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# Chapter 100: Before Winter Comes
Grandmother woke early that morning and stood gazing at the persimmon tree in the yard. Eunso could hear her ladling rice in the kitchen, but Grandmother’s eyes remained fixed on the tree. Though it was still early autumn, all the leaves had fallen. The remaining fruit hung heavy and orange, ripening steadily. Grandmother drew a long, ancient breath—quiet as flowing water. Eunso heard that sigh. There are things you understand without words being spoken. Just as you can tell the river’s direction by the temperature of its water without watching it flow.
When Eunso emerged with the breakfast table, Grandmother had already retreated to her room. Still, as Eunso sat down to eat, she studied her grandmother’s face. The wrinkles seemed deeper today than usual. She noticed Grandmother’s eyebrows trembling almost imperceptibly. Something was different about her today.
“Grandmother, are you alright?”
Grandmother nodded slowly at the question.
“Yes. Everything’s fine.”
It was a lie. Eunso knew it. But she had learned to respect what her grandmother chose not to say. Instead, Eunso ladled another bowl of soybean soup and used less gochujang. Grandmother had once mentioned that this way, the rice went down easier. Small gestures of care, layered upon each other. That was the language of this house.
Grandmother glanced out the window occasionally while eating. Eunso followed her gaze. The persimmon tree. Always the persimmon tree. Last summer, when Eunso had walked along the riverbank with Minjun, there was a day she’d said, “I wish there were a persimmon tree.” Minjun hadn’t laughed then—he’d only answered, “Yes.” A week later, a small ceramic persimmon sat on Eunso’s desk. Orange, like the real ones. The memory made her smile.
“Eunso, how are you doing lately?”
The question came suddenly. Eunso set down her spoon and looked at her grandmother. Grandmother’s eyes blinked slowly.
“I’m doing well. Why?”
“Your face has brightened. You’re not having trouble sleeping at night anymore?”
Eunso fell silent for a moment. To be honest, these past few weeks, the nights had felt less frightening. She still woke at three in the morning—that habit remained—but instead of staring at the ceiling, she found herself remembering conversations with Minjun. His words, his silences, his touch. They filled the darkness. She smiled again at the thought.
“Yes, I’m doing better.”
“I’m glad. You’ve changed a lot since coming here.”
Grandmother spooned more rice into her mouth. For someone so quiet, she was speaking more than usual today. Eunso noticed. On days when Grandmother spoke more, it was always because she wanted to say something but couldn’t quite bring herself to say it directly. She watched her grandmother’s expression. Her eyes seemed warmer today.
“What about Minjun?”
“I’m sorry?”
“That potter. Is he a good person?”
Heat crept into Eunso’s cheeks. Grandmother said nothing, merely observing her reaction while continuing to eat. Eunso noticed Grandmother’s hands trembling slightly. They had always been strong, but today they trembled ever so faintly.
“Yes. He’s a good person.”
“But it seems like something’s weighing on his mind.”
Eunso was startled. Had Minjun told Grandmother something? Or had she simply sensed it? Eunso leaned in to study her grandmother’s face more carefully, but Grandmother was already pushing the table away.
“Thank you for the meal. It was delicious.”
And with that, the conversation ended. Eunso watched her grandmother’s back as she left, smiling softly. Grandmother’s shoulders seemed broader somehow today.
That afternoon, Eunso headed to the branch school. Dohyun had messaged that “the children are waiting for you.” Autumn in Hacheonli was deepening. Most of the trees along the riverbank path stood bare, their remaining leaves turning brown. As Eunso walked, she thought: When did I first walk this path? It was spring. Yet it still feels like spring. She breathed in the autumn air and smiled. Autumn always smelled warm.
When she arrived at the school, Sumin was waiting by the door. The girl seemed taller lately. Or perhaps Eunso had simply bent lower. The way a twelve-year-old’s eyes looked at a twenty-nine-year-old had changed—which meant something had changed.
“Teacher, you’re here!”
“Sorry, am I late?”
“No. You came at exactly the right time.”
