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# Chapter 7: An Invitation by the River
Eun-seo walked along the riverbank path, feeling the spring sun fill the afternoon sky. Seoul’s tension still clung to her somehow. The river wind was relentless. Her cardigan fluttered in the gusts. Grandmother had been right about that. Here, it seemed Grandmother was always right. Eun-seo observed her surroundings carefully, catching the scent of old pines and willows, of reeds swaying in the river breeze. The earthen path along the embankment was drying from spring rains, and her white canvas shoes had already gotten dirty more than once. But she decided not to care. What did such things matter anymore?
The sound of the river grew louder. The rush of water, the crash against rocks, the music of falling cascades—it drew her in. She stopped walking and gazed at the water. A tributary of the Seomjin River, she’d heard. The water was clear. Seoul’s Han River had been gray. But this water was green. So transparent you could see the stones on the riverbed. Eun-seo wanted to sit on the rocks jutting from the water, but she didn’t. Old Seoul habits still clung to her.
As she continued along the path, she spotted smoke. Thin wisps of it. Like someone burning incense. Her pace quickened. Her editor’s instinct kicked in—that thrill of discovering something new. The same feeling she’d had finding a debut author’s manuscript in Seoul. She stopped and recognized the sensation. It had been so long. For years now, she’d lost it. After the plagiarism scandal, she couldn’t trust anything she found. Everything felt suspect. But this was different. The smoke across the river wasn’t a lie. It was real.
The pottery studio was smaller than she expected. An old wooden building. The roof was slate. One wall had a large window. Through it, she could see a kiln made of red brick. The smoke was coming from there. Eun-seo walked slowly toward the entrance. The door was open. Or rather, it wasn’t clear if there was even a door. It was just an open space. The kind of place anyone could enter.
“Huh?”
When Eun-seo reached the threshold, a voice came from inside. A man’s voice. Low, calm, surprised. She hesitated—this was an uninvited visit. But the door was open. Didn’t that mean someone wanted visitors? Her editor’s mind loved interpretation. Reading text. Reading situations. Reading people. That ability was both her strength and her weakness.
“Hello,” Eun-seo said carefully. Her voice was small. She felt guilty for intruding on someone’s workspace. She took another step inside. It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the dimness. Sunlight from the window was the only light source. Dust particles danced in the beams. The smell of earth, water, and hot brick filled her nostrils. A scent she could never find in Seoul.
A man appeared. It was Min-jun Kang. She already knew his name. Someone at the oil market had mentioned it. The pottery maker across the river. Someone who’d come down from Seoul. Someone who wanted to be alone but seems fine now, they’d said. Until she saw his face, she didn’t know exactly who they meant. But seeing him now, she understood. That he was someone who’d “come down from Seoul” was obvious at a glance. His clothes, his posture, his expression—all of it spoke of someone who’d left the city behind.
“Did your grandmother send you?” Min-jun asked. His voice was low, as if he saw no need to speak loudly. Eun-seo nodded. Actually, Grandmother had only mentioned the studio’s existence. But that mention had felt like an invitation. Eun-seo had interpreted it that way, and Min-jun seemed to have accepted it the same way.
“I saw it at the market. The studio across the river.”
She spoke carefully, as if trying not to disturb the studio’s silence. Min-jun nodded. His hands were covered in clay. Reddish-brown clay. The kind used for pottery. He’d been working until she arrived.
“Would you like to look around?”
His question was unexpectedly warm. Eun-seo was surprised. The assessment that he’d wanted to be alone seemed inaccurate. Or maybe what Grandmother said—that he seemed fine now—was true. Eun-seo nodded.
Min-jun led her deeper into the studio. The space was larger than she’d expected. Because of the large window, sunlight poured in, making the space feel even bigger. One wall held shelves. On them sat pottery pieces. Plates, bowls, teacups, jars. Different shapes, but all the same color. Earth-colored. No, not exactly earth-colored. The color of earth burned by fire. Something both primitive and contemporary.
“You made all of these?”
She asked without guardedness now. Her editor’s curiosity had replaced her caution. Min-jun nodded. He walked to the shelf and picked up a bowl. It was dark—nearly black brown. He handed it to her.
“Feel it with your hands.”
Eun-seo took it. It was heavier than expected. Solid. The surface wasn’t smooth. Her fingers felt small ridges. Evidence that it was handmade. Not machine-made. Someone’s hands had shaped this bowl. Min-jun’s hands.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. It wasn’t a lie. The bowl truly was beautiful. But more precisely, it wasn’t beauty—it was authenticity. This was an object that held someone’s hands and heart. Among all the artworks she’d seen in Seoul, she’d never felt such authenticity. They were beautiful but empty. This bowl, though, was full. Full of someone’s time.
“I don’t sell this one,” Min-jun said. When Eun-seo tried to return it, he stopped her. Her hand froze. His voice was quiet, but there was something in it. She sensed it—her editor’s instinct. The ability to read the spaces between words. What Min-jun didn’t say was more important.
“Why not?”
She found herself asking without thinking. An editor’s curiosity. A desire to read people. Min-jun placed a hand over the bowl. His fingers traced its ridges.
“Things that can be broken are the ones truly made.”
His voice grew even quieter. Eun-seo understood. Or rather, she tried to understand. Things that can be broken. What did that mean? That you don’t own them? That they’re imperfect? Several interpretations flickered through her mind, but none felt quite right.
“I see,” she said. She continued holding the bowl. Min-jun watched her hands. Watched how carefully her fingers touched it, as if it might shatter. A small smile played at his lips. Not quite a smile, but something close to one.
