward off a sneeze.

It’s temporary, right? Ki-moon asked.

Song-jin lifted his shoulders. Isn’t everything?

That’s comforting, Ki-moon bit out. Then he softened. Sorry. I’m just... He tugged down the sweater cap to hide his unwashed hair.

I know you’re just... Song-jin shrugged again. These days, he couldn’t seem to do anything else. Except he could do something else, if his best friend would only let him. You know I can help.

I do know, Ki-moon told him. He touched his tongue to his teeth. It’s only six months, then I can try again. They have another audition in six months.

The two leaned against the paneled wall of the basement shop, each of them measuring out the days between now and then. Above them, sleepy light wavered through panes of smeary glass as an autumn rain began to patter down.

Well, Song-jin exhaled. At least let me buy you dinner.

Ki-moon kicked from the wall. Song-jin could see him throwing off the weight of another rejection, and he wondered, grimly, which one would be the one to break him.

Only if dinner comes with drinks, Ki-moon said.

Thank God, it wouldn’t be this one.

That should go without saying, Song-jin nodded. Let’s get the hell out of here. And they headed upstairs into the rain.

****

Days and days passed, a gritty winter resolving gloriously into spring.

Another audition, another rejection, and then a decision that had to be made.

"I could always enlist," Ki-moon told him. He said it casually, like he hadn’t been dwelling on it for weeks.

You could, Song-jin answered back. Sparks like tiny fireworks went off in his brain, a chain reaction of what-ifs that he would never speak aloud.

Together, they crouched beside their bikes in a meadow still clenched by the icy fingers of March. Crusts of dirty snow clotted beneath the bridges, clinging in the shadows still waiting for the sun. Song-jin performed his morning routine of stretches, doctor-prescribed for the stiffness in his joints, but this morning, they weren’t quite doing the trick.

I could apply for the MP program. My test scores would get me in. There’s a lot of opportunity in that, a lot of prestige.

Oh yes. Your parents would be very proud, Song-jin said, knowing precisely how much that particular barb would sting his friend. He caught the scythe-edge of Ki-moon’s smile as he mounted his bike and knocked the kickstand back.

You think I should keep trying? Ki-moon asked.

You know how I feel about that, Song-jin answered. He attempted to sling his leg over the bike’s frame, only to hook his ankle on the top tube and nearly topple.

Ki-moon slung out an arm to steady him. His whip-quick reflex caused more of a startled response in Song-jin than the almost-fall itself. In spite of the chill, a thin film of sweat prickled along the band of his helmet and across his top lip.

You gotta be careful, man, Ki-moon told him.

The concern in Ki-moon’s eyes felt like a stifling hot weight, like a robe dipped in burning mercury then draped across his neck. With slow-dawning certainty, Song-jin realized it was happening again, a dizzy spell that felt like drowning. His jaw clamped tight, his head rocked back, and the sky cracked, filling his vision with a rolling, unbroken gray.

Later on the sidewalk — blood in his nose — a taste like water from old pipes — people gathered, muttering, scuffling — his father on the phone, He shouldn’t ride bikes, you should know better — and Ki-moon pleading, but for what? He didn’t do anything, why? — then a single, shining piece of glass glinting on the sidewalk, winking like a satellite, blue, then green, then blue again, then a wincing, horrible white.

****

Days later, A week, perhaps?

Ki-moon at the window, the curtains shifting in the breath of a wall fan. The light that shivered around him looked pale and ethereal, like sunrays poured through lakewater.

I worry about you, he said.

Even though his eye sockets ached, Song-jin rolled his eyes. Yeah, you’ve said that.

You shouldn’t live alone.

But I will, won’t I?

Ki-moon folded his arms. You don’t have to, he said. You have other friends. Min-soo and Ji-hyun. That Ken guy.

Song-jin scoffed. They don’t know me, he said.

