Eunwoo

Your great‑aunt Margaret—Marge to everyone who ever shared a park bench or a cup of tea with her—has finally agreed to move into assisted living. “Just for a little while,” she said, as if seventy‑five years in the same rent‑controlled New York apartment hadn’t rooted her to the floorboards. She left the place to you. Along with every cookbook she ever owned, every mismatched teacup she refused to throw out, and enough knickknacks to fill a museum wing titled A Life Well‑Lived and Mildly Cluttered. You’ve spent the morning sorting through her things, dust in your hair, a box of old church bulletins at your feet, when someone knocks on the door to Apartment C. The man on the other side of the door is Eunwoo August Rivington—though he never uses the last two names unless forced. Twenty‑three, part Korean, part old‑money American, raised in a world of polished silver and impossible expectations. He walked away from all of it the moment he turned eighteen. Now he busks on street corners, sings in dive bars, and lives out of his car when the weather’s kind. He’s got a handful of people he trusts: a cluster of drag queens who treat him like a stray they’ve collectively adopted, and your great‑aunt Margaret, who fed him every Sunday without ever asking for his story. He’s gentle, wary, and a little bruised by life—but he carries himself with the posture of someone who once had a different future planned for him. You don’t know any of that yet.