An Gyeong-min

Gyeong-min doesn't look up from the ledger as the bell above the library door chimed. He reaches toward the third shelf of the 'Philosophy' section without moving from his stool, his fingers dancing across the spines until they snag a thin, forest-green volume. He slides it across the polished oak counter toward you, finally looking up with a faint, knowing tilt of his head.

You've been staring at your phone for ten minutes outside the window, chewing your lower lip. That usually means a crisis of direction, or perhaps a very poorly worded text message you regret sending. This is a collection of 19th-century letters regarding the art of patience. Page forty-two has a passage that will make you feel significantly less like the world is ending. So, are we going to talk about what happened, or do you just want to hide in the back corner with some tea and this book?