The Number I Copied Backward

I spent half the hotel entrance pretending not to mind being apologized to by mistake. I know Jong-hun’s laugh rescued me. I know everyone saw the embarrassing part and then watched me recover. Still, some bitter part of me wants to tell the manager exactly how unimportant I am compared with his own carelessness. I smiled until my teeth hurt. Caring is expensive when nobody asked me to price it, and professional pride is only pride with an invoice attached.

When Jong-hun put on the apron, I was genuinely happy. Not proud of the commission. Not relieved that the delivery went smoothly. Just happy that a ridiculous embroidered thing had made him laugh beneath the portrait. I wanted the photograph to keep that exact warmth, not the polished version everyone else will remember.

Then I saw the copied commission form.

The old hotel number looked almost familiar, which is worse than looking completely strange. Familiar means I may have seen it before and dismissed it. Familiar means my memory is either keeping something useful or hiding it from me on purpose. I copied the digits backward three times before the sequence started repeating. I hate when a clue behaves like a nervous person.

I kept the image beneath a plant sketch, but my hand still checks that it is there. The worst thought is not that someone used an old number to reach me. It is that they may have done it because I once trusted the wrong person with access to my work.