"You mean, they don’t know about you," Ki-moon countered. He half-turned, but thought better of it. Instead, he fidgeted the curtains closed. He hooked his thumbs in the belt-loops of his pants, sensible security-guard slacks too short for Ki-moon’s stork-like legs. The uniform was an ill fit in every sense, and Song-jin knew it. Still, he didn’t want Ki-moon to go. They’d been roommates since university; they’d known each other since boyhood. Aside from Ji-hyun, Ki-moon was and had been his most constant friend.

Look, I’ll be okay, Song-jin said. You know I can take care of myself.

Do I? Ki-moon asked. His throat went groggy. He coughed in order to clear it. This last time, man… It’s never been like that.

Song-jin shrugged, then inwardly hated himself for it. An adjustment in my medication, that’s all I needed.

Ki-moon’s eyebrows bunched up, a whole topography of inner conflict mapped out across his face. Song-jin had to laugh, which finally made Ki-moon angle around to face him.

Remember last week when you lost your phone? Song-jin asked.

Now it was Ki-moon’s turn to roll his eyes. Bro, don’t remind me.

You called me to ask if I’d seen it, Song-jin reminded him.

Ki-moon came to the edge of the bed. "Yeah, hyung, I recall. It was just..."

I know it was just… But. You shouldn’t have to take care of me, Song-jin said. You can barely take care of yourself.

But I’m good at it. Ki-moon pinched a crease of the sheet to smooth it flat across Song-jin’s knee.

Song-jin squinched his nose. Eh, debatable.

Ha. Ki-moon pressed his knuckles to his face. You want me to go.

This was the fateful moment, the win-or-lose of everything. As for who would win and who would lose, that was still up for grabs.

After a long ellipse of silence, Song-jin finally said it. Yes, Moon. I think you should go.

That was that. Four years of peaceful cohabitation, done. Not with a fight but a surrender. When they released Song-jin into his own care, he returned to his modest apartment to find three bare hangers in the closet, Ki-moon’s shoes vacated from the cubby by the door, and a note scrawled on the pad beside the kettle.

I didn’t give up - NKM

That was fine, Song-jin thought, because neither would he.

****

A week later, after Song-jin packed his last box and returned his key to the landlady, he tore the note from his pad and quietly, meticulously crumpled it into his hand. He hovered his palm over the trash bin, trembling with tears as he willed his fingers to release it.

They wouldn’t, though, and after a moment, he stuffed the page into his pocket. He switched off the light and left Seoul for good, bound south for Busan and a cabin on the beach where he could live his quiet life.

Two.

Tae-yul tightened to a ball around the dull ache in his groin. Bootpoints of pain gouged into his lower back, his upper thighs, his left shoulder, and his jaw. Sitting up, he spat sand from his tongue, coughing blood and bitter laughter onto the dune, where sharp grass razored above his face.

Tae-yul, a voice rasped up, gulped down by distant waves.

He rolled, fresh pain wincing through him, to find his best friend curled nearby, bleeding. One eye fused shut, his lip cleft and pulpy, Young-jae clawed toward him, but unlike Tae-yul, he wasn’t laughing.

Did he take your wallet?

Tae-yul wiped his face, finding blood in place of tears. Who?

"Pabo, Young-jae drew up beside him. The guy who punched you."

Synapses flickered behind his eyeballs. Booze-soaked yet somehow too dry to blink, Tae-yul tried to focus them on Young-jae. Was he mugging us? he asked. I thought you guys were just fighting.

Both men laughed, then, but it was too painful to sustain. Tae-yul patted at his pockets, tumbling out keys, a cracked press pass, and his wallet.

Oh, Young-jae mused. I guess we were just fighting.

Again a brief spate of laughter, then a pause as both men attempted to jigsaw the events of the night that landed them here. Young-jae tamped a cigarette from his pack, lighting it behind his palm. He drew one deep lungful of smoke before passing it off to Tae-yul.

For Tae-yul, the night began the same as most these days: at the casino, where, upon an anonymous tip, he attempted to scrounge up work – A disgraced celebrity, now wrinkly and dimpled with fat, had been spotted in a nightclub around town, desperately chasing the limelight at the Busan International Film Festival. Tae-yul had prowled half the evening in search of anyone B-list and suitably deplorable for a tabloid buck.

