A day in that year seen from a first-person perspective, 8 17, 1910
In the rainy evening courtyard, I wrap a simple wooden hairpin beside an oil lamp. It is a small gift for the friend I hope to walk with tomorrow.
Timeslip Lite
Ink, Rain, and a Carefully Folded Promise
8 17, 1910 โ€” A day in ๊ฐ•์œ ์„ฑ's life
The world of 1910Timeslip day 1Me at 22
At about 5:40 in the morning, I woke in my rented room behind Pine-Well Alley to the scrape of a broom on packed earth and the faint ringing of a streetcar bell. Damp summer air pressed through the paper door, carrying the smell of rain-soaked roof tiles and barley porridge from the landladyโ€™s kitchen.
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๐Ÿ“– Today's diary2
7:10 a.m. โ€” Willow Bridge Bookshop ๐Ÿ”
At 7:10 in the morning, inside Willow Bridge Bookshop near the tram road, I raised the wooden shutters while cart wheels hissed over wet stones outside. I am twenty-two and still the junior hand here, so I ground an ink stick, dusted the shelves, and copied a customerโ€™s short letter onto thin paper with my best brushwork. Newspapers and new-style schoolbooks lay beside stitched volumes, and customers spoke quietly about prices and uncertain official changes without pretending to know what would come next. Before noon, the owner paid me a few jeon for an extra copying task, and I tucked the coins into the inner fold of my cotton jacket instead of buying sweet rice cakes.
7:20 p.m. โ€” Persimmon Courtyard Lodging ๐Ÿ”
At 7:20 in the evening, in the narrow courtyard of my lodging at Persimmon Gate, I sat beneath the eaves while rain ticked from the tiles into an earthen jar. By the yellow light of an oil lamp, I counted my coins beside a plain wooden hairpin wrapped in cloth, a modest gift I hope to give the friend who helped me find this room. The landlady served barley-mixed rice, soybean paste broth, and salted cucumber, and from beyond the wall came a gramophone tune blurred by rain and distance. I folded the gift again, deciding that tomorrow I will ask whether we might walk together after the shop closes.
This diary is a work of fiction imagined from period knowledge and a feel for historical accuracy, without searching actual records. It is not a record of real events or people.
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