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# Chapter 82: The Weight of Time
Eunseo couldn’t answer her grandmother’s question. The words “no time” hung in the air between them, and it wasn’t a simple inquiry. It was the sharpest probe her grandmother could make. Because having no time, in truth, meant having no choice. Eunseo spooned rice into her mouth. The grains dissolved on her tongue, spreading warmth, but that warmth couldn’t reach deeper into her chest. As if there were a wall there—a barrier nothing could penetrate beyond. The fragrance of rice and the sound of soup mingled with the colors and shapes of side dishes, stimulating her senses.
Her grandmother watched her eat. Not with judging eyes, but with eyes that sought to understand. That was always how her grandmother looked at her granddaughter—like turning the pages of an old book, slowly, with the intention of reading every word. The grandmother spooned broth over the rice. The liquid soaked the white grains, turning them gradually brown. Another transformation. Inevitable. Irreversible.
“It’s not that you lack time,” her grandmother said, setting down her spoon and wiping her mouth slowly. “You’re afraid of time.” Her voice was soft, but it carried absolute certainty. Eunseo met her grandmother’s gaze and felt that those eyes saw through every lie she’d told herself. Her hand stilled on the spoon. Not just her hand—her heart stopped too.
“Grandmother…” Eunseo’s voice came out thin, but it reached her grandmother’s ears clearly.
“I’m not asking if you’re scared to start work again in Seoul. I’m asking if you’re scared to go back there. If it feels like abandoning something.” Her grandmother surveyed the side dishes on the table—five different vegetables, each with its own taste, its own color. When they sat together, the meal was complete. She picked up a piece of rolled egg and placed it on Eunseo’s rice. That gesture held so much—care, consideration, quiet understanding.
“The plagiarism case is settled, isn’t it?” Her grandmother’s voice lowered. Eunseo nodded. “Yes.” Her voice was small, but her grandmother read the truth within it.
“Then why aren’t you happy?” Her grandmother’s question was precise, like a second hand marking time exactly. It pierced straight through Eunseo’s chest. Here, at this table, in this house, there was no room for lies. Everything was revealed as plainly as the taste of food. Eunseo’s words could only be truth.
“I am happy. Really.” But her grandmother heard the unspoken “but” that followed. What went unsaid was as loud as what was spoken. Tears glistened at the corners of Eunseo’s eyes, catching the warm light of the table, pushing back the darkness.
“And?” Her grandmother’s voice grew softer still.
“But… being here has become easier.” Eunseo’s voice trembled like autumn grass swaying in the wind. Her grandmother continued eating. That silence was a signal to keep talking. She wasn’t a woman of many words, but her silence was a language—the clearest language of all.
“In Seoul, I always felt like I had to prove something. That I was still a decent editor. That I didn’t make mistakes. That I still had value. Like I could only exist by constantly doing something.” Eunseo spoke while eating. The movement of her mouth gave her courage. When her mouth was open, her heart seemed to open too.
“But here… it feels okay to do nothing. Grandmother makes the meal, and I just eat. Minjun makes pottery, and I just have to be beside him. The children write, and I just have to read it to them.”
Her grandmother sipped more broth and looked at her. In those eyes lived so much time—seventy-eight years of it, filled with many people, many choices. She was seeing beyond Eunseo’s years. She knew exactly where her granddaughter stood.
“What’s different between the work you’d do in Seoul and the work you do here?”
“Well… there is a difference. In Seoul, I’d read manuscripts from debut writers at the publishing house. Choose them, edit them, send them into the world. That’s work I’m supposed to do.”
“And here?”
“Here I read the children’s writing, organize books for the library donation, sometimes listen to people’s stories at Bokson’s shop…” Eunseo trailed off. In listing it all, she’d realized something. The work in Seoul and the work here were essentially the same. Both involved reading words, reading people, trying to understand the world. The only difference was whether it earned money.
Her grandmother set down her spoon and looked directly at her. That gaze meant she had something to say. Eunseo stopped eating and waited.
