The city's sleepless shelter: Voices from 6411

The quiet hum of the convenience store at night is a sanctuary for Hwang Yoon-a, a clerk who cherishes the solitude after her three children are asleep. "I love the night," she writes, finding peace in the sounds of crickets and rustling leaves.

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I love the night.

Her store, a rare 24-hour establishment in a residential area, becomes a refuge for a diverse clientele. There's the regular gentleman who stops by for dinner after a long day, the tipsy woman buying beer, foreign workers from a nearby industrial complex, and an elderly woman seeking help with her phone. Hwang notes that convenience stores, accessible to all, become unique places for human interaction.

One cold night, an elderly man sat in the store long after closing. Hwang, after much hesitation, asked him to leave. He explained he had nowhere to go, prompting her to call the police for assistance. He was taken to a police station.

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I had to call 112 because I had no choice.

About a month later, the same man returned, disoriented and asking why a nearby Chinese restaurant was closed. Hwang realized he had developed dementia. She offered him kimbap and fish cake soup, then called the police again. Officers determined he lived alone and likely came out seeking food. Hwang felt pity, realizing how easily isolated individuals with dementia can fall through the cracks without proper care. She wonders if he would have faced a worse fate if the store hadn't been open that night.

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Convenience stores seem to play a role beyond just selling goods now.

Hwang concludes that convenience stores now serve a purpose beyond commerce. Some act as child protection centers, while others, like hers, become urban shelters. When asked if she feels safe working alone at night, she replies that the scariest things aren't people, but the endless swarms of moths that crawl into the brightly lit store on summer nights.

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The scariest thing isn't people.