Sumin took Eunso’s hand and led her to the classroom. The other children were already seated. Six of them. A familiar number now. When Dohyun said, “We’ve prepared something special today,” Eunso sensed something—whether good or bad, she couldn’t yet tell. She smiled at the children’s faces. Their faces were always bright.
“Today we’d like to read some diary entries the children have written. Is that alright, Eunso?”
Eunso nodded. But in that moment, Sumin’s face looked anxious. The girl held her notebook, and before handing it to Dohyun, she looked at Eunso once more. As if asking, “Is it okay?” Eunso studied the child’s face. Her eyes seemed larger today.
When Dohyun began reading, Eunso listened intently. The girl’s voice was quiet, but Eunso heard it clearly.
“Today it rained. Grandmother says when it rains, the sky is crying too. But when I cry, who notices? Mother works in Seoul, Father is across the sea. Grandmother seems to know when I’m crying. Because she always makes an extra bowl of rice. After I cry, I eat that rice. Is that love?”
The classroom fell silent. Dohyun continued reading.
“Since Teacher came, our school feels fuller. At first, Teacher Eunso seemed to have a wounded heart. Her eyes always looked far away. But not anymore. Now Teacher Eunso really sees us. She truly sees us. I don’t know what’s different about it, but something has changed. And because of that, I think I’m getting better too.”
Eunso’s eyes grew warm, but she didn’t cry. Just as Grandmother had said, “The word ‘okay’ only has power when you truly mean it,” tears too should only fall when they truly should. She studied the child’s face. Sumin’s eyes seemed brighter today.
“Did Sumin write this?”
When Dohyun asked, Sumin nodded slowly.
“It’s beautiful writing. Really.”
When Eunso spoke, Sumin’s face brightened. But that brightness didn’t last long. The girl seemed to want to say something more.
“Teacher Eunso, when you write a diary, do you have to write it thinking someone will read it?”
Eunso thought for a moment. It was a good question. No—an excellent question.
“No. A diary is for you. You don’t write it thinking someone will read it. You write it to understand yourself.”
“But… could someone read it later?”
Eunso felt the weight of that question. What the child really wanted to know was whether her heart could reach someone else.
“It’s possible. But that’s your choice. You keep only the things you’re comfortable with others reading, and you burn the rest. It’s your heart, after all.”
Sumin considered those words carefully. Then she nodded slowly, as if reaching a decision.
After class ended, Eunso headed to the riverbank. This had become her habit—leaving school, walking along the river, either heading toward Minjun’s studio or simply standing and watching the water. Today she chose the latter.
Sitting on a bench by the river, Eunso gazed at the water. She remembered how cool this river had been in summer, and how much its color had changed with autumn. Now it was nearly gray, reflecting the sky like a mirror.
“You’re here.”
A voice came from behind. Eunso turned. It was Minjun, approaching quietly as always. Like the river itself.
“Yes. Just taking a walk.”
“I stopped by Grandmother’s. You weren’t there.”
Minjun sat beside her without speaking. This was their language—silences that needed no words.
“Grandmother seemed strange this morning.”
Eunso spoke first. Minjun heard her but didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looked at the river.
“Strange how?”
“I’m not sure. Like her heart was somewhere far away…”
“That’s how Grandmother is.”
Minjun’s voice was calm.
“What do you mean?”
“Every time the season changes, Grandmother gets that look. Like she’s lost something. But it’s not that she’s lost anything—she’s remembering.”
Eunso considered his words. Remembering. Every season change, Grandmother remembers something. What could it be? How long had Grandmother lived in this house? How many seasons had she spent beneath this persimmon tree?
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No. This is something only time can do. You just… need to be there.”
Minjun said this and looked at her. His eyes were always so deep. Like the river—deep, dangerous, beautiful.
“I don’t know what that means. What I’m supposed to do.”
“That’s normal. No one knows at first. It just becomes clear with time…”
“You mean it becomes obvious?”
“Yes.”
Minjun looked back at the river. Eunso followed his gaze. Together, watching the water, they realized the world moved this slowly. A pace impossible to feel in Seoul. Or perhaps they simply hadn’t noticed it before.
“Why did you come here?”
