She Sits in the Class Next Door

Spring in Seoul always arrives in its own special way. On a gentle March morning, the breeze rustled through the cherry blossom trees outside the gate of Seoul Sunshine Kindergarten, carrying the scent of flowers mixed with the fresh morning air. Lively sounds echoed everywhere: bustling footsteps, parents calling their children, and children laughing with excitement mingled with a little shyness. The walls were painted in bright colors, and a sign hung high above the gate in round, friendly letters read: "Welcome to the New School Year!" A little girl with shoulder-length hair, clipped to one side with a cat-shaped hairpin, clung to her mother’s hand, eyes about to cry. Her name was Harin. “Mom… it’s too crowded. I’m scared,” Harin held tightly onto her mother’s sleeve, her eyes glistening. “It’s okay, honey. Everyone is going to school for the first time today. Be brave, Harin. Soon you’ll have friends and you’ll like school,” her mother gently comforted her. As they approached the school gate, Harin suddenly stopped. Her eyes dropped to her shirt. “Where is my name tag?” she panicked. A small heart-shaped paper with the name “Harin” was no longer pinned to her chest. She looked around anxiously, her worry turning into fear. “My name tag… Mom, where is it?” Harin’s voice trembled. Seeing her daughter’s teary eyes, her mother bent down to soothe her, but Harin was already sobbing quietly, refusing to go inside. She stood close behind her mother, watching other children happily wear colorful name tags. Nearby, a boy was standing with his mother. He quietly observed Harin. His name was Minho, 5 years old, with short hair, a round face, and fair skin, holding his backpack tightly. Minho’s mother was a gentle woman, slender and simply dressed. “Mom! That girl looks so sad…” Minho whispered, holding his mother’s hand. His mother followed his gaze and nodded. “She must have lost her name tag. Poor thing.” Minho said no more. After all the parents had led their children inside, Minho kept watching Harin’s every move. Feeling sorry for the girl who watched others with name tags and sat quietly in a corner crying softly, Minho took out some colored papers from his backpack that his mother had prepared for the first lesson. He awkwardly cut and folded the papers. Though his small hands were clumsy, Minho carefully drew a picture of… a chestnut — because he heard from his mother that girls liked cute things. Below, he wrote in slanting letters: “Harin – Little Seed Class A” At the end of the first day, Harin still looked sad. But as she and her mother stepped out of the gate, a boy ran up to her, holding out the handmade paper name tag. “This is… for you,” Minho said shyly, not looking at her. “Huh… for me?” Harin’s eyes widened in surprise. “Yeah. It’s a chestnut shape. I thought… you’d like it,” Minho scratched his head. Harin took it, studying it carefully. It was light orange, colored with crayon, a bit smudged but cute. The name “Harin” was clearly written. She looked at Minho, her eyes brightening. “Thank you… this is really cute,” Harin smiled for the first time that day. Nearby, Minho’s mother quietly greeted Harin’s parents when they came to pick her up. “Hello, I guess your child and mine have already become friends,” Minho’s mother smiled warmly. “Oh, hello. Yes, my daughter mentioned ‘the friend who made the name tag’ all day. Thanks to Minho,” Harin’s father said cheerfully. “Minho is an only child, so he really likes having a friend,” Minho’s mother added, her eyes tenderly watching the two kids. It all started like that. A paper name tag shaped like a chestnut — binding two innocent souls, letting them feel what it means to care for someone, to experience the strange joy when someone smiles because of what you’ve done. First feelings often begin simply like that. As gentle as the March breeze. Since then, Harin always carried the chestnut-shaped paper name tag Minho made with colored paper, though it had become a little worn at the edges and faded from sweat and spilled drinks. She smiled more and always looked for a seat near Minho. Minho didn’t talk much, but whenever Harin dropped something, he was the first to pick it up. “Minho, draw a chestnut!” “Okay. I’ll draw a candy too.” The two kids were inseparable. The teacher even joked: “I have to separate these two. Now they want to sleep close together at nap time — what’s that about?” One afternoon, while the other children slept, Harin whispered under her blanket: “When you grow up, Minho, don’t forget me.” The boy answered quietly but surely: “Never. I remember it well.” Each week, their families took turns bringing and picking them up. Sometimes when Harin’s mother was late, Harin would stand alone at the gate, pouting. Minho would quietly come over, take her hand, say nothing, just stand beside her and wait. That innocent, simple but very real feeling. Then one day, their families arranged to meet at Yeouido Park for cherry blossom viewing. The two children wore matching outfits — Harin in a yellow polka dot dress, Minho in a light yellow shirt. They ran happily among the falling petals, laughing loudly down the small path. Their parents sat on picnic mats, chatting cheerfully like old friends. That picnic unexpectedly became the reason for the two families to naturally grow closer. Every weekend