Because of the film festival, though, he couldn’t find anyone wrecked enough to fit the bill. Nor could they scratch up intel on any clandestine rendezvous. Security for the big names was tight, but the Soju was flowing, so Tae-yul might’ve taken advantage of the free booze instead.

Until… Until.

A spurt of nerves uncoiled in Tae-yul’s gut. Jae. Did he take my camera?

Fuck. Young-jae teetered to his knees. He scanned the long stretch of beach. There!

Half-stumbling, the two dog-rolled to the debris of his Rangefinder strewn beneath the scrub. Tae-yul dropped to his knees, digging out pieces of an exposed film roll – ruined – and the severed leather strap – salvageable. Salt caked the lens, making a cataract of its blind eye. Yet as he scrubbed at it with a lick of his saliva, he understood that it was superficial. Nothing a little care and a dry space couldn’t fix.

You lucky fucker, Young-jae said, probing at his lip to test the damage. How much is that camera worth?

More than me, Tae-yul answered. He hunkered back to cradle the camera between his knees. He lifted the sight to his eyes, testing each setting, bringing distant objects into focus, only to settle on the shape of a man near the shore.

Peculiar, the sensation that paralyzed Tae-yul in that moment, as he observed a gray man superimposed upon a grayer dawn. The sea beyond, bereft of color, moved like a breathing creature, and the man stood staring into it, motionless and broad in his formless, frumpy coat. Then details shifted forward, calling for attention: The man’s blue pants, cuffed at the shins, his bare feet, his long hands loose at his hips. A pink scarf bunched at his throat, the color of the inside of a conch. And then the strange side-to-side motion, like an odd, subtle dance, as he wriggled his toes into the foam.

At once, the man seemed both stark and frivolous; serious, but also a parody of that seriousness, like a joke that pokes fun at itself.

What’s he doing? Young-jae asked.

Tae-yul gazed through the viewfinder, attempting to puzzle it out. I dunno. He chewed his lip. But there’s a story there.

Oh no, Young-jae scoffed, even as Tae-yul dragged them to their feet. We’re not doing this today, Young-jae continued to object. May I remind you that you’re no longer a journalist.

Well I was, Tae-yul said.

Until you fucked our editor.

Tae-yul kept walking.

And the ad exec.

Tae-yul glanced back.

And the bookkeeper.

They reached the shoreline, where the graphite waves licked dark sweeps across the sand. Tae-yul pointed the Rangefinder at the man again, framing his profile to catch the quick whisper of his smile. Beyond him, black against the lacy waves, stood the statue of Busan’s mermaid gazing longing to sea. The man still bobbled back and forth, sinking his feet deeper into the hardpack, oblivious to Tae-yul and Young-jae’s approach.

They were all willing, and I heard no complaints, Tae-yul lobbed back, his standard response when Young-jae pointed out his various questionable trysts.

Until our editor found out you’d been banging them all in secret, Young-jae puffed the last drag of his cigarette, then flicked the ashes into the surf. And she fired your ass.

Tae-yul huffed a grunt of frustration. He didn’t want to listen to that right now, not with this ethereal creature aligned within his lens. This was the trouble with life, as far as Tae-yul could see it. The beautiful and the hideous entwined so tightly, he often had trouble deciding which was which.

You know, you’re just jealous, Tae-yul said.

Young-jae tested the tender skin around his eye. No, he said. I’m your conscience, reminding you that you lost a decent job because of your dick.

The man on the beach bent down to scoop something from the sea. Cupping it between his palms, he peered down at it, almost lovingly, before stooping to drop it into the stark pink pail at his feet.

Tae-yul coughed out a laugh. His ribs grated in protest.

I fail to find the humor in this, Young-jae muttered.

Then why do you still help me, if you’re so high and mighty? Tae-yul spat.

