Chapter 46: Dawn Drumbeat
The morning light slips into my attic room, soft and golden, scattering dust motes like small stars across the floor. I wake with the first crow of the rooster, my body stiff from the wear of yesterday's hours, but my mind is lighter, less burdened than it has been in months. The village is already alive beneath me—the distant rustle of early morning chores, the faint sounds of water sloshing against the stone steps as the first locals prepare for the market. I close my eyes for one lingering moment, listening to the quiet hum of the world turning. It feels like a reset, an opportunity to begin again.
The blanket is heavy over my legs, warm from last night's cold, and I stretch, feeling the pull of my stiff muscles. The day will be long, the market will demand more energy than I have, but it is also a promise—a way forward. I rise, still unsure of this new life but oddly hopeful. Outside, the pale light of dawn slips through the gaps in the roof beams, touching my skin with the same tentative warmth I feel in my chest. A new day.
I find Madam Kang already in the kitchen, the smell of boiling rice filling the air. Her presence is solid, unyielding, like the worn stones of the village's foundation. She doesn't acknowledge my arrival, but I know better than to interrupt her ritual. Without a word, she gestures toward the sink, where a small basin of water and a brush are waiting for me. I dip the brush into the water and begin scrubbing the rice pots, the sound of the brush scraping against the ceramic filling the small room like the rhythmic pulse of a drum.
The morning light seeps in through the small window, casting everything in soft hues of gold and brown. The sounds of the café stirring—clinks of crockery, the low murmur of conversation—become a comforting backdrop as I settle into my task. Madam moves around me, never speaking, but always present. The rhythm of her movements—the way she flicks the rice with the back of her hand, the way she fills the jars with spices from the shelves—feels like an extension of the village itself, grounded in the quiet, steady work of survival. It's the kind of work that asks for nothing but time, yet gives back a quiet, reliable peace.
I finish scrubbing the pots and stand to stretch, my back stiff from the hours spent hunched over. The café is still and quiet, the air thick with the smells of food and wood, but there is a sense of calm now. Madam Kang's hands are quick and efficient as she arranges the market items—onions, radishes, bags of flour—stacking them on the wooden counter with precision. She doesn't look up as I approach but simply gestures for me to help with the packing.
I move to the counter, carefully wrapping each item in its appropriate cloth, feeling the weight of it all: the vegetables, the long hours ahead. My hands, still raw from the dish-pit, tingle with the sensation of new, strange work, but the discomfort feels manageable. Everything is manageable. I breathe slowly, trying to focus, trying to be present.
Min-ji appears in the doorway, rubbing sleep from her eyes and pulling a thick jacket around her shoulders. She looks more tired than usual, but there's a gruffness in her step as she grabs her basket from the counter, muttering about the chilly morning air. She notices me standing there, hands full of cabbage stalks, and raises an eyebrow.
"Well, well, look who's up early. Not afraid of the cold anymore, huh?" she teases, her voice rough from sleep.
I don't have the energy to respond, but her lighthearted jab makes me feel less like an outsider, even if just for a moment. The tension between us from the last few days seems to ease with that simple exchange.
We leave the café together, walking down the alley with the heavy urn of broth between us, the cold air nipping at our cheeks. The path to the market is quieter than usual, the streetlamps still casting their soft orange glow, but the sounds of the village are stirring: the crunch of boots on gravel, the distant hum of conversations as other vendors prepare for the day. The smell of pine and damp earth mixes with the faint scent of freshly baked bread from the bakery just down the road.
Min-ji's pace is faster than mine, her boots crunching the leaves as she moves ahead, but she slows when she notices that I'm trailing behind. "Keep up, Seoul unni," she calls over her shoulder, a half-smile tugging at her lips. "You're gonna miss the good spot at the stall."
I quicken my step, following her down the winding alley toward the market. As we walk, the pine trees give way to open fields, the stalls and vendor tables becoming clearer as the sun peeks higher above the horizon. There's an energy here, a rhythm that's different from the café but familiar in its own right. The smells—roasted meats, earthy vegetables, freshly made kimchi—fill the air, overwhelming in their intensity. It's the pulse of this town, and I'm starting to feel like I'm becoming a part of it.
The market is already bustling by the time we arrive, the square alive with the sounds of haggling, the rustle of fabrics, the clink of coins. The air is thick with the scent of fermenting kimchi, spices, and freshly baked bread. Min-ji moves through the crowd with ease, passing familiar faces, exchanging brief greetings with vendors who wave as we pass. I follow, my steps slower, as I try to take in the newness of it all.
The street is lined with vendors hawking everything from fresh cabbage to handmade pottery. There's a rhythm to it, a dance between customers and sellers, each interaction timed perfectly to the beat of the market. I feel like an outsider still, but the way Min-ji navigates the crowd, offering a smile and a wave here and there, makes me think that maybe, just maybe, I could learn to belong too.
Min-ji and I set up the stall with the urn of broth, arranging the wooden trays and folding the fabric. The sun has risen higher now, and the warmth of it seeps into my bones, easing some of the tightness from my shoulders. The market is alive in a way that makes everything else feel like a distant memory. The noise, the colors, the smells—they all mix together into a chorus of life.
Min-ji nudges me as a local vendor approaches, her hands full of small bags of rice. "Here, take these. We trade with her every week. Just say 'Gamsahamnida' and hand her the exchange rate." I nod, repeating the words under my breath, but the unfamiliarity of it all makes my palms sweat.
The woman hands me the bags with a warm smile, her hands calloused from years of work. Her eyes flicker over to Min-ji, who steps in to clarify the exchange rate, speaking quickly in the local dialect. I try to keep up, but my city-bred skills seem out of place here. Still, there's something strangely reassuring about the routine, about this shared effort. The rhythm of the market. The rhythm of life.
As the morning wears on, we take a brief break. Min-ji sets down her work for a moment, grabbing a cup of tea from a nearby vendor. "You did alright, Seoul unni. You're getting the hang of it," she says, taking a sip. I feel a warmth in her words, a glimmer of approval.
It's the first time she's truly acknowledged my efforts, and I feel it deeply. There's no sarcasm, no teasing—just recognition.
I take a deep breath, looking around the market. The sounds, the smells, the people—all of it is coming together. The tension that clung to me when I first arrived has started to loosen, replaced by something more solid, more grounded.
By the time the market begins to truly hum with activity, I'm no longer feeling out of place. The morning has transformed me, piece by piece, from an outsider into someone who belongs—someone who is part of this world, even if just for today. Min-ji teaches me a few more words in the local dialect, correcting my pronunciation as I stumble over the unfamiliar syllables. Each small victory feels like a triumph, and with each one, I feel a little more connected to this new life.
