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# Chapter 140: Things That Cannot Return
Reading Minjun’s letters had become Eunseo’s daily ritual. At three in the morning, when moonlight traced across his handwriting