The President addresses the nation without prior notice. The word martial law is spoken twice in the first sixty seconds.

카메라는 깜빡이지 않았다. 어딘가 주전자가 켜진 채로 있었다.

The decree is read aloud. It cites “anti-state forces” six times. Citizens begin to leave their apartments wearing scarves and slippers.

포고령의 언어는 진행자의 목소리보다 오래된 것이었다.

A representative climbs the National Assembly fence in a suit. The livestream microphone catches only wind and the metal of the railing.

A grandmother in a quilted coat hands a soldier a thermos of barley tea. He takes it. He gives it back. He takes it again.

그녀가 말했다 — 우리 아들이 너랑 비슷한 또래야.

A foreign correspondent reports from inside a parked sedan. The window fogs. She wipes a circle and continues speaking in even, unhurried English.

Inside the chamber, lawmakers convene under emergency procedure. Outside, the crowd is thicker than it was at 23:00, thinner than it will be at 02:00.

의사당은 오래된 종이 냄새와 차가운 공기로 가득했다.

No new feed. The ginkgo trees on Yeouido Avenue have nothing to say. The wind passes through them in B-flat.

A boy of nineteen sits on the curb with a notebook. He writes: I am here because my grandfather was here in nineteen-eighty. He underlines it twice.

버스가 지나갈 때 그는 고개를 들지 않았다.

A vote is called. The constitution is read into the record line by line. The Speaker's pen runs out of ink.

The resolution passes. One hundred and ninety votes for, none against. The word law is heard one final time, and it sounds, briefly, like something that belongs to everyone.

새벽 네 시 이십칠 분이었다. 나무들은 아직 알지 못했다.

The decree is rescinded. The avenue exhales. The first commuter buses begin their routes at the regular time. The midnight ends.