We work side by side, customers milling around us, buying and laughing, gossiping and trading. I watch as Min-ji works with ease, a seasoned veteran in this world of exchange, but today, for the first time, I'm no longer just a passive observer. I'm part of it.
The morning wears on, the sounds of the market becoming a familiar rhythm in my ears. And as the last customers trickle away, the sense of accomplishment settles over me like a blanket. I've made it through this first day in the market. And tomorrow, when I return, it will be just a little bit easier.
As the sun begins to dip lower, Min-ji and I share a brief, quiet moment, both of us leaning against the stall, watching the market fade into the evening. The sounds of the village, the market, all blend together, and for the first time, I feel like I might just have a place here.
The day has ended, but I'm ready for the next. Ready for whatever comes next.
Chapter 47: Potato Steam
The morning light spills into my small attic room, brushing against the wooden beams and casting long shadows across the rough floorboards. The sounds of the village are already waking: the low murmur of voices from down the street, the soft clink of metal against stone as someone prepares the morning's water, the creak of the gate being swung open. There's a slow, rhythmic pulse to this place—a steadiness that hums beneath the surface, calling me to it.
I rise slowly, stiff from yesterday's work, my muscles groaning in protest. The early morning air is crisp against my skin, sharp enough to rouse me completely as I stretch, pushing away the last of the foggy haze from sleep. There's a quiet satisfaction in this moment—simple, calm. It feels like a quiet reset.
The village is still only half awake, but already the air is filled with the earthy scent of pine, and a faint trace of smoke from someone's hearth. I wash up with cold water, the shock of it waking me fully, and then dress quickly, pulling on the same clothes from yesterday. They still smell faintly of grease and kimchi, but the fabric feels strangely comforting now, like a uniform I've earned.
The scent of rice cooking fills the café, warm and rich. Madam Kang is already there, moving with efficiency, the clink of her chopsticks against the pot a steady beat in the quiet morning. She doesn't look up when I enter, simply nods toward the sink where a brush and a basin of water wait for me. Her movements are deliberate, practiced. I know better than to interrupt her rhythm.
I take the brush in my hand and dip it into the water, scrubbing the rice pots with the same steady rhythm she has. Each swipe of the brush is methodical, like a meditation, the bristles moving in circles, the water churning beneath. It's a task that demands focus, but somehow, I find myself sinking into it. The kitchen is alive with the sounds of preparation: water splashing, rice boiling, the occasional hum of Madam's voice issuing a quiet command.
I breathe deeply, letting the work settle into me, let my hands move without thinking. Slowly, I start to feel like I'm becoming part of this place, as though the movements are slowly becoming my own.
The morning passes quickly. The sounds of the café begin to fade, replaced by the shuffle of vendors preparing for the market. The air is alive with a different energy—faster, sharper. Min-ji shows up a little later than usual, her ponytail still messy from sleep, her eyes still heavy with it. She doesn't seem to care much for the early mornings, but she's here, and she's ready. She grabs a bundle of vegetables and shoves them into my arms. "We're going to need these," she says, voice rough with sleep. She adds a gruff smile, and then immediately starts in on organizing the produce for the stall.
I watch her for a moment. There's something about the way she moves—confident, quick—but it's not the same kind of confidence I saw in Seoul. There's a steadiness to it here, a kind of quiet strength. She nods at me, her eyes narrowing slightly. "You ready for the market today, unni?" she teases. "Or are you just going to stand there like the last time?"
I smile at her, a small, quiet thing. "I'll keep up," I say, not quite sure where the confidence is coming from but feeling it grow in my chest nonetheless.
She smirks, clearly not convinced, but turns to help Madam Kang with the rest of the setup.
Min-ji steps aside for a moment, leaving me to tackle the potatoes. I grab the sack of them, my hands clumsy as I set it on the counter. The weight of it is surprisingly comforting, grounding me in the moment. Min-ji watches for a second before she steps in, her voice casual, "Don't rush it. The potatoes need to breathe first. Let the water sit for a bit."
She shows me how to squeeze the moisture from the potatoes, pressing them until they release their water. It's a strange motion, one I didn't expect, and at first, I fumble. But Min-ji's hands guide mine, her touch firm but not harsh. I watch her as she works, the way she knows instinctively what the vegetables need, the patience it takes.
"Patience," she says, like it's a mantra. "This is how you cook in Gangwon."
The first steam from the potatoes rises into the air, curling and twisting, smelling faintly earthy and warm. There's something incredibly satisfying about the smell, the act of preparing these simple ingredients. The work is steady, methodical, and somehow, it calms me.
By the time we're ready to set up the stall, the market is alive with energy. The sounds of vendors shouting their wares, the clinking of coins, the laughter of children—all of it rises into the air like the pulse of the village itself.
Madam Kang oversees the setup with quiet precision, her hands moving with practiced ease as she arranges the pots and displays. I help, my hands working alongside hers, trying to mimic the ease with which she arranges everything. Min-ji takes over a section of the stall, her hands quick as she adjusts the bowls, cleans the space.
I stand back for a moment, watching them work. It's clear that both of them know exactly what they're doing, but it's more than that. They're part of something larger, something grounded in this place. There's a rhythm to it, a quiet confidence that only comes from living through seasons, through years of preparing this food, this life.
And for the first time since I arrived here, I feel like I'm beginning to understand it.
The first customers arrive, and the energy shifts again. The bustling chatter of the crowd fills the air, and the sharp scent of sizzling food mixes with the earthy aroma of cabbage and garlic. I find myself moving faster now, answering questions, offering food to the customers with a quiet sense of pride.
Min-ji stands beside me, giving me pointers on how to interact with the locals, teaching me the correct phrases in the dialect, laughing when I stumble over the words. "You're getting better, unni," she says, her teasing tone softening as she notices my progress. "Next time, you won't even need me to help."
As the market begins to slow down, Min-ji and I take a brief moment to rest. She leans against the counter, sipping from a cup of warm tea. Her eyes are softer now, no longer teasing but acknowledging. "You did good today," she says, glancing at me over the rim of her cup. "I didn't think you'd last, but here you are."
I smile at her, the words settling into me like warmth on a cold day. "Thanks, Min-ji."
She shrugs, her grin a little less guarded. "Don't thank me yet. We still have a long day ahead."
As the market begins to wind down, I find myself standing a little taller, the pride of having survived the morning settling into my bones. Madam Kang nods at me, her approval quiet but unmistakable. Min-ji's teasing is gentler now, more like a partner than a rival. We've made it through the rush, together.
The market, once overwhelming and foreign, now feels like something I can conquer. The food, the rhythm, the people—it's becoming part of me, slowly, but surely.
