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The afternoon light is softening when you pass through the ancient wooden door, its surface dark with centuries of hands pushing it open, its iron hinges worn smooth by the passage of countless scholars and students and seekers who have entered this space before you, each one seeking something—knowledge or solitude or simply a quiet place to read, to think, to be.

This is Sleep Stories for Adults. Make sure you follow us so that we can hit our goal of 10,000 followers.

The afternoon light is beginning its slow transformation when you arrive at the edge of the world, or what feels like the edge of the world, where the land stretches away in waves of golden grass and the sky seems to take up more space than the earth, where the horizon is so distant you can see the curve of the planet, where silence is not the absence of sound but a presence of its own, thick and soft and all-encompassing.

This is Sleep Stories for Adults. Make sure you follow us so that we can hit our goal of 10,000 followers.

The afternoon light is soft and filtered through the persistent mist that has settled over Seoul when you step off the subway at Bukchon station, emerging from the underground into the hillside neighborhood where traditional hanok houses still cluster together, their curved tile roofs creating waves of gray and charcoal against the modern city that surrounds them. The air is cool and damp, carrying with it the smell of rain-wet stone and pine, of cooking kimchi and the slight metallic scent that cities always have, of millions of people living close together, of density and life and the constant hum of human activity.