Eunso asked. This question had lived in her chest for a long time.
Minjun was silent for a long while. Eunso couldn’t count how long that silence lasted.
“I was running. At first.”
“From what?”
“Everything. Expectations, dreams, people. I wanted to let it all go.”
“And then?”
“Here… I slowly started picking things back up.”
Eunso heard his words and understood. The running Minjun spoke of was different from her own running. He had let go consciously; she had lost things unconsciously. Both were running, but in opposite directions.
“I was running too. From Seoul.”
“Yes.”
“But here it feels different. Like… I’m coming home.”
Minjun looked at her. Then slowly, he placed his hand over hers.
“That’s right. This isn’t running—it’s coming home.”
Eunso’s hand was warm beneath his. Despite the season turning toward winter, that warmth persisted. Like spring itself.
The sun was setting quickly. Winter in Hacheonli arrives fast. People say the winters here are different from Seoul’s—colder, deeper, lingering longer. Eunso thought they might be right. It was only late October, yet nighttime temperatures were approaching freezing.
After parting with Minjun, Eunso returned to Grandmother’s house. The moment she stepped through the door, she smelled something. Soju. Grandmother was drinking soju? Eunso had never seen her grandmother drink before.
When she entered the living room, Grandmother was seated at a low table. A small cup of soju, and several side dishes—potato pancakes, dried anchovies, shredded radish. Grandmother’s expression was calm, but her eyes looked far away.
“Grandmother?”
“You’re home?”
“Yes. What are you doing?”
“Just… drinking alone.”
Eunso sat across from her without speaking.
“What were you like when you were little? Do you remember?”
“I’m sorry?”
“I asked—what were you like as a child?”
Eunso thought. Childhood. It seemed to mean the time she’d spent here with this grandmother.
“I remember playing beneath the persimmon tree at your house.”
“The tree was bigger then. Than it is now.”
Grandmother picked up the soju cup. But didn’t drink. She just held it.
“Did your mother visit often?”
“No. It was just you and me.”
“I was younger then. I held you a lot. Do you remember?”
Eunso did remember. It was an old memory, but clear. The feeling of Grandmother’s arms around her. How warm Grandmother’s chest had been.
“Yes. I remember.”
“Good.”
Finally, Grandmother drank. One small, quiet sip.
“I’m old now. You can see that, can’t you?”
“Grandmother…”
“It’s alright. It’s the truth. You can’t hide your age. It flows like a river, always moving. And what flows away never returns.”
Eunso heard her words and understood. Why Grandmother had sighed while looking at the persimmon tree this morning. Why she’d stared so far away.
“Grandmother, stay here. I’ll stay here too.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
Grandmother took Eunso’s hand. It was wrinkled, cold, yet still strong.
“Thank you. My Eunso.”
And in those words lay so much—memories of the past, gratitude for the present, and anxiety about the future. Everything.
Night deepened. Eunso returned to her room. But sleep wouldn’t come. Not until four in the morning. She stared at the ceiling and thought.
How long had she been in this house? A few months? Or did it already feel like years?
Eunso opened her hand. Minjun’s warmth still seemed to linger on her fingertips. Touching it, she thought: Something must end before winter comes. No—not end. Begin. Something must begin.
At four in the morning, Eunso rose and went to her desk. For the first time in ages, she picked up a pen. What was the last thing she’d written in Seoul? Probably a report about the plagiarism scandal. Since then, she hadn’t written anything.
But now, in this moment, she felt she had to write something. She didn’t know what yet, but something was there.
Her fingers touched the paper.
‘Eight months since coming to Hacheonli.’
She began like this.
‘Here I have lost many things and gained many things. And I’m still searching for something.’
In the silence of dawn, Eunso’s pen kept moving. Like the river. Never stopping, always flowing, always moving forward.
In that moment, she understood. Before winter comes, something must begin. She still didn’t know what it was, but something was definitely beginning.
Grandmother slept on. The persimmon tree swayed in the night breeze. And the river continued to flow.
The world moves this slowly. Eunso realized it. Or rather, she confirmed what she already knew.
And that, she thought, was exactly why she had needed to come here.