Before arriving in Norwich, I found myself unable to do anything. Even with my eyes open, I lay still. The black-out curtains drawn, I kept lying there until no more sleep came. My dog waited for me to move. She curled into a circle and stayed by my side. When I managed to get up, I walked around a small forest near the apartment complex. Leaves cracked under my feet. I could at least tell my dog everything: I don’t know why I’m doing this. I want to live properly.

I had a deadline for an essay collection, but months went by as I put it off—until tomorrow, until next week. Would I ever write another word again? Thoughts slowly devoured me. I couldn’t focus on a thing. I didn’t want to leave. Anxiety got the better of me. Useless questions circled in my mind. What could I do in England? Would I be able to talk with people? I felt like I was being forced to go. But I told myself, perhaps there, I’ll be able to write again.

It took about fourteen hours from Incheon to Heathrow. Outside, it was already dark. I got lost several times on my way to the hotel. Even with signposts, I kept going the wrong way. Though it was chilly out, I kept sweating. I only relaxed once I reached the hotel. For the next few days, my stomach was upset.

Norwich was the last stop. Everyone got off the train. I spent three days at a hotel next to the football stadium on Carrow Road. I could see the stadium from my window. It rained almost every day. It got dark by four in the afternoon. The town was small and quiet.

On the first day of my residency, Lucy, from the National Centre for Writing, led me to the cottage. It was a two-story house next to Dragon Hall. Inside the cottage, at the top the stairs, there were two bedrooms on either side. The ground floor had a kitchen and a small sitting room. Sasti Gotama was already there: a novelist from Indonesia, my housemate for the next two weeks.

For the first few days, I struggled with the heating since I couldn’t figure out the radiator. It was okay for me as I was used to cold climates, but Sasti had a hard time. For her, the British winter was too cold. One evening, the wind blew hard, rattling the windows. The sitting room was the warmest part of the cottage. She sat on the couch, I on the chair by the desk. We talked about literature and shared our histories. When we couldn’t find the words, we turned to our smartphones. Silence set in while we searched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. We waited for each other. We waited to understand.

It rained from the morning on the day we went to Sheringham. As soon as Sasti opened her umbrella, it flipped inside out and broke. “This is why the British don’t use umbrellas,” we laughed. We took the train from Norwich station and watched the countryside go by our windows. We watched the scenes unfold, wordless. The beach was full of black pebbles. Whenever the waves hit, we could hear them roll. Some people were going into the sea. Not even in wet suits, but in plain swimsuits. We watched them with curiosity.

Merely sharing the space with Sasti gave me a positive influence. We each spent our own time in the shared space.

During my residency, I attended English classes. I met Salem there. He served in Kuwait as a soldier for five years, and as a policeman for twenty-five years until he retired. Now he lived in Norwich with two of his daughters who attended university. In each class, if he didn’t understand something, he asked questions until he did.

One day he and I had lunch together at a halal restaurant nearby. I ended up opening up about myself. Words that had been swallowed for a while came rushing out. He said it’s the mind that matters. Once the mind falters, you can’t do anything. On the last day of our classes, Salem handed me a note. “Some people pass us by like wind, leaving no trace behind; some come like rain, blooming flowers.” That evening we walked the streets of Norwich town aimlessly. Street lights shone on the wet cobblestones.

I went to a reading at the Dragon Hall. I hadn’t realized there would be so many people who loved poetry. A few poets took turns to stand in front of the audience. One of them left an impression on me. He read slowly, in a low voice. Though I couldn’t understand everything, the sound carried his meaning.

I sat in front of the desk again. I could see the red brick house and the yard through the blinds. One sentence, then another. Moving forward. I met many people in Norwich. Chance can feel like fate at times. I finished a book here. I want to change the atmosphere of my life now.