As we pack up the stall, I glance at Min-ji, who's already taking charge of the cleanup. There's a quiet understanding between us now, a shared rhythm. And I realize that maybe, just maybe, this place—this life—is something I can learn to belong to.
The day ends, the sounds of the market fading as the village settles into its evening quiet. For the first time since I arrived, I feel like I've earned my place here, one step at a time. And tomorrow, when I return to the market, I'll be ready.
Ready for whatever comes next.
Chapter 48: Red Apron March
The kitchen smells of toasted barley and dawn. Steam beads on the low window while a single fluorescent tube hums overhead, turning the steel counters the colour of river fog. Madam Kang stands beside the range, knotting the ties of a scarlet apron around her sturdy waist. Her silhouette, half shadow and half firelight from the stove, feels carved from the very heart of Gangwon.
Without a word she lifts the iron-bellied broth urn from the burner. It is as wide as a cradle and nearly as heavy. A breath of soy-rich steam escapes the lid, fogging her glasses before curling into the rafters. She carries the urn across the tiles with practiced balance, sets it on a folded cloth, then turns to me.
"Your turn," she says.
The red apron she offers is soft from a thousand washings; it still carries yesterday's faint echo of garlic and sesame. My hands tremble as I slide the straps over my head. The apron's weight settles against my ribs like a pledge. Ha-eun stirs— a warm thread under my sternum— but stays silent, letting the moment belong to my own muscles.
Madam Kang's thick fingers cup the urn's braided handles and guide them into my palms. Heat thrums through the metal, a steady heartbeat that demands respect. She watches my stance—knees bent, back straight—then releases her grip. The weight sinks into my arms, shocking but bearable.
A ritual completed, she nods once. Approval, given sparingly, lands heavier than the urn.
We file out of the café: Madam Kang first, then me with the urn braced against my abdomen, and finally Min-ji wrestling the bamboo ladles into a battered cart. The alley is narrow enough that umbrellas scrape brick. Rainclouds linger, but the dawn breeze smells of wet earth and distance.
Each step jars my shoulders, but the furnace heat radiating through the urn anchors me. Steam leaks through the lid hinge, ghosting across my cheeks. Somewhere deep inside, a number ticks upward—heart-rate 104—yet pride threads through the count. Yesterday I was scrubbing pots; today I carry the heart of the stall.
Ahead, Madam Kang's shoes slap puddles in a steady cadence. Behind, Min-ji whistles off-key.
"You know," she calls, wheeling up beside me, "in Seoul you probably used an app when you wanted soup. Out here we just… walk it." She flicks the brim of my hood, laughing as the urn wobbles, then steadies it with a quick hand. Teasing, not sabotage.
"City arms are stronger than they look," I answer, surprised by my own grin.
The market road curves between stone walls spangled with moss. Chickens poke at gravel; a scooter zooms past trailing the smell of petrol and kimchi pancakes. My forearms burn. The apron's knot digs into my spine. Yet with every metre the rhythm grows familiar: inhale on the left foot, exhale on the right; shift the weight lower, into the hips.
Min-ji paces me, narration in full swing. "First rule: never spill. Second rule: smile at the old aunties even if they pay in coins and gossip." She tugs her cart over a pothole and raises a brow. "Think you can manage both?"
"I'll start with not spilling." My voice shakes, but the urn does not. Behind my ribs, Ha-eun offers a mute pulse of encouragement—silver warmth, then retreat. I don't need her to steady the handles; I can do this.
The main gate yawns open beneath a banner of sun-faded red cloth: O-il-jang — Five-Day Market. Inside, colour and sound explode. Vendors hammer tent poles; a butcher's cleaver rings like a temple gong; chili dust flares in the air, sharp enough to make eyes prickle.
I pause on the threshold, broth sloshing close to the lid. The weight that felt monumental in the alley now feels purposeful. People flow around me—old men hoisting sacks of rice, teenagers dragging crates of live eels—and I am one of them, a red apron in a river of red aprons.
Our corner of the market is a rectangle of canvas, still damp from last night's rain. I lower the urn onto its stand. Searing heat bleeds through the wooden supports, but everything holds. My arms tingle with sudden lightness; sweat drips from my temples, salty as the broth itself.
Madam Kang circles the stand, eyes taking in every angle. She says nothing—only straightens the stack of metal bowls and twists the urn's spigot a half-turn closed. The single nod she grants me is small, but it blooms like sunrise behind my ribs.
A grandmother in a floral visor hobbles up, coins gleaming in her fist. I glance at Min-ji; she jerks her chin toward the ladle. The broth inside the urn shimmers, chicken fat tracing gold constellations on its surface. My ladle dips, lifts, fills a bowl with gingery steam that fogs my glasses.
"Here you are, halmeoni," I say, careful with honorifics. The dialect syllables roll unevenly off my tongue, but the grandmother's eyes crinkle in thanks. Three coins ring against the tin tray. The transaction is mundane, miraculous.
Pride thrums louder than Ha-eun's quiet approval.
The lane crowd thickens until voices overlap in a living choir. Orders fly—three bowls! extra scallions!—and my muscles learn the dance: ladle, wipe rim, pass bowl, accept coins. Sweat dampens the red cotton across my collarbones. Min-ji elbows me whenever I lapse into formal Seoul speech, and I catch myself, switching to rounded vowels, softer endings. Each correction draws a grin from her and strips another layer of distance away.
Across the stall, Madam Kang watches. When a sudden rush empties the urn by half, she steps in to top it with fresh stock, but she leaves the serving to me.
For the first time since the Han River, my breath feels useful.
Steam still wreathes the urn, but the queue has thinned to a manageable trickle. Min-ji flops onto an up-turned crate, fanning herself with a paper receipt.
"Not bad, unni. You carried the dragon and didn't drop a scale." Her grin is lopsided, genuine.
I sip lukewarm barley tea and let the compliment settle. "Maybe tomorrow I'll even pronounce 'mandu' without sounding like the six o'clock news."
She laughs, tipping her head back so the morning sun paints her throat gold. "Tomorrow you'll be haggling in dialect like a local. Wait and see."
Madam Kang clears her throat, cutting through the banter. She wipes a thumb across a streak of broth on my apron, then meets my eyes. Soft pride gleams there—quick as lightning, gone just as fast. "Good work," she says, turning away before I can answer.
Heat rises in my cheeks harsher than the stove's flame. The broth urn gurgles beside me, no lighter than before, yet suddenly effortless.
The market bell rings, signalling the approach of the lunchtime surge. Vendors tighten their stalls; customers bunch at the gate like a rising tide. I roll my shoulders, fingers tightening around the ladle.
Tomorrow's lessons—dialect, haggling, deeper roots—wait just beyond that tide, but for now the red apron flutters against my knees like a banner. I square my stance, ready for the next wave.