Two reasons, Young-jae said. One, you’re fun as hell, bruises notwithstanding. And two… He rolled a shoulder. I still believe there’s a good guy buried somewhere in there.

Tae-yul lowered his camera, turning finally to face his friend.

So if the good guy comes out, will you leave me? he asked.

In a heartbeat, Young-jae said.

Then there’s not much motivation for me to be good.

Tae-yul loped forward, then, closing the distance between them and the enigmatic man in the lumpy coat. In that span of seconds, the man moved down the beach a meter, hauling his bucket along. Then he stopped, spaced his feet, and began his wobbling dance once more.

Excuse me, Tae-yul called. The man startled, half-turning, reaching for his pail like he might make a break for it. No wait, Tae-yul cried, his voice so rough with salt and last night’s booze that he sounded almost plaintive.

The man froze but said nothing.

Young-jae tugged on Tae-yul’s sleeve. Hey, maybe we should just

Tae-yul stepped around Young-jae to gawk down into the man’s bucket. He sniffed a soft laugh. "Venerupis phillipinarum, he said. Otherwise known as Bajirak or Littlenecks. To Young-jae’s cough of disbelief, Tae-yul explained, My Halabeoji is a fisherman near Samhakdo. He talks incessantly, reads nonstop, and is one of the few people to ever encourage my curiosity. Anyway, he knows the scientific names for everything, and he taught me a few, but I didn’t know you could find Littlenecks this time of year."

The man gazed at Tae-yul for a long, breathless moment. Then his paralysis broke with a peculiar yet beguiling flutter of his eyelashes. You can find them year round, he said. But, you have to know where to look.

And how to dance with them, it seems, Tae-yul observed.

The man tensed as though he felt mildly offended.

Again, Young-jae tugged Tae-yul’s shirt. Maybe we should let the man–

–Can I try it? Tae-yul asked.

The man perched at the edge of decision, a wary wharf cat considering a treat from the harbormaster’s hand.

Tae-yul heeled off his shoes and pinched off his socks, kicking them into a heap on the sand. Then he took up the stance he’d witnessed from across the beach – feet shoulders-width apart, hands loose at his sides, knees bent. Like this? he pondered aloud. And then I kinda… shimmy, right? Like, back and forth?

The man cast an incredulous scowl over Tae-yul’s shoulder at Young-jae, who leaned in to whisper, Tae, bro… your zipper’s down.

Oop. Tae-yul reached immediately to correct the issue. Busy night.

Yeah, the man said, but again, Tae-yul caught a glint of humor on his lips. That near-miss smile sparked something in Tae-yul, a flare of interest, or maybe a warning, like the hint of rocks picked out by a lighthouse’s beam.

Whatever it had been, the maybe-smile vanished, and the man, taciturn once more, dropped into position. Annoyance tight in his shoulders, he began to sway back and forth, wriggling his toes into the mud. Tae-yul followed the motion, and within seconds both men began to slowly sink into the flat.

Try it, Tae-yul called to Young-jae.

Hard pass, Young-jae droned.

Do you do this every day? Tae-yul asked the man.

Every day, the man answered.

How do you know when you’ve–? And then he felt a tickle against his big toe. The change in his expression must have given him away, because the man began to nod.

Bend down and dig for it, he said.

Behind him, Young-jae muttered, That’s what she said.

Tae-yul smacked at him, but he did as the man commanded. He plunged his fingers into the loosened hardpack until his fingertips snagged upon the smooth curve of a seashell. He closed his fist around it, and as he withdrew it from the sand, he could feel the creature feathering inside his palm, desperate to escape.

When Tae-yul opened his hand, the clam lay there, mud-streaked and tightly sealed, the coloration of its shell a mirror to the sea and shoreline.

There you go, the man whispered, with a tone that could only be called reverent. And on your first time, too. Then his face brightened as well, only when he stooped to collect what his toes struck upon, he returned with an oblong knot of frosted cobalt glass.

