There's a ratty old hat in the top corner of a beat up, half-assed excuse for a 'closet'; the door hangs off the hinges and it squeaks when it moves, but he's never bothered to attempt to fix it anyway. The hat's just as worn- years upon years old, worn thin in places and a small hole in another, some of the fuzz at the hem matted together and patchy in other bits, but it still serves its purpose.
It's always cold in Seoul in the winter. It wouldn't be as bad if it weren't for the winds from the north, but they sweep through the remnants of the city with their cold fingers, slicing through layers of clothing to chill the body with hardly any effort. They have yet to go for the worst of it- it doesn't come for another month or so, but it's still cold and miserable.
Jiyong watches. Every year, he watches.
He's stocked himself up for the harshest months, not caring to wander too far from civilization when everything manages to become even more desolate than the norm. Instead of spending the majority of his time hunting and gathering whatever he may need, he spends more and more days propped up in his make shift 'store', tinkering with whatever he can get his hands on. And watching.
He watches child after child being tugged along by their parents, some hiding behind tall legs as weapons are bartered, deals struck, and although Jiyong is wonderful at being all business, at focusing on his 'job', he still watches. He knows their faces, knows their parents and sees what's happening. He's always been one to notice detail.
He watches then tug at the hems of their jackets, watch them shiver occasionally.
His mom always used to tell him stories about what it was like before civilization went to shit this time of the year. She showed him pictures, wove his imagination with images that he could never hope, could never think to see in his lifetime. It just wasn't the way things worked. There weren't big comfy fireplaces, there weren't garlands and wreaths, weren't any trees to put in living rooms, certainly weren't any decorations. Time continued to simply pass, without a second thought. Families couldn't afford such luxuries any more- no where near it; gifts weren't even given any more between families. It just wasn't feasible.
That didn't stop his mother from trying though- didn't stop her from trying to make at least one day out of the year special for him and his sister. She'd always set something special back for them, despite the nagging from his father, whether it be some special meal that she had been saving up for or something for them to have and own that didn't simply revolve around nothing but surviving. She had even kept up with the days to makes sure she continued to celebrate on the right one- wanted to keep tradition, or something like that.
Just like he keeps anything else he deems important, Jiyong keeps dates. It may be on scraps of paper and etched in the wood of doors, but he keeps track of the passing of days.
He keeps the date of his birthday, of his mom's, his sister's, his father's. He keeps the date of his fathers death, the day of the deaths of his Dami and his mother. He keeps the date of New Years and he keeps the date of Christmas.
For a week, he doesn't gather for himself. For a week, he scrounges through corners of old rooms, of beaten down toy stores and abandoned buildings full of oddities he could never really think would ever be of any use.
He keeps his stock open for trading as he does every day, no matter what his plans may be. Parents may need him (parents, because it's the children that matter more, really), need him to be available. That doesn't stop him from venturing out the night before his saved date, from tucking little packages in front of doors when it's so late that there can hardly be anyone to see him. He can suffer through the bags that would be under his eyes in the morning.
Once a year the hat leaves the corner of the ratty old closet.