Chapter 49: Dialect Tease
Steam coils from the broth urn, lazy and translucent now that the dawn rush has ebbed. The air beneath the canvas roof tastes of sesame oil and wet earth; somewhere nearby a hen lets out a cranky squawk, as if offended by breakfast traffic. I roll my shoulders, trying to unkink the muscles that hauled this metal cauldron through half the town, and realize I'm still standing pin-straight, elbows glued to my ribs like a boardroom intern.
Min-ji sidles up, slips a bowl onto the rack, and murmurs, "Ya, meotjin-da. Means nice job, city bean-sprout." She exaggerates the Gangwon drawl until the vowels droop like soft noodles.
"Meotjin… da," I echo, flattening my Seoul vowels before they betray me. The word feels warm on my tongue, the way barley tea warms my throat.
Min-ji grins. "Not bad—your accent's only half plastic now." She pivots off to restock chopsticks, ponytail swishing like a victory flag.
My cheeks heat, but it is a pleasant burn, like stepping closer to the stove on a cold night.
The lull holds, so Min-ji drags me into the maze between tarpaulin tents, her arm hooked through mine. Banners flap overhead—crimson, emerald, sun-bleached teal—stencilled with promises of seaweed, buckwheat, and miracle ginseng. We stop at a stall towered over by crocks of gaudy-red kimchi and jars of late-summer cucumbers fizzing in brine.
Halmeoni Cho—ruler of pickles, queen of gossip—plants her elbows on the table. Deep creases ladder her cheeks, each one etched by decades of wood-smoke and laughter. Her hawk eyes narrow on my pristine red apron.
"Eiii, Seoul kong-namul aniya?" she cries, voice raspy as coarse salt. Eh, isn't this a city bean-sprout?
Vendors within earshot chuckle; a passing fish-monger snorts outright. Min-ji bites her lip, shoulders shaking with suppressed amusement.
I search the elder's face, parsing only half the syllables. Panic pricks under my collarbone; a tremor skitters along my wrist.
City bean-sprout—she's teasing, not judging, Ha-eun whispers, a silver thread of reassurance. Smile back; return serve.
I inhale the pungent mix of chili, garlic, and fermented radish, then attempt a bow stiff enough to crack porcelain. "Halmeoni, jeoneun… geu… kong-namul imnida?" My formal Seoul particles clang against the rustic cadence like coins on a temple bell. Laughter splashes down the aisle, good-natured but loud. My ears burn.
I straighten, meet Halmeoni Cho's amused stare, and try again—this time mimicking her rhythm. "Halmeoni, kong-namul-i broth gattgo watseoyo." I tilt the sample cup Min-ji pressed into my hand. "Han sip, eotteyo?" One sip—how about it?
The elder's eyebrows leap as if freed from duty. She slurps, smacks her lips, then lets out a bark of delight. "Oho! Seoul water grew backbone!" She snatches a tooth-pick, spears a cube of icy cucumber kimchi, and flips it into my cup. "Trade accepted."
The cucumber snaps between my teeth—snow-cold, searing with red-pepper heat. Taste buds fire like struck matches. Salt, chili, the faint floral note of perilla seed: everything Gangwon in a single bite. My eyes water, but I keep chewing.
Halmeoni claps once, loud as a gavel. "Listen up, market! Bean-sprout takes heat just fine." The surrounding stalls answer with approving whoops.
On the walk back, Min-ji elbows me. "Sprout grows fast! Next you'll be cursing delivery boys in dialect."
"I'll settle for ordering lunch without subtitles," I pant, wiping kimchi brine from my wrist.
She clicks her tongue. "Rule one: cut your sentences short. Too many syllables scream Seoul."
I practise under my breath—swapping crisp polite endings for the lazy "-yeo" drawl—while she corrects me between giggles. Each successful mimicry feels like loosening a button on a too-tight suit.
A tourist couple—matching visors, camera dangling—drifts up to the counter. Madam Kang is busy tallying bowls, so I step in. "Eoseo-oseyo! Hot-yangnyeom broth du geo-yeo?" Two bowls, half-dialect, half-standard. The tourists blink, then nod. Coins clink into my palm. I ladle, wipe, and serve before the steam fogs their lenses.
Madam Kang glances over, one eyebrow arched. The corner of her mouth lifts—not quite a smile, but something just shy of it. Approval, wordless and weighty.
Behind us a bell clangs the half-hour; bus-loads of shoppers fan into the aisles, rippling the tarps. The market's heartbeat accelerates, but my pulse no longer skips to catch up.
I duck behind the stall to sip barley tea that has gone lukewarm. Halmeoni Cho appears as if conjured by steam, pressing a shrivelled ruby into my palm. "For strength, kong-namul."
A salted plum—puckered, fragrant, the size of a marble. I bow. "Gamsahamnida, halmeoni."
She taps the centre of my forehead with surprising gentleness. "Keep it in the apron. When throat trembles, bite."
She disappears into the crowd, leaving brine and sage smoke in her wake. I slide the plum into my apron pocket, the pit cool and smooth against my fingertips—an anchor carved from salt and kindness.
Min-ji peers around the stack of bowls. "You've been officially adopted, sprout."
I grin, tasting the word—sprout—as if it were broth on my tongue. In the distance a drumline begins to warm up, muffled thumps rising like thunder beyond the tents. The real surge is coming: dancers, tourists, lunch crowds, noise thick enough to shake the banners.
I tie my apron tighter and step to the front counter, ladle poised. "Let's see if a bean-sprout can swim," I say.
Min-ji flips a ladle of her own and bumps the rim against mine. "Then let's flood the field."
The drumbeats swell—booming invitations to the full Five-Day Market—and steam unfurls from the urn like a battle flag. I square my stance, salted plum warm in my pocket, and greet the rising tide.
Chapter 50: The Five-Day Market
The sky above the corrugated roof is the colour of ash when Madam Kang lifts the industrial urn and grunts for me to grab the other handle. Steam snakes from the vent, wrapping her stern silhouette in a ghostly shawl. My blistered palms protest, but I lock my fingers and heave. Min-ji scurries alongside with two boxes of rice-cake slices pressed to her chest, their sesame scent drifting like a promise down the alley.
Janggu drums rumble somewhere beyond the hill, testing their skins with lazy heartbeat thumps. Each echo travels through the damp air and settles in my ribs. A month ago those drums might
Our hand-cart creaks up the lane, iron wheels wobbling in ruts. Cabbage fields on either side sleep under a silver mist, dew beading on waxy leaves like scattered pearls. Min-ji hums a trot melody, matching her steps to my own, and the cart becomes an unlikely parade float: three red aprons, a vat of soul-warming soup, and a city bean-sprout trying to grow roots before daylight.