“What are you afraid of losing?”
“What could I possibly lose?”
“The time here. Minjun. Those children. This village. This table.” Her grandmother gestured to the table before them. Everything on it. Small things, seemingly, yet they were what made Eunseo’s life whole.
“You’re afraid that if you go to Seoul, all of this will end. That it was a dream. That this place never really existed.”
Her grandmother took another spoonful of rice and chewed slowly. Even the sound of her chewing was language—I’m here. This is real.
“When did you first understand that?” Eunseo asked. “That these moments matter?”
Her grandmother thought for a long time, eating, listening to the river’s sound. Morning sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, illuminating her face. In that light, her wrinkles became vivid. Each one was a moment in time—moments of laughter, of sorrow, of endurance.
“Do you know your grandfather?”
Eunseo nodded. Her grandmother had lost him long ago, before Eunseo was even born.
“When I first met him, he was just a man farming in the countryside. He seemed to have no dreams, no future. But eating rice with him every day, I learned that was the most important thing in the world.” Her grandmother’s voice dropped low, as if these words were meant only for Eunseo.
“Who do you eat with in Seoul?”
Eunseo couldn’t answer. In Seoul, she’d eaten alone—at her desk, in front of her computer, sometimes in her car. There was no shared table. That was why it had been unbearable. Why her insomnia had worsened. There was no shared time.
“Here I eat with you every day. Sometimes with Minjun. With the children too.”
“Then that’s your work. Not what you do in Seoul.”
Her grandmother wasn’t commanding. She was simply stating fact. She began clearing the table. When Eunseo tried to help, her grandmother waved her off.
“Have you eaten, or will you eat? I have nothing else to say.”
Her grandmother repeated that philosophy. Everything was rice. Everything was togetherness. Eunseo was left alone at the table, a single spoonful of rice remaining. Sunlight touched it. Still warm.
That afternoon, Eunseo walked along the riverbank path. After her conversation with her grandmother, her heart felt heavier, not lighter. Because now the choice was no longer simple.
The river flowed in late autumn colors. The green of summer had vanished entirely. Now the water was a mixture of gray and brown—as if someone had been mixing paints and stopped mid-stroke. An incomplete color. Yet it was the right color for this season. Eunseo sat on a stone. She removed her shoes and socks and dipped her feet into the water.
It was warmer than she expected. Winter hadn’t come yet. Summer’s memory still lingered in the water. Her toes sensed the smooth stones below—worn smooth by years of flowing water. Perhaps that was the river’s work: to wear away sharp edges, to soften what was rough.
Eunseo took out her phone. The publisher’s message was still there. Start Monday. Reading debut manuscripts. Like before. It was good news. Really. She’d waited four years for this. So why did it feel like weight instead of joy?
She set the phone down and watched the river. From somewhere distant came a bird’s call. The birds of Hacheonri always sang that way—unhurried, slow, as if it were the most important thing in the world. Eunseo realized they sang without purpose. It was simply song, a signal of existence, proof of being here.
After an hour of sitting, she heard footsteps. Minjun was walking toward her along the path. His clothes were covered in clay dust, his hands stained with water. He’d just come from the studio.
“You were here.”
Not a question. He’d come looking for her, as if afraid the river might take her away.
“Yes.”
Minjun sat beside her. He removed his shoes and socks, dipped his feet into the water. They sat side by side, watching the river. No words were needed. The river’s flow, the bird’s song, their breathing—that was all the language required.
“Did you decide to go to Seoul?”
Eunseo didn’t answer. She simply flowed, like the river.
“I still don’t know,” she finally said.
“But do you have to go?”
His question was simple, but it held so much. Like a final chance. Eunseo watched the river. It didn’t answer either. It just flowed.
“I really don’t know.”
Her voice was thin. Not weakness. Truth. The simplest, hardest truth.