afterward, Harin’s family visited Minho’s home, sometimes bringing homemade sweets, sometimes fresh chrysanthemums from Gwangjang market. Minho’s mother always brewed herbal tea and laid out some fruit to welcome guests. The warm atmosphere made passersby think they were one big happy family. Minho and Harin, after the chestnut name tag incident, grew even closer. Though still very young, the way they played puzzle games, colored pictures, and shared snacks made everyone smile. One day, while the kids were lying on the living room floor coloring with crayons, upstairs the adults were having a serious but trusting conversation. “We plan to organize a bigger solo exhibition for Nari — Harin’s mother,” Mr. Woojin — Harin’s father said, stirring his hot tea gently. “This time, with proper organization and media coverage.” “Yeah, her paintings aren’t small anymore. Critics keep mentioning her,” Minho’s mother smiled. “But I’m still worried about copyrights, space rental contracts, and legal procedures,” Ms. Nari — Harin’s mother added. “Seojin, if possible… could you help us with the legal part?” Minho’s father nodded without hesitation: “Of course. That’s what friends are for — to help each other when needed.” The living room filled with laughter and the aroma of tea. Minho looked up, not understanding much, just seeing his dad smile kindly and Harin still coloring her chestnut picture with orange crayons. Those days were truly a beautiful corner of youth — even when they were only five years old. After all the discussions, the two families finally rolled up their sleeves and got to work on their first art exhibition – an idea that sounded simple, yet to them, it was a small dream beginning to take shape. The living room in Harin’s house suddenly became busy, like a “temporary headquarters.” On the table were stacks of sticky notes, colored pens, old art catalogs, and steaming cups of coffee. Ms. Nari – Harin’s mother – had eyes that sparkled like a girl in her twenties as she spoke about the paintings she had stored in the attic for many years. “They’re like forgotten memories,” she said, “and now it’s time to wake them up.” Across from her, Minho’s parents listened attentively. Mr. Seojin – Minho’s father – was a quiet, thoughtful man, his eyes always deep in consideration. Meanwhile, Ms. Jiwon – Minho’s mother – was quick-witted and organized, immediately suggesting a venue, media contacts, and even backup plans in case of bad weather. Although the two families had different personalities, once they sat down together, everything seemed to click in a strangely harmonious way. Harin and Minho sat in a corner of the room, each holding a colored pencil and doodling on paper. Minho drew an exhibition room filled with warm yellow lights, while Harin drew a little girl in a white dress standing in a forest of daisy paintings. When Harin showed her drawing to her mom, Ms. Nari paused for a moment, then smiled: “Maybe you just drew what I’ve been dreaming of.” The story continued with laughter and nods of agreement. They weren’t just planning an exhibition – they were building something bigger: a new journey, a connection through art, memories, the friendship of two children, and the gentle innocence still held in the hearts of grown-ups. And so, on a quiet afternoon in April, with sunlight drifting softly through the window, that little journey officially began – like the first stroke on a blank canvas. By early May, the weather had warmed and the breeze became gentler. Harin’s household grew livelier. After many days of planning and discussion, both families decided to hold a small exhibition at the community center near the park – a place with good lighting and peaceful enough for people to enjoy the paintings without distractions. Though she was only five, Harin was full of excitement. Of course, she couldn’t do grown-up tasks like cleaning frames or hanging artworks, but she had an important role of her own: “the beauty inspector.” That’s what her mother called it, so Harin would feel like she was part of the project. “You just need to look and tell me if the picture makes you happy or if anything feels odd, okay?” her mom smiled, placing her on a small chair in the living room. “I can do that!” Harin beamed. And so every afternoon, after her nap or preschool, Harin and Minho would come to see the paintings. Harin would tilt her head, pout her lips, and say things like:– “Mommy, why is the sun in this one blue?” – “This tree looks like a melon popsicle!” – “This one… feels kinda sad.” Her innocent comments often made the adults laugh, but sometimes they made her mother pause and reconsider. It seemed that a child’s eyes could see things the grown-ups had long forgotten. As for Minho, although he was the same age as Harin, he spoke less. He often followed her around, quietly helping her get more paper or adjusting her chair to the right height. One day, Minho brought an old box of crayons. “We could draw pictures for the children’s corner at the exhibition,” he suggested. Harin’s eyes widened. “We get to hang our drawings too?” “Yeah, my mom said anyone can share their point of view.” And so, on a quiet afternoon under the sunny porch, Harin drew a sleeping cat and a smiling moon. It was the first drawing she ever completed – encouraged by the silent support of her classmate from across the hallway.