For the first time, the man met Tae-yul’s eyes. His lips, though chapped, were full and sculpted pink, a contrast to his eyes, which seemed like deep mountain pools dappled with sunlight. Tae-yul’s thoughts drifted to his Halmeoni’s fairy tales of lakes where travelers would come to rest, only to disappear in the night, dragged down by some haunted creature into the bottom of the pool.

The man marveled at the stone in his hand. Sometimes, he said, you find unexpected treasure. He plucked it between his fingers, so that it caught and dispersed the morning light. It glowed, like something lit from within. Hold out your hand.

Tae-yul obeyed without a thought.

The man took Tae-yul’s clam and replaced it with the stone. It’s sea glass, he told him. People around here call it the mermaid’s tear. This color in particular, though you’re more likely to find green or amber, and sometimes red–

–Mermaid’s blood, Young-jae interjected.

A sneer twitched across the man’s lip, betraying his feelings about that idea.

Do you find it often? Tae-yul asked.

Always by accident, the man said. He closed Tae-yul’s fingers around it.

Tae-yul’s heart skipped. I can’t take it, he said. It’s too much.

Don’t be ridiculous, the man said. I’m getting the better deal. After all, I can’t eat glass.

He dropped the clam into his bucket, then moved a meter down the beach to begin his dance once more.

Tae-yul chewed his lip. Then he said, I’m Kim Tae-yul.

Good, the man answered. He stared out at the ocean, his face aglow in the morning’s first rays.

And you are?

The man flexed his fingers but continued to sway as if he hadn’t heard him.

Several held breaths later, Young-jae said, "Yo, I can say for a fact that he won’t budge until you tell him. He once made me sit 17 hours outside the Shinsegae bathhouse during a heatwave to get a blurry snapshot of Kang Ho-dong. So...save us both the trouble and I swear, we’ll leave you alone."

Fine, the man said, and then, after a long, measured pause, he exhaled. My name is Chung Han-sol.

Chung Han-sol, Tae-yul repeated. Then, with a bow, he buried the sea glass in his pocket. He picked up his shoes, and he and Young-jae left him, just as promised.

Three.

Hold up, wait. Chung Han-sol hoisted the weight bar back into its cradle. "You gave him my name?"

Song-jin rolled his eyes skyward. I know. He heaved a breath. It was the first thing to pop into my head.

Color me flattered. Han-sol said. He touched Song-jin’s shoulder, the signal to sit up. But… why?

Song-jin’s head and guts swam with uneasy nausea. He kept trying to blame it on the encounter this morning with the man on the beach, but if he was honest, the queasiness started the night before after staring too long at his catalogue of henscratch and scribbles. He’d let the night get too dark, let the light go too dim, which caused the cracked-glass pennant of the optical migraine that plagued him until he finally fell asleep.

Here, Han-sol nudged him. Drink this. He passed Song-jin a plastic bottle. It’s healthy. It has probiotics.

Probiotics? Song-jin peeled off the foil lid. Does this mean they relinquished their amateur status? They can no longer compete in the Olympic games?

Ha, you’re very funny, Han-sol chuckled. I’m surprised you’re not married.

Han-sol joined him on the weight bench. He watched as Song-jin sipped at the protein drink, cringing slightly at its chalky texture. It builds muscle, Han-sol reassured him. And boosts your immunity. Can’t have you catching the flu this winter, that would be very ungood.

Song-jin sipped a little more, then chewed it solemnly as he skimmed the label. Han-sol was about to push him again to answer his question, about why Song-jin would give a complete stranger Han-sol’s name instead of his own, when Song-jin said, I was married.

He stated this fact with the enthusiasm of a student reciting multiplication tables, so for a moment, Han-sol could only gape at him in dumbstruck silence. Then he said, Six months I’ve known you, and this is the first personal information you’ve ever told me.

"That’s not true. You know about my Eomma."

Han-sol snorted. Details in your referral file don’t count.

Song-jin lifted his shoulders. The man could conduct whole conversations with a series of shrugs. And not just because his shoulders were huge, but because he used them so often in lieu of speaking.