4:30

Beijing provides the quiet, uneasy backdrop as Xiao Wu waits for his mother to return to Singapore from an overseas trip, only to find himself sharing the house with a Korean man named Jung. The exact nature of the relationship between Xiao Wu’s mother and Jung isn’t spelled out, but she has left Jung as the lone tenant in the home while she travels, occasionally checking in by phone to ask if Xiao Wu is eating well and still has enough pocket money. The arrangement feels provisional, almost provisional in a way that makes the boy’s loneliness sting a bit more sharply.

Jung is introduced as distant, withdrawn, and visibly burdened by something he doesn’t share with those around him. He speaks little to Xiao Wu, and the emotional gap between them grows into a kind of quiet, suffocating tension. At times his pain erupts in perilous acts—suicidal thoughts surface as he attempts to end his life, first by hanging in the kitchen and later by drowning in a bathtub. The film never explains the source of his torment, but it’s suggested that a woman’s absence or memory weighs heavily on him, a shadow that Xiao Wu seems to sense even before he fully understands it.

Xiao Wu is a lonely, friendless boy who flounders at school and finds it hard to fit in with teachers and peers. He craves Jung’s attention with a kind of quiet desperation, and he clings to small, repetitive rituals to feel less invisible. He develops a set of quirky, almost obsessive habits as he tries to bridge the gap between them: he frequents clinics after school to obtain cough syrup bottles, he plays with the house’s furniture, and most notably, he quietly slips into Jung’s room in the early hours of the morning—often at 4:30 am—to take a single item from him each night. He catalogs these stolen items in a notebook—to Wirtten pages that map a private, intimate portrait of Jung. Through this ritual, the boy constructs a fragile sense of closeness, even as the act reveals how deeply he longs to know Jung.

Xiao Wu’s longing spills into small, tender gestures. He sits beside Jung on the stairs as Jung smokes and cries, and in a moment charged with unspoken emotion, Jung looks at him and says something in Korean while gestures toward Xiao Wu’s head and heart. The moment moves Xiao Wu to tears, and he leans on Jung’s arm, seeking a form of reassurance he cannot name. The next day, Jung has prepared Korean instant noodles for him, leaving a handwritten note in Korean that Xiao Wu carefully preserves in his growing book. Xiao Wu also severs a piece of his clothing that bears Jung’s tears from the night before and keeps it as a keepsake. In a bid to please Jung, he makes orange juice and buys ice cream—the flavors Jung once bought from a street vendor—and leaves them outside Jung’s room, waiting for him to come home.

The relationship shifts and mutates as time passes. After falling asleep in his own room, Xiao Wu wakes to find the house tidy, the bed made, and Jung’s personal space cleared—an implication that Jung has left for reasons known only to him. Xiao Wu is left to wander the house, clutching the notebook that contains Jung’s memorabilia, and he spends nights by the clock, manually nudging its hands back to 4:30 am in a ritual of waiting. The clock, once a symbol of time passing aimlessly, becomes a map of longing that Xiao Wu cannot turn away from. He sits under the house clock, embracing the book and the memory of Jung, trying to will him back into the present with each turn of a page.

As days melt into weeks, Xiao Wu’s world contracts around this fragile attachment. He imagines Jung’s return in small, almost childlike fantasies: a flashlight’s beam crossing the window as if Jung is reaching out to him, a breath of warmth that never fully arrives. The film’s mood settles into a haunting stillness, where hope and absence blur into one continuous ache. Xiao Wu’s attempts to connect feel sincere even when they border on desperation, and the film refuses to provide easy answers about Jung’s absence or about what might have happened to drive him toward despair.

In the end, the story lingers in ambiguity. Xiao Wu is seen closing some of the windows and even painting a coat of black over them, a small, final act that hints at a decision to confront the emptiness and to keep living within the half-lit spaces of the house. The closing credits roll over a quiet, unsettled atmosphere, leaving viewers with questions about whether Jung will ever return, whether Xiao Wu will find another way to connect, and what the future holds for a boy who has learned to measure time by the moments he spends waiting for someone who may never come back. The film remains faithful to its delicate, unsettled tone, offering a portrait of loneliness, longing, and the fragile threads that tether people to one another.

Last Updated: October 09, 2025 at 16:46