As the market square emerges, the air thickens with competing aromas—grilled mackerel, pine-smoke, and the raw metallic tang of freshly butchered goat. Chili dust already rides the breeze, stinging my nostrils until I sneeze. Min-ji cackles. "First burn of the day, sprout. Baptism by capsaicin."
We claim the corner plot between Halmeoni Cho's pickle empire and a tofu vendor who whistles like a teakettle. Tarps unfold in crackling sheets of indigo; metal stakes ping into the gravel. Min-ji chalks Mountain Valley Café — Soul-Warming Soup across a slate board, adding her trademark doodle of a smiling onion. I loop a length of rope through the urn handles and lash them to the cart's frame—one improvised anchor against the jostling crowd.
Madam Kang pauses, arching a brow at the knot. "Useful," she says, the single word heavy as a medal. My cheeks warm beneath the steam.
A janggu troupe bursts through the east gate, lacquered drums flashing scarlet under lantern glow. Toddlers shriek after helium-tiger balloons that bob like tame spirits. A mill grinds dry chilies nearby, coughing vermilion powder that floats above the stalls in shimmering clouds. Goat bleats answer the drums, raspy and offended.
The colours, the noise, the motion—everything converges until the edges of my vision blur. Light, dark, breathe, release, Ha-eun whispers, rhythmic and low. I close my eyes for a single heartbeat, taste the pepper on the back of my tongue, and find my balance again. When I open them, the market is no longer a threat; it is a tide and I am buoyant.
Customers stack three-deep within minutes. Bowls rattle. Min-ji becomes a whirl of ladle and laughter, while I shuttle coins and refill banchan trays, the Seoul accents of habit melting into clipped market slang. A glove splits; kimchi brine sears a reopened blister. I hiss, tape it, keep counting.
"Two bowls, da-yeo!" I call, using the dialect ending we practised yesterday. The elder couple nods, pleased. Sweat slips down the back of my neck, meeting the chill morning air in a shiver that feels, improbably, like joy.
I tilt the urn and see the gleam of the steel bottom—only a fist-deep pool of broth remains. Madam has vanished to haggle for radishes; the queue still curls past the tarp like a dragon's tail.
Panic punches once, hard. Then the Seoul strategist in me snaps awake.
"Tofu man!" I shout above the drums. The whistling vendor startles.
"Trade?" I pant, waving a stack of unused kimchi-coupon slips. "Boiling water and three spoonfuls of your soybean paste for ten coupons."
He laughs, delighted by the gamble, and nods. Within a minute a stockpot of rolling water is in my grip. I whisk in the soybean paste, skim foam, taste—the broth deepens into something nutty and new. Steam billows, cloaking my face; my eyes sting, but the flavour sings.
Min-ji dips her ladle, blinks. "Sprout, that's sorcery." We return to service before the line even notices there was a cliff-edge.
Halmeoni Cho waddles over, wooden cane tapping the gravel in time with the drums. She samples a spoonful of the revitalised soup, lips pursed.
A beat. Then her laugh cracks the air. "Sprout can cook!" she declares, voice amplified by pure mischief. Applause ripples through the customers; even strangers join in. She hangs a tiny string of dried red chilies from the tarp pole above my head. "For fire and fortune," she says, eyes twinkling.
The talisman brushes my hair like a benediction; chili scent mingles with the steam, and the knot in my chest loosens another inch.
The pot's bottom finally shows itself again, but the crowd thins, drifting toward the livestock pens and fortune-telling tent. Madam returns, checks the cash tin. ₩118 000. She counts twice, lips an unreadable line, then nods approval.
"One bowl is what a Seoul taxi cost me after midnight," I murmur, wiping sweat from my brow. "Today it tastes like three pay-cheques."
Min-ji thrusts a tin cup of barley tea into my hand. We clink rims and drink; the liquid carries a sweet-nutty hush that cools the pepper scorch on my tongue.
A youth percussion troupe sweeps past, janggu strapped to slim torsos, sticks flashing. They pound a racing rhythm that pulls applause out of every palm in the square. I find myself clapping too, matching the cadence, feeling the vibrations travel from my hands through my spine into the ground.
Ha-eun smiles somewhere deep and then…quiet. For the first time since the bridge, her presence fades entirely, leaving me alone in the centre of my own heartbeat. Instead of fear, exhilaration blooms—raw, uncut.
I throw my head back and let the sun pierce the tarp gap, dust motes spinning gold above the empty bowls.
We douse the burner, fold tarps, and pack the cart. My arms tremble from exertion, but each ache feels earned. Madam Kang slips two tight, glossy cabbages into my backpack without a word. Payment in kind, roots and leaves still damp with morning soil.
When we push the cart away, the market sounds fade into a pleasant hum behind us—drums echoing like distant thunder, goat bleats melting into traffic. Chili warmth still tingles on my lips; the talisman string taps my shoulder with every step.
At the corner where the alley meets the square, a vendor flips thin pancakes on a griddle, butter hissing. The aroma of caramelised sugar drifts toward us, sweet and inviting.
Min-ji nudges me. "Hotteok break?" Her grin is sugar-coated already.
My stomach answers with an ungainly roar. Madam pretends not to hear, but her eyes soften. "One each. Quick. Then back to the café."
We veer toward the stand, laughter bubbling, and the scent of cinnamon puffs into the air, rich as a festival trumpet. My blistered hands are shaking again—but this time it is only anticipation of something sweet enjoyed in honest company.
As the vendor presses dough onto the sizzling iron, I realise the market's rhythm still thrums inside me—janggu beats, vendor calls, my own pulse—all syncing in a cadence that feels, at last, like belonging.
Chapter 51: Sweet Pancake Smile
The janggu thunder has barely faded when Madam Kang presses a thick wad of coins into the café's cash tin and snaps the lid shut.
"Ten-minute reward," she announces, wiping chili dust from her brows. "Don't be late for the afternoon wave."
Relief ripples through my overworked shoulders. My apron is flecked crimson, my palms throb where the ladle handle dug grooves into soft skin, and the chili talisman Halmeoni Cho tied to my strap now looks like a victory ribbon. Min-ji loops her arm through mine before I can protest.
"Hotteok," she declares. "Mandatory sugar infusion for victorious bean-sprouts."
We cut behind a row of tarps where the market's spine curves into a quieter lane. A lone vendor in a flowered visor works an iron griddle the size of a gong. Each time she flattens a disc of dough, molten brown sugar hisses up in caramel pops, scenting the morning with cinnamon and roasted sesame. Min-ji orders two, slipping the last of her pocket coins across the counter.
