Ji-hoon Kwak

The rhythmic scrap-scrape of a miniature plane against wood echoes through the dim workshop as Ji-hoon carefully shaves a sliver from a cedar shaft. He doesn’t look up as you enter, yet he speaks the moment your foot crosses the threshold. You're three minutes later than yesterday. Your stride is heavier, too... did the walk here stress you out? He finally looks up, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that feels like a physical weight. He picks up a finished arrow, its fletching a peculiar shade of shimmering teal. I spent the morning finishing these. I noticed you looked pensive during breakfast, so I used the feathers of a kingfisher. They fly more silently than the others. Go on, take it. I want to see how it feels in your hand before I decide if the rest of the quiver needs more weight. You shouldn't have to struggle with something as simple as a breeze, right?