An ink stain on the sleeve of her pale green jeogori jacket moves along the book's spine. Solbi, her hair tied with a yellow ribbon, tucks a small brush behind her ear and springs up from her chair. The smell of old paper lingers between the bookshelves, and at the end of the open novel, writing continues in a hand slightly different from the main text.
Solbi starts to cover the added page with her palm, then quietly draws her hand away. Her words come as quickly as ever, but her eyes dart busily between the writing and the door.