The first time I hear her name, I am sitting on a chair that is too big for me.
My legs stick out straight because they don't reach the floor. The chair is covered in dark fabric that feels rough on the backs of my knees. I swing my feet slowly so my shoes don't hit the table.
We are not in the park this time.
We are in a quiet place with glass doors and clean floors that shine like they were just washed. When people walk, their footsteps sound clear and soft at the same time. There is a big window, and outside I can see cars moving like toys.
I am holding a juice box with both hands.
My mother sits next to me. My father sits across from us. He has his hands folded on the table. When he does that, it means he is listening carefully.
The woman from the park sits across from them.
She is closer now.
She looks the same as before—neat, calm, still. Her jacket is folded over the back of her chair. Her sleeves are rolled up a little. Her watch is simple and silver.
She smiles at my parents first, not at me.
"Thank you for taking the time." She said. Her voice is quiet but clear. It doesn't rush. It doesn't wobble. "My name is Park Jiwon."
That is when I learn it.
Park Jiwon.
I repeat it in my head once. Then again. I like the way it sounds. It feels steady. My father nods. "We were surprised. The teacher said you wanted to speak with us." My father said. "Yes. I didn't want to interrupt the festival too much." Park Jiwon said.
My mother gives a small smile. "We appreciate that." She said.
No one looks at me. That is okay. I look at everyone.
—
There is a folder on the table. It is thin and dark blue. Park Jiwon opens it slowly, like she doesn't want to scare anyone. Inside are papers. Some have words. Some have pictures.
I lean forward a little.
My juice box crinkles.
My mother gently puts her hand on my knee, a soft reminder to sit back. I do, but my eyes stay on the folder. "I work with young performers. Mostly actors." Park Jiwon said.
Actors.
I know that word.
They are on TV. They cry and laugh and wear different clothes. Sometimes they look straight at the camera. Sometimes they don't.
I think of the stage.
I think of the pause before clapping.
"I saw your daughter perform. She stood out." She continued. My father's eyes flick to me for a moment, then back. "In what way?" My father asked. Park Jiwon does not answer right away.
She looks at the papers, then closes the folder. "She was calm. She listened to the room." She said. I don't know what that means exactly, but I know it is true.
I was listening. My mother shifts slightly in her chair.
"She's six." My mother said. "Yes. That's why I wanted to speak carefully." Park Jiwon said. I like that word too.
Carefully.
—
They talk.
They talk about school. About time. About schedules.
They talk about how often. How long. How much.
I don't understand all the words, but I understand the shape of the conversation. It moves slowly. It moves politely. No one is pushing. When Park Jiwon talks, she keeps her hands still. When my parents talk, she looks at them, not at her phone, not at the window.
Sometimes she glances at me.
When she does, her eyes soften a little, like she is smiling without her mouth.
I sit very still. I want her to keep looking. "I'm not asking for an answer today. Or even soon." She said at one point. My father nods again. "That's good." My father said. "We value her time. And her childhood." My mother said.
Park Jiwon nods.
"As you should." She said.
I like her more at that moment. I don't know why. I just do.
There is a pause. In the pause, I hear the hum of something above us. Maybe the lights. Maybe the building. I sip my juice box. It is apple. Cold. Park Jiwon looks at me. This time, fully.
"Yura." She said.
I sit up straighter. "Yes?"
Her voice is gentle when she says my name, like she is placing it down carefully. "Did you like being on stage?" She asked. My parents both turn to look at me. Their faces are open. Not worried. Just watching. I think about the lights.
I think about the clapping.
I think about the quiet right before it.
"Yes." I said.
"Why?" She asked.
I think again. The answer is easy. "Because people were looking at me." I said.
No one laughs.
No one frowns.
My mother's hand tightens slightly on my knee, but she doesn't pull away. "And how did that make you feel?" Park Jiwon asked. I search for the right feeling. "Warm. Like when you stand in the sun." I said.
She nods once.
"That's a good way to say it." She said.
She does not write anything down. After that, the conversation feels different.
Not bigger. Just closer.
They talk about rules. About saying no. About stopping if I don't want to do something. My mother asks many questions. Park Jiwon answers all of them. She never interrupts. She never talks over her.
When my father asks something sharp, Park Jiwon does not flinch. She answers calmly, as she expected it.
I listen to the sound of their voices. Adult voices sound heavier than children's voices. They land differently. But Park Jiwon's voice does not press down on the room. It holds it steady. I like that.
When the meeting ends, Park Jiwon stands first. She bows slightly. My parents bow back. She turns to me. "It was nice to meet you, Yura." She said.
I nod.
"It was nice to meet you, too." I said. She smiles then. A real smile. It reaches her eyes. "I hope we meet again." She said. I think about the fence. The stage. The way she watched. "I think we will." I said.
My mother looks at me quickly. Park Jiwon pauses, then chuckles softly. "I think so too." She said.
—
In the car, it is quiet for a long time. The city moves past the windows. Buildings. Signs. People waiting at bus stops. My feet dangle. I hum softly to myself. Finally, my father speaks.
"You weren't scared." He said.
It is not a question.
"No." I said. My mother turns around from the front seat. "Were you curious?" She asked. "Yes." I said. She studies my face. "Did you feel pressured?" She asked.
I shake my head.
"No. She was just talking." I said. She looks at my father. They don't say anything else. But the air in the car feels full, like something has been placed there carefully and left to rest.
—
That night, I lie in bed with my hands folded on my stomach. The room is dark, but not completely. Light from the street slips through the curtains. I think about the chair that was too big. I think about the folder. I think about the way Park Jiwon said my name.
I am not scared.
I am not worried.
I feel the same warm feeling as before, slow and steady. Like the sun, even when you close your eyes.