YES.

• Flickering neon on wet pavement. Pine needles warmed by sun. The sound of sweeping brooms in early morning alleyways. Handwritten train schedules. Porcelain teacups clinking gently. Marginalia in borrowed books. Faint humming from old projectors. Closed bookstores and their dusty glass. Fabric scraps as bookmarks. The hush of snow falling at night. Scent of old canvas. Rusted padlocks on forgotten gates. Worn steps leading to nowhere. Crushed gingko leaves underfoot. Pencil markings on faded maps. Newsprint smudges on fingers. Echoes in empty stairwells. Wind trapped in subway tunnels. Film grain appearing mid-frame. The pause before a door creaks open.

ABSOLUTELY.

• Burnt umber and deep indigo. Sandalwood. Old books. Black sesame. Roasted barley. Seaweed broth. Camellias in bloom. The haegeum’s plaintive voice. City rain on metal railings. A roof in Euljiro at sunset. Paranormal webtoons read at night. Dried persimmons. Barley tea in summer, misugaru in winter. Cracked glaze on antique ceramics. Raw linen, soft cotton worn by time. Just before dawn, when the city blinks. Train whistles from afar. Late autumn light on closed windows. Forgotten hanok courtyards. The sound of wind slipping through old screens. Silence held between two pages. Stories told only once, but remembered forever.