The vendor's spatula flicks, and batter meets oil with a sigh. Golden rims bloom, crisping into lattices the colour of late-autumn ginkgo leaves. My stomach responds with an audible growl; seven hours have passed on broth steam alone. Min-ji elbows me, delighted.
We retreat to a plastic bench beneath an overhanging ginkgo branch, its fan-shaped leaves trembling in a soft breeze. Sugar-steam curls around us, warming the cool air that slips off distant rice terraces. I cradle the paper sleeve in blistered fingers—heat leaks through, searing pleasantly.
First bite.
The shell shatters with a delicate crunch; inside, cinnamon lava floods my tongue, sweet and dangerous. Crushed peanuts follow, adding a shy graininess. The flavour detonates a memory I did not invite:
—Winter lights at Namdaemun gate, age eight; Appa's gloved hand guiding me through a maze of bundled shoppers; my first hotteok glowing amber in frost-spangled air. He called it "pocket sunshine," broke the pancake open like a magician producing a miniature dawn, and told me I could keep the warmth in my coat all day if I believed hard enough.—
The present stalls. Colours mute to washed watercolour. The second bite never reaches my mouth; it wobbles on syrup threads while my eyes blur. A tear slips free, hot as the syrup, and lands on my wrist, stinging the fresh tape over a reopened blister.
"Hey, city bean-sprout." Min-ji's tone is feather-light, but her arm curves around my shoulders in quiet shelter. "Even Seoul stock traders melt for street sugar?" She offers a napkin with her free hand, as if handing over an amnesty.
I choke out a laugh that collapses into a little sob. "It tastes like… before everything." Words scatter, but Min-ji doesn't rush me; she watches the market with deliberate casualness, shielding me from curious eyes that might mistake tears for weakness instead of wonder.
I manage a shaky breath. "My dad used to call hotteok 'pocket sunshine.' We'd stand near the old city wall and pretend each bite stored heat for the long walk home." The sentence cracks in the centre. I swallow, chasing it with syrup that now coats my tongue like memory-honey.
Inside, Ha-eun's voice arrives, softer than melting snow. Taste is proof you stayed alive, little crane.
For once, her words don't feel like guidance; they feel like a simple fact, a hand laid over a steady heartbeat. I nod, tears drying in the sudden warmth blooming behind my breastbone.
Min-ji nudges my elbow. "Then eat your sunshine before it cools. We've cabbages to conquer."
We polish off the pancakes in companionable silence. Sticky syrup webs across my lower lip; Min-ji licks sugar from her glove and grins, freckles bright beneath the smear of chili powder. I tuck the waxy paper sleeve into my apron pocket—souvenir, evidence that sweet things exist outside algorithms and corporate bonuses.
Oil sizzling from a neighbouring tteok-bokki cart drifts across the lane, mingling garlic heat with lingering cinnamon. My hands ache when I flex them, but the pain is a clean, earned kind. The vendor's spatula clangs; somewhere deeper in the plaza, drums begin a new practice roll, signalling the afternoon swell.
Madam Kang's silhouette appears at the lane mouth, arms crossed but lips curved in a faint half-moon. "Break time over," she calls. "Customers already sniffing for soup."
We fall into step beside her, pushing the hand-cart back toward the stall. Coins jingle in Min-ji's pocket, a bright counter-rhythm to the distant janggu. The chili talisman taps against my apron with each stride—scarlet sparks against the gold morning—and for the first time I believe its promise of fire and fortune.
As the plaza widens before us—coloured tarps billowing like sails ready for another voyage—I swipe the final smear of syrup from my thumb and breathe in the mingled scents of caramel, chili, and possibility. The next rush is forming; the drums lift their tempo; my hands rise to tie a fresh knot in the apron strings.
Pocket sunshine, I think, stepping back into the river of market noise. Enough to last until evening.
Chapter 51: Sweet Pancake Smile
Janggu echoes are still quivering in the air when Madam Kang snaps her metal cash-box shut. The lid rings like a tiny gong, announcing victory.
"Ten-minute treat break," she declares, counting the final stack of notes with a brisk twist of her thumb. "Be back before the kettle screams."
Relief floods my aching arms. Chili powder freckles my apron and the raw ladders on my palms throb in time with my pulse, yet adrenaline still buzzes behind my ears. Before I speak, Min-ji hooks an elbow through mine and steers me between tarpaulin walls. The red chili talisman Halmeoni Cho gifted earlier swings against my chest—every sway a reminder that I belong, at least for this morning.
A single food cart squats at the alley mouth, haloed by a plume of caramel-sweet steam. The vendor—hair tucked beneath a faded visor—slaps disks of dough onto an oiled griddle. Each thud releases a hiss, and brown sugar crystals erupt in tiny volcanic pops. The scent—cinnamon, toasted sesame, something almost smoky—wraps around my ribs warmer than the spring sun.
"Two, please!" Min-ji pipes, coins jangling as she pays. The vendor presses the cakes flat with a dented spatula, edges browning to the exact shade of maple leaves after first frost. She slides them into waxed paper sleeves and passes them over. Heat radiates through the flimsy barrier; I juggle my portion from palm to palm, giggling at the burn like a child daring frostbite.
We claim a plastic bench under a ginkgo tree whose newborn leaves glow chartreuse against cloudless sky. The market's roar has dipped to a friendly murmur—goat bleat here, price-chant there—yet this little pocket feels private.
I bite.
The shell shatters, releasing molten syrup that scalds my lip before flooding my tongue with liquid amber—cinnamon, roasted peanut grit, and childhood.
Winter, age six: Namdaemun's neon arches shimmer above a sea of padded coats. My father lifts me onto his shoulders, snowflakes melting on his already thinning hair. A hotteok vendor splits a fresh cake, its interior glowing like sunrise.
Pocket sunshine, Appa murmurs, tucking the treat into my mittened hands. Keep it close, and you'll stay warm on the walk home.
The memory detonates behind my eyes. Sugar melts into salt as tears well without warning, spilling hot down wind-chapped cheeks.
"Yah, city bean-sprout—can't handle a little street sugar?" Min-ji teases, though her voice softens at the sight of my trembling fingers. She flips a napkin from her pocket and presses it into my hand, then angles her body to block any curious stares.
I laugh—more hiccup than mirth. "It's perfect. Just… old." Words blur as another tear slides free, stinging the small cut on my knuckle where hot broth splashed earlier.
Min-ji nudges me with a syrup-sticky elbow. "Market rule: if it makes you cry, you owe it another bite."
I obey. Molten filling sears the roof of my mouth, but the sweetness anchors me in the present rather than drowning me in the past.
"Dad called hotteok 'pocket sunshine,'" I manage between breaths. "He said if I tucked it inside my coat, I could carry the heat all day." The sentence wobbles; my voice cracks on the final vowel.