“Did your grandmother talk about me?” he asked. Eun-seo nodded. Grandmother had said he’d wanted to be alone but seemed fine now. She relayed this exactly. When Min-jun heard it, something like a smile crossed his face. Not a real smile, but close.
“Your grandmother has a good sense for people,” he said. Eun-seo agreed. Grandmother clearly read people well. She’d seen Eun-seo from Seoul, seen Min-jun at the studio across the river, and judged them both as people who’d wanted to be alone. And she’d mentioned it quietly. Not directly. But the intention was clear: You’re not alone. Someone else is here too. Eun-seo understood it only now.
Time seemed to slow in the studio.
Eun-seo walked around with Min-jun, looking at the pottery. He explained each piece. What clay he’d used, what temperature he’d fired it at, how long it took to make. She was struck by how specific his explanations were. As if he treated each piece like his own child. It was different from many potters she’d seen in Seoul. The ones in Seoul’s galleries seemed to keep distance from their work when explaining it. Objective. Cold. But Min-jun was different.
“This is a failure,” he said, pointing to a pile beside the kiln. Broken pottery pieces were stacked there. Half a plate, bowl fragments, the neck of a jar. All incomplete. All unusable. Eun-seo asked why he didn’t throw them away.
“I need to see the failures to know what to do next time.”
His words could have been about pottery or about life. Eun-seo didn’t want to know which. She simply accepted what he said.
Afternoon sunlight filled the studio.
Eun-seo sat by the window. Min-jun was at the potter’s wheel, his hands moving over the clay. A shape was gradually forming. His fingers went in and out of the clay, over and over. It was like watching a dance. For a moment, Eun-seo forgot where she was. Time seemed to stop. No, time was passing, but she couldn’t feel it. In Seoul, time always rushed. It felt like something chasing you. But here, time simply flowed. No one was hurrying.
“Wait.”
Min-jun stopped the wheel. His hands stilled on the clay. The shape was unfinished. Eun-seo saw it. Still imperfect. But Min-jun seemed satisfied.
“This is enough,” he murmured. She heard him speaking to himself. Telling himself it was enough. That perfection wasn’t necessary. Her chest tightened. She realized how much she’d pursued perfection. Four years in Seoul. That was the pursuit of perfection. Perfect editing, perfect books, perfect judgment. And when all that perfection shattered, so did she. The plagiarism scandal. That was the moment her perfection broke.
“Will you not sell this one either?” she asked. Min-jun nodded.
“I’m still learning with this one.”
His answer was simple. But it held so much. Still learning. Always learning. And learning never ends. Eun-seo understood. As an editor, she’d always been learning too. Reading good writing, reading bad writing, meeting people. But in Seoul, she hadn’t called it learning. It was work. Work toward a goal. But here was different. Min-jun’s learning had no goal. It was simply an ongoing process.
Time passed. Eun-seo watched him work. The wheel turned. Clay took shape. Hands moved. Something new was created. Then it was destroyed again. Min-jun worked this way. Creating, destroying, creating again, destroying again. At first, Eun-seo didn’t understand. Why destroy what you’d made? Why not finish it? But as time passed, she began to see. He wasn’t making things to destroy them. The process of making was what mattered.
“Does your grandmother visit often?” Min-jun asked. Before answering, Eun-seo thought. Grandmother visiting often would mean she cared about him. Grandmother cared about everyone—Eun-seo, Min-jun, the whole village. That was her way. Quiet. Unspoken. But clear.
“No. This is my first time,” Eun-seo answered. Min-jun nodded. After that, they were silent. But it wasn’t an awkward silence. It was comfortable. Min-jun kept working. Eun-seo kept watching. That was enough.
The afternoon was fading.
The light along the river turned golden. It poured into the studio. Everything was bathed in gold. The pottery, Min-jun’s hands, Eun-seo’s face. She looked out the window. The river was golden. Where did this water come from, and where was it going? Eun-seo wondered. Where does all water come from and go? And all people too, perhaps.
“Time went so fast,” she murmured. Min-jun stopped the wheel and looked at her.
“Did it go fast?” His question was unexpectedly warm. Eun-seo nodded. Since she’d entered the studio this morning, she had no sense of how time had passed. In Seoul, time always felt slow. Or rather, she’d made it slow. Measuring it, analyzing it, trying to control it. But here, she didn’t feel time at all. It had flowed fastest here.
“I should go,” she said, standing. Grandmother would worry. Eun-seo bowed to Min-jun—a bow of thanks. He nodded.
“Come again,” he said. It wasn’t a question but a certainty. He knew she would return. And she wanted to. To this studio. To this place bathed in golden light. To watch his hands shape clay.
Walking back along the riverside path, Eun-seo turned to look behind her. Smoke from the studio rose into the darkening sky. Thin smoke. But clear smoke. Evidence that someone was there. Evidence that someone was making something. She saw it. And she realized it was like her.
She wanted to make things too. To make books, to make writing, to put something into the world. That was the desire she’d lost after the plagiarism scandal. But here, in Min-jun’s studio, she felt it again. Like a weak flame. But a clear one.
Walking home along the river, something flowed through her chest. Like the river itself. Slowly. But clearly. Something was changing here, in this village. She felt it. There would still be insomnia. There would still be anxiety. But now she could live with those things. Not alone, but with someone.
When she arrived at Grandmother’s house, she was preparing dinner in the kitchen. The rice pot was boiling. The soup pot too. The side dish pots. All the pots were cooking together. Grandmother looked at Eun-seo. She said nothing. But everything was in her eyes. Eun-seo understood. Grandmother knew she’d visited the studio. And she knew something in Eun-seo had changed.
“Come eat. It’ll all get cold,” Grandmother said. It was the warmest invitation of all.