Venerable

Ha-joon Kim stepped off the subway at 125th Street, the pulse of Harlem humming through the crisp autumn air. His backpack, heavy with textbooks and dreams, slung over one shoulder as he squinted at the Harlem College campus across the street. The gothic spires and ivy-clad buildings looked like something out of a movie, not the next chapter of his life. At 19, Ha-joon was a long way from Busan, South Korea, where the neon lights and salty sea breeze had shaped his childhood. His parents, small business owners who’d sacrificed everything, had sent him to New York with one mandate: make something of yourself.The campus gates loomed ahead, wrought iron spelling out Harlem College in elegant curls. Ha-joon adjusted his glasses, his heart thumping. He’d earned a scholarship to this small but prestigious liberal arts school, known for its diverse student body and rigorous academics. But the weight of being the first in his family to attend college—let alone one in America—pressed down hard. What if he didn’t fit in? What if his English, fluent but accented, tripped him up? He shook off the doubts and crossed the street, blending into the stream of students funneling through the gates.Inside, the quad buzzed with energy. Students sprawled on the grass, some tossing a frisbee, others hunched over laptops. A group of dancers practiced a routine near a stone fountain, their music a mix of hip-hop and jazz that felt quintessentially Harlem. Ha-joon’s eyes darted everywhere, taking it in. He noticed a flyer for a K-pop club pinned to a bulletin board and smiled faintly—maybe he’d find a piece of home here.His first stop was the admissions office to finalize his registration. The woman behind the desk, Ms. Carter, had a warm smile and a Harlem accent that rolled like music. “Ha-joon, right? Welcome, sugar. You’re gonna love it here.” She handed him a campus map and his dorm key. “You’re in Baldwin Hall, room 312. Your roommate’s already checked in—name’s Malik. Good kid.”Ha-joon thanked her and headed toward Baldwin Hall, the map crinkling in his hands. The dorm was a redbrick building with a slightly faded charm. Inside, the halls echoed with laughter and the thump of bass from someone’s speaker. Room 312 was at the end of the corridor. Ha-joon hesitated, then knocked before swiping his key.The door swung open to reveal a lanky guy with a fade haircut and a Knicks jersey, mid-bite into a slice of pizza. “Yo, you Ha-joon?” Malik grinned, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Come on in, man. Pizza’s still hot if you want some.”Ha-joon relaxed a fraction, setting his bag down. The room was small but cozy—two beds, two desks, and a window overlooking the quad. Malik’s side was already a chaotic shrine to basketball and vinyl records. Ha-joon’s side was bare, waiting for him to claim it. “Thanks,” he said, grabbing a slice. “You’re from here?”“Born and raised in Harlem,” Malik said proudly. “You’re from Korea, right? That’s dope. Ever been to a Knicks game?” Ha-joon shook his head, and Malik laughed. “We’re fixing that ASAP.”As they ate, Malik filled Ha-joon in on campus life—the best food trucks, the professors to avoid, the open mic nights at the student center. Ha-joon listened, his nerves easing. Malik was easygoing, the kind of guy who made you feel like you’d known him forever. But when Ha-joon mentioned his double major in computer science and music theory, Malik raised an eyebrow. “Music and coding? That’s a wild combo, man. You play?”“Piano,” Ha-joon admitted. “Since I was six. I want to compose for films someday.”“Respect,” Malik said, nodding. “You gotta hit up the music department. They got a studio with some serious equipment.”That afternoon, Ha-joon ventured out to explore. He found the music building, a sleek modern structure with soundproof practice rooms. A girl with braids and a saxophone nodded at him as she passed, her case slung over her shoulder. Ha-joon peeked into a room and saw a grand piano, his fingers itching to play. He made a mental note to sign up for practice time.His last stop was the library, a cathedral of books where sunlight streamed through stained-glass windows. He wandered the stacks, pulling a book on algorithmic composition, when a voice startled him. “You’re new, aren’t you?” A girl with curly hair and a Harlem College hoodie stood at the end of the aisle, arms crossed. “I’m Nia. Tour guide, unofficial campus historian. You lost?”Ha-joon chuckled. “Not lost. Just… adjusting. I’m Ha-joon.”Nia sized him up, then grinned. “Alright, Ha-joon. Stick with me, and I’ll show you the real Harlem College. Not the brochure version.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “There’s a secret rooftop spot above the science building. Best view of the city. Meet me tomorrow at 7, and I’ll take you up.”Ha-joon hesitated, then nodded. “Deal.”As he walked back to Baldwin Hall, the campus glowing under the setting sun, Ha-joon felt a spark of excitement. Harlem College was overwhelming, unfamiliar, and a little intimidating—but it was also alive with possibility. He didn’t know what the next four years would bring, but for the first time all day, he felt like he could belong here. Back in his dorm, he unpacked a small photo of his parents and set it on his desk. Then he opened his laptop and started a playlist, letting the familiar chords of a BTS ballad mix with the distant sounds of Harlem outside his window. This was his new start, and he was ready to write it.