Corridor 202, 06:14
The soft scrape of a laundry basket sliding across the carpet. Morning air still cradles last night’s blade. I press myself behind the hallway mirror. Through the one-way glass a white shirt glides past—the outline of damp cloth clinging to skin, the small of her back bared by barely an inch. In that instant the whole day tilts.
I open the camera app. On the screen Mina moves in slow motion. A white silk ribbon peeks out as the hem of her shirt rides up. I swallow hard.
Press stop and it’s over.
My finger stiffens.
Elevator, 06:18
Just before the doors close, Mina slips inside like liquid. The scent of her morning perfume reaches me first. I hug my laptop bag tighter. Tenth floor. Each descending digit makes the back of her head sway. A single strand of hair rests on the nape of her white neck.
“Good morning, Mr. Chairman.” A quiet greeting as the doors open. I nod instead of answering. Even after she’s gone, I stand rooted until the doors seal shut.
Underground Garage, 06:26
Inside the black sedan. The dash cam catches Mina’s red sneakers. When her sole pushes off the ground, the lens clings to her heel and won’t let go. End of B2, the line revealed beneath white cotton pants. Screenshot number 87. Battery 1%.
I start the engine, switch on the air-con, yet the car never shakes off the chill of dawn. Only the blue veins on the back of my hand pulse furiously.
The Chairman’s Office, 09:00
Monitor on the desk. Mina on the third-floor lounge CCTV. Fluorescent light turns her hair to silver. I crank up the headset volume, but past the static nothing comes through. So I imagine instead.
“Mina, black-bean noodles again today?” “It’s good. Want a bite, unnie?”
I slip my hand beneath the desk. No further description is needed. Her laughter alone is enough. I already brace myself for the emptiness that will follow.
Commute Home, 19:35
Car four, Line 2. Earbuds in, Mina nods to the beat. Blinding Lights. I play the same track. One car away, her back locks into my line of sight. A boy on the rear seat glances sideways. Suddenly I want to snatch that gaze away—an arrogant thought that no one but me should look at Mina.
What do you feel when you watch a young woman’s back?
And do you truly not know what she feels when she looks at you?
Stairwell, 6th Floor, 23:12
The swish of a laundry basket brushing the keycard. The door opens; Mina appears. White shirt, bra strap faintly visible beneath. I no longer hide. I raise the camera.
Mina turns. For the first time our eyes meet. I lower the phone.
“Chairman, you took photos again today?”
I can’t speak. Mina steps close and lifts the phone from my hand. The lock screen fades; the 87 shots vanish one by one.
“Eighty-seven. As always, every single day.”
One, then another. When the last photo disappears she hands the phone back. Hoisting her basket, she climbs the stairs. At her door she pauses.
“I hope tomorrow won’t be the eighty-eighth.”
The door closes. The corridor sinks into silence. I take out my phone and stare at the lock screen. In the black glass the shabby eyes of a 67-year-old man stare back.
The end of the corridor glows green under the emergency sign. I stand beneath that light still picturing the 23-year-old Mina’s back. And I understand: this desire will never end. The back of a young woman is the last fragment of youth left to me. A 67-year-old man will live on watching only that back. However Mina may see me, I am already imprisoned inside her back view.
Her parting words—"I hope tomorrow won’t be the eighty-eighth"—circle the hallway. I remain there. Will the sound of the laundry basket come again, or never? Mina’s back has vanished, yet my desire lingers beneath the green emergency light, holding its breath.