이 포스팅은 쿠팡 파트너스 활동의 일환으로, 이에 따른 일정액의 수수료를 제공받습니다.
# Chapter 131: Paper from the Post Office
The letter arrived at 3:17 in the afternoon. Eun-seo remembered the exact time. The reason was simple: Hacheon-ri’s post office had only one clock, and that clock ran exactly seventeen minutes fast compared to the worn wall clock in her grandmother’s room. The postal worker knew about the discrepancy but never bothered to fix it. In a small village like this, perhaps it was natural to have multiple versions of time. Eun-seo accepted this fact as she breathed in the mingled scent of old paper and aged books that hung in the air.
“You’re Yoon Eun-seo, right?” the postal worker confirmed, reading the name aloud. Eun-seo nodded. The woman pushed her reading glasses up and examined the envelope. A stamp from Gangnam-gu, Seoul. Handwriting. Her mother’s handwriting. Eun-seo recognized it immediately. Her mother’s script, seen for the first time in five years. It hadn’t changed. The same slant, the same pressure, the same hesitation in each stroke. Even that habit of leaving wide spaces between words remained intact. As Eun-seo listened to the postal worker’s fingers handling the paper, she imagined its texture.
“These days, letters from Seoul are rare,” the woman continued. “Everyone just uses their phones now.” Eun-seo took the envelope. It was thinner than she’d expected. Just one or two pages. Her mother had never been one for many words—short, precise sentences. The influence of an editor daughter, or simply her mother’s nature? Eun-seo left the post office without putting the envelope in her bag, holding it in her hand instead. The moment she stepped outside, she felt the spring breeze carrying the sound of the river.
Her feet carried her automatically toward the riverbank path. She knew this route now—every stone’s position, the height where branches caught, the exact spot where the river’s smell was strongest. As spring deepened, the riverside had transformed. Willow leaves had turned a tender green, and the azaleas, already fallen, had left fresh leaves in their place. The sky was blue—a different depth of blue than Seoul’s sky. The kind of blue you see when looking into deep water. Eun-seo watched the water’s surface shimmer alongside the river’s sound, breathing in its scent.
She sat on a stone by the water’s edge. This was her usual spot. To the left, she could see smoke from Min-jun’s workshop. To the right, the entire village of Hacheon-ri spread below. She opened the envelope slowly. Her fingers trembled. Not from cold—spring weather was warm. She knew why her hands shook. It was the same kind of tremor she’d seen in Min-jun’s hands. The trembling of fear. Feeling her palms grow damp, she focused intently on the sound of the river’s current striking the stone.
The letter was written on white paper—the kind her mother preferred. Eun-seo knew this paper. As a child, she’d watched her mother bring sample sheets home from the publishing house and use them for notes. That her mother still had this same paper five years later meant something. Eun-seo unfolded it, studying the fine grain, breathing in its scent. It brought back the memory of her mother’s office.
To Eun-seo,
Are you receiving letters? I’m sending this because spring has come. Did you used to like spring? I can’t quite remember. You were always the kind of child who didn’t pay attention to seasons. When you were reading, you wouldn’t even notice what season it was outside the window.
Eun-seo stopped there. Something about her mother’s first words felt different—softer. Her previous letters hadn’t been like this. They’d been stiffer. Facts only, no emotion. “I’ve deposited money into your living expenses account.” “How’s work at the company?” “When are you coming back?” That kind of letter. This one was different. As Eun-seo carefully folded the paper and placed it back in the envelope, she felt the texture of the paper against her fingertips.
She read the letter again. This time more slowly. Sentence by sentence. Word by word. Following her mother’s handwriting. Where the pressure deepened, where it lightened. With an editor’s eye. But this time it wasn’t text analysis. This time she was reading love.
The sound of the river continued. Spring water moved faster than winter water. Swollen with melted snow, it carved at stones, shifted sand, carried leaves downstream. Eun-seo watched it flow. She felt herself flowing too. Somewhere. Nowhere she could name.
Her phone rang. Do-hyun. “Eun-seo, do you have time? Su-min is looking for you.” Eun-seo sighed. The branch school. Right. Today was Friday—the day she went to the branch school. For the past month, she’d been spending reading time with the children there. Do-hyun had suggested it, and she’d accepted. While the children read, Eun-seo would unpack the meaning of the texts for them.