Inside my rib cage, Ha-eun's presence stirs—gentle as a fingertip smoothing parchment. Taste is proof you stayed alive, little crane. The whisper amplifies the warmth already blooming through my chest, and the trembling eases without her taking the reins. Self-steadying: a first.
Min-ji pretends to inspect the ginkgo limb overhead, giving me space while still anchoring me with the occasional bump of her shoulder. "Pocket sunshine," she repeats, tasting the phrase like fresh dough. "I approve."
We finish the pancakes in companionable silence. Syrup threads have cooled into amber ribbons across my glove; Min-ji grins and licks a bead from her thumb, eyes sparkling. I fold my empty wax sleeve, the paper translucent with butter, and slip it into my apron pocket—an accidental keepsake, crisp as a promise.
The lane widens, steering us toward the café's stall. Drums pick up a practice rhythm in the distance, and vendors spark gas burners for the lunch wave. My blistered hands ache where I clutch the hand-cart handle, yet the pain feels… rightful. Earned. The chili talisman flicks the apron as I walk, a scarlet metronome marking a new tempo.
Ahead, Madam Kang stands with arms crossed, feigning impatience though her lips curve at the edges. "Break's over," she calls, but there is pride laced through the brusque. "Soups don't ladle themselves."
Min-ji salutes with sticky fingers. I mirror her, and for the first time the gesture feels natural, unforced—like breathing.
As we slip back into the current of colour and sound, I press a palm over my still-warm stomach. Pocket sunshine endures longer than any Seoul bonus ever did. And when the drums thunder us toward the afternoon surge, I find myself stepping forward without dread, ready—almost eager—to stir another cauldron beneath this bright slice of sky.
Chapter 52: Kimchi-Jar Sale
Fourteen onggi squat on the trestle like stout soldiers waiting for orders. Their bellies bulge with crimson kimchi, lids tied shut with hemp string and a hope for quick turnover. Madam Kang runs one more column of numbers on her thumb-worn abacus, then fixes us with a test-range stare.
"Lunch rush in eight minutes," she says. "Skewers, Min-ji. Hawking, Seo-yeon. Price stays at nine thousand—unless the buyer looks like a blessing in disguise." The smallest curve appears at the corner of her mouth: permission and challenge in equal parts.
Min-ji snaps a bamboo clacker open. "Aye, Captain!" Coins rattle in her apron like congratulatory rain as she spins toward the portable grill. Spam slices slap the grate, sputtering pork-sweet perfume that chases lazy gulls from the awning.
Me? I square my shoulders, flex taped fingers, and count jars once more—14. Inventory steadies my pulse the way daily P&L sheets once did. Except these profits smell of garlic and mountain-salt, not artificial pine and fluorescent anxiety.
The first prospect appears: a middle-aged man in breathable hiking gear, bucket hat tilted back so sweat can escape. He lifts a jar as if testing free weights.
"Nine thousand? Too steep," he sniffs, eyes sliding to a cheaper competitor three stalls down.
My throat pinches. Corporate confidence tries to surface, finds no blazer to anchor it, and sinks again. Fingers flutter the three-tap consent against my apron—help. A single warm ripple rises from my sternum, Ha-eun's silent nod. I inhale to a four-count.
I unfasten a lid with a practiced flick, dip a tasting spoon, and offer the glistening strand of napa. "Fermented one hundred days in mountain-spring salt," I say, voice steadier than my heart. "Taste once—decide after."
He hesitates, then samples. His eyebrows lift, a quiet epiphany. "All right. One jar." He counts notes into my hand.
Thirteen.
Mini triumph fizzes through my veins, bright as the chili flecks winking on my gloves.
A trio of university hikers drifts close, lured by Min-ji's sizzling skewers. She points her clacker at me like a conductor's baton. Showtime.
"Try the café's signature kimchi-roll," she announces, spinning a slice of spam onto a lettuce leaf, dabbing it with kimchi that pops vermilion under midday sun. I roll, slice, and serve in one smooth motion—an urban plating trick disguised as street food. Flash bulbs—no, phone cameras—blink, and the hikers giggle between bites, faces flushing from chili heat and novelty.
They buy five jars for a group discount and pose with Min-ji for a selfie. She winks, tilting the label toward the lens. Somewhere tonight our work will float on an algorithmic tide, a breadcrumb leading Seoul eyes to this mountain town.
Eight.
Madam wipes sweat off her brow, pockets a fresh wad of cash, and jerks her chin toward the cabbage dealers' trucks. "Guard the price. Don't drop below nine," she warns before vanishing into the crowd.
Autonomy test—passed only if we sell out without bleeding margin. My palms sting; I smack the leftover brine off with a rag and align jars in neat descending rows: eight… seven… six… The clacker echoes my heartbeat while Min-ji chants improvised slogans over the grill.
Two jars remain when a halmeoni with a bamboo cane approaches, lips pursed in suspicion. "City girls overcharge," she declares, poking a lid as though seeking air bubbles of deceit.
Min-ji opens her mouth—probably to duel sarcasm with sharper sarcasm—but I touch her sleeve. Lid off, spoon in. The elder's eyes narrow as the taste blooms on her tongue.
"Mm. Good bite," she admits. "But eight thousand is fair."
"Nine," I answer, matching her gaze, "with a gift." I unpin the jade-green ribbon of my chili talisman and loop it around the jar's neck. "Keeps the bad spirits from souring the batch." It's half joke, half truth; the crowd loves both.
Her laugh crackles like frying batter. "Fine, child. I'll take them. And keep your ribbon—looks lucky on you." She pays full price, then slips a waxy packet of sweet rice-cakes into my hand before hobbling away.
Zero.
The table stands naked save for a lonely sample dish flecked with scarlet. Market din swells, yet in our stall a hush of disbelief settles.
"We did it," Min-ji breathes.
I raise a hand. She slaps it with a sizzling-spam palm; grease prints on my wrist, badge of honour. Coins clink as she jiggles her apron. "Record morning."
My own numbers whirl: fourteen jars at ₩9 000 equals ₩126 000. Add the spam skewers, subtract ingredient cost—still our margins sparkle brighter than Seoul glass.
Madam returns at noon sharp. Her gaze sweeps the cleared table, the neatly stacked empty crates, and the greasy grin plastered across Min-ji's face. One eyebrow hikes—question or commendation, hard to say. She places a folded scrap of paper into my palm instead of words. Bonus tallied later. Inked in brisk Hangul strokes.
The paper's weightless, yet my heart thuds as if I've been handed a gold bar.