Minjun took her hand. Their fingers interlaced. Eunseo felt the warmth of his palm—hands made of clay, hands that shaped pottery. Those hands held hers. It was everything. A refusal to force a choice, simply: I’m here.
“Do you know why I destroyed that pottery?”
“You wrote it in the letter.”
“That wasn’t all. I destroyed it because I thought it had to be perfect. That I couldn’t show anything flawed. But my hands were shaking. My heart was anxious. So I destroyed it.” His voice was low, like a sound sinking into water.
“But now I know. Incompleteness is okay. Trembling hands are okay. Because it’s real.”
Eunseo looked at him. Clay dust still clung to his face, but through it she could see his eyes. Eyes that didn’t just see her—they understood her, the way one reads the surface of pottery.
“I don’t want to force your choice. I don’t think you have to go, and I don’t think you have to stay. Only…”
“Only?”
“Only I’ve seen who you are when you’re here. I’m afraid of losing that version of you. That’s all.”
Eunseo’s eyes grew wet. Not tears yet. Water preparing to become tears. She squeezed his hand harder, interlaced their fingers more deeply.
“You said incompleteness was okay.”
“Yes.”
“Then is my choice okay even if it’s incomplete?”
“Yes.”
The river passed them by. Afternoon sunlight sparkled on the water’s surface. That sparkle reflected in Eunso’s eyes too. It wasn’t hope. Hope was too grand a word. It was simply: it continues. It doesn’t stop. And that’s enough.
That evening, Eunseo began packing at her grandmother’s house. She hadn’t fully decided to go to Seoul, but packing was preparing for a choice. She opened the closet. The clothes she’d worn since coming to Hacheonri. They were different from her Seoul clothes—more comfortable, softer, a better fit.
She picked up each piece. She remembered when she’d worn each one, where she’d gone. The yellow sweater from walks along the riverbank. The blue shirt from visiting the studio. The white t-shirt from the branch school.
Eunseo made two piles: clothes to take, clothes to leave. But they kept mixing. This one seemed necessary. So did that one. She couldn’t choose. It felt like dividing her entire life.
Her grandmother knocked on the door.
“What are you doing?”
“Packing.”
“So you’ve decided to go.”
“I still don’t know.”
Her grandmother sat beside her. Her hands touched the clothes, examining each one like reading text.
“When did you buy this?”
She held up the blue shirt.
“After I came to Hacheonri. When I went to the market, Bokson gave it to me.”
“I see. This is a shirt you bought and wore here.”
Her grandmother moved it to the pile of clothes to leave. When Eunseo tried to move it back, her grandmother stopped her with her hand.
“This is a shirt worn here. What good is taking it to Seoul? Leave it here.”
Her grandmother sorted through the clothes one by one. Clothes bought here, worn here. She gathered them all separately. The pile of clothes to leave grew larger. Watching this, Eunseo understood how deeply she’d taken root in Hacheonri.
“I’ll wear these,” her grandmother said. “When you go and miss us.”
Eunseo looked at her. There was no smile on her grandmother’s face. No smile was needed. It was simply the expression of someone stating fact.
“Grandmother…”
Her grandmother raised her hand, stopping her.
“You haven’t decided to go yet. But if you do, think of these clothes. Think that they’re here. Then you’ll know you’re not alone.”
Her grandmother stood, holding the blue shirt to her chest, and looked at Eunseo once more.
“Have you eaten, or will you eat? I have nothing else to say.”
It was everything her grandmother could give. All her love, all her understanding, all her care.
Eunseo buried her face in the clothes. They were all warm. Dried in Hacheonri’s sunlight. Folded by her grandmother’s hands. Breathing in their scent, she finally wept. An incomplete weeping. A weeping without choice. And the weeping of someone learning that’s okay.
Outside, the evening bell rang. Hacheonri’s bell. A signal that the day was ending. A signal that tomorrow was coming. Listening to it, Eunseo thought: tomorrow will come, and beneath it another tomorrow, and within all those tomorrows she would keep choosing.
And that, too, was okay.