“I’m at the riverbank right now. Is that okay?” she asked. “It’s fine. Su-min is writing in her journal. She said it’s okay to wait until you get here.” Do-hyun’s voice was bright. Something good seemed to have happened.
Eun-seo carefully placed the letter back in the envelope. Her fingers were steadier now. Perhaps after accepting her mother’s words. Or maybe because her grandmother had contacted her mother. Either way, her hands trembled less.
Following the riverbank path toward the school, Eun-seo continued thinking about her mother’s letter. “I hope you understand yourself through yourself, not through someone else.” The words kept repeating. It wasn’t easy. Eun-seo had always understood herself through others. It had only intensified after becoming an editor. She read texts, analyzed characters, understood the world through that analysis. But herself? How was she supposed to read herself?
The school’s fence came into view. Beyond it, she heard children’s laughter. It must be recess. Eun-seo slowly opened the gate.
The branch school was small. Very small. Only six children. First through sixth grade. Su-min at the top, Jun-ho at the bottom. When Eun-seo entered, every child’s head lifted at once. Jun-ho ran straight to her. “Teacher! Teacher’s here!” A first-grader acting like he was six. He clung to her legs. Eun-seo ruffled his hair. Her hand didn’t shake.
“Hi, Jun-ho. What were you doing?” she asked. “I drew a picture! Look!” Jun-ho unfolded his paper. A river drawn in blue paint. A house beside the river. People beside the house. They were all smiling. Eun-seo’s eyes grew blurred again.
“You did really well,” she said. Jun-ho was already showing her another drawing. Do-hyun gestured—come to the classroom where Su-min is. Eun-seo gently freed herself from Jun-ho and went inside.
Su-min sat at her desk writing something. Her journal, just as Do-hyun had said. When Su-min saw Eun-seo, she looked up. Twelve years old, but her eyes seemed older. Eyes that had seen too much. Not a child’s eyes, but an adult’s.
“Teacher, can you look at this?” Su-min handed over her journal. Do-hyun stepped outside. Only Eun-seo and Su-min remained. Eun-seo took the journal. Su-min’s handwriting. Small, clear letters. Precise, as if carved.
Today, spring felt deeper. The river flowed faster, and new shoots appeared on branches. Father still hasn’t come. Mother still cries. But today was different. Because Teacher Eun-seo came. The expression on Teacher’s face when she looked at the river. I know what that expression is. It was the same as mine. Not sadness, not happiness—something else. I want to know what that something is.
Eun-seo stopped reading. Su-min had seen her. Had read her expression. And written it down. A twelve-year-old child. Eun-seo looked at Su-min. Their eyes met.
“What do you think that expression is?” Eun-seo asked. Su-min thought. She thought for a long time. “Um… the expression of realizing you’re not alone?” Su-min answered. Eun-seo’s hands trembled. But not with fear this time.
“Yes,” Eun-seo said. “That’s exactly it.”
Afternoon sunlight streamed through the classroom window. Spring sunlight. Warm, gentle, relentless. Eun-seo read Su-min’s journal again in that light. This time the way she’d read her mother’s letter. Word by word. Sentence by sentence. What lay within them. The world as the child saw it. Herself as the child read her.
And then Eun-seo understood. The meaning of what her mother had written at the end.
Understand yourself through yourself.
It didn’t mean being alone. It meant feeling that you weren’t alone. That someone was watching you. That someone was reading you. That in that process, you became visible to yourself too.
“Teacher, can I keep looking at that expression?” Su-min asked. Eun-seo smiled. This time the smile came from her. Not borrowed through someone else, but genuinely hers.
“Yes. You can keep looking.”
Outside, the other children were laughing. Jun-ho’s voice was loudest. Do-hyun’s voice. And the sound of spring wind brushing through leaves. Everything was together. Everyone existed together. And in that existence, Eun-seo was finding herself. Slowly. At spring’s pace.
The letter was still in Eun-seo’s pocket. Her mother’s handwriting. Her mother’s love. That too, together.