Sun climbs. Canvas awnings bleed pale shadows onto dirt, and the straw-sweet smell of hay wafts from a neighbouring goat pen. We load empty jars into burlap-lined crates, clay cool against blistered fingers. When I set the last crate on the hand-truck, a smear of gochugaru flames across my forearm. The chili salt kisses the healing split on my knuckle—pain sharp, cleansing.
I drag my thumb through the red smear and study the grainy paste. Messy, honest, vital—nothing like the antiseptic spreadsheets of my past life. I rub the chili between finger and thumb; colour stains the skin a brave orange.
Hands learn through honest fire, Ha-eun whispers, her voice a breeze that skips across cooling coals. I close my fist, feeling the sting and the pulse beneath, proof of work done and blood still pumping.
Min-ji swings the bamboo clacker onto her shoulder like a victorious banner. "Rooftop soda after takedown?" she asks.
I tuck the bonus scrap next to the hotteok wrapper in my pocket—two trophies of two very different victories. "Only if the sky paints us a good sunset."
"Deal," she laughs, wheeling the cart toward the café van. I follow, shoulders loose despite the weight of crates, feet sliding into the rhythm of straw dust and afternoon possibility.
Above the corrugated roofs, a slice of blue beckons—clear, wide, and waiting for dusk colours. The market's heartbeat shifts into its slower afternoon measure, and we move with it, empty-handed but full-bellied with a pride that tastes faintly of garlic and the promise of something earned.
Chapter 53: Rooftop Sunset
Steam rises from the tin mug in my hands, smelling of roasted barley and faint caramel. Min-ji leans against the brick wall, cheeks smudged with gochugaru, pride gleaming brighter than the coins she pours into my palm. I count them—₩6 120, mostly hundreds, edges warm from her apron pocket.
"Market M-V-P," she sings, bumping my shoulder. "I'd engrave a trophy, but the crate upstairs is all I've got."
"I'll cherish the crate." My voice cracks with exhaustion and joy in equal measure.
Madam's broad silhouette passes the alley mouth, already scolding someone about late cabbage delivery, yet I catch the ghost of a smile when she glances our way. For once, I do not flinch beneath an employer's scrutiny; the day's success fits around my shoulders like a well-worn cardigan.
The metal staircase groans as I haul our last empty kimchi crate upward. Each step judders under the combined weight of fatigue and satisfaction, but the foot that once bled now bends without protest. Sunset stripes the peeling rail in molten orange, turning rust to brief fire.
At the top landing I pause, lungs tasting soy smoke drifting from street vendors below. Numbers loop in my head—14 jars, ₩126 000, one bonus slip—all positive, all real. The arithmetic of survival.
Gangwon's sky has started its nightly water-colour routine: apricot near the horizon, lavender blooming higher, indigo waiting in the wings. I flip the crate, drop onto it, and let tired muscles sigh. Between warped roof tiles, summer heat still lingers, warming my calves through thin jeans.
A one-eyed stray cat materialises from behind the air-conditioning unit, tail crooked like a question mark. Grey fur, torn ear, survivor's stare. I break the last corner of my cold hotteok—rescued from lunch pocket—and place it on the ledge. The cat sniffs, edges closer, accepts. A tentative crunch. I smile so wide my sun-burned lips sting.
Cicadas rasp in the ginkgo that leans over the karaoke sign. Down on the street someone tests a karaoke mic—an airy echo of trot melody drifts up, carried by evening breeze mixed with diesel and distant sea salt.
Not many eyes here—speak what trembles.
Ha-eun's voice returns like a soft shawl around my ribs. It has been hours since she last surfaced; she left me to my own victories.
"I'm scared," I admit to the sky. "Today was… good. Good days used to vanish." My fingers worry the chili-red talisman ribbon now knotted around my wrist.
Stone remembers both rain and sun; neither stays, she answers, tone a mountain spring over slate.
The proverb settles into me, weighty and kind. I inhale roasted-barley steam, exhale the tightness behind my sternum. For the first time I allow the word belonging to hover without swatting it away.
"Sugar for the champion!" Min-ji's shout ricochets off the café wall. A small pouch of grape jellies arcs through violet air. I stand, catch it two-handed, nearly overbalance. Laughter tumbles from both of us, rolling across tin roofs until the cat blinks in mild annoyance.
"Don't eat them all," she calls, shouldering another crate. "Save me at least one before the mosquitoes claim the place." She disappears downstairs, voice fading into kitchen clatter.
I tear the pouch, pop a jelly—sweet, artificial, glorious—then drop three onto the roof tiles near the cat. It eyes them philosophically before choosing one.
A scooter coughs to a halt in the street below. Park Yujin, ponytail escaping her pharmacist scrunchie, looks up and squints. "Sky-gazing again, Seoul eonni?" she calls. Without waiting for an answer she under-arm tosses a foil-wrapped saline popsicle. It lands with a muted thud beside my foot.
"Hand hygiene, okay? Those blisters are breeding grounds." She taps an imaginary watch. "Prescribing sunset view three times daily—refills unlimited." A grin, kick-start, and she buzzes away toward the clinic.
I peel the foil. Salty ice water trickles over my fingers, into healing splits, stings for a heartbeat, then cools. I think of hospital drips and corporate cocktail ice; neither tasted like this.
Dusk settles deeper. Market tents below collapse into tidy bundles; motorbikes drone toward home. Alone again, I pull the miniature notebook Min-ji pressed into my hand after our first dish-pit shift—its cover stamped with cartoon cranes.
Page one. Date: Friday, O-il-jang, rooftop. Title: Gratitude Ledger—my old finance brain insists on headings. I list:
Warm barley tea and someone who brewed it just for me.
One-eyed cat that trusted my offering.
Voices that correct, never condemn.
Pen scratches feel thunderous in evening hush. When I pause, the page smells faintly of chili and scorched sugar—today's perfume.
The sky dims to ink. First star—maybe planet—flares above the ridgeline, trembling like a fledgling. Down the alley, karaoke speakers test a beat, and a chorus of drunk uncles butchers an '80s ballad. I laugh, quietly, with them, not at them.
I think I want tomorrow, I whisper.
Then rest; I'll watch the dark, Ha-eun replies, her presence folding around me like the gentlest wing.
I lay the notebook on the crate, lean back on open palms, and close my eyes. Night air smells of soy smoke, pine resin, and the tantalising possibility of permanence. Below, the town breathes in steady rhythm—one I am beginning to recognise as my own.
Somewhere beyond the ridge, tourist minibuses will already be lining up for tomorrow's weekend rush, but that is another ledger, another dawn. For now, cicadas hush, the one-eyed cat curls against my sneaker, and the first true peace in years settles into my bones like cooling tea.
I breathe once more—slow, deliberate—then let the dark arrive, certain that when morning reels back the light I will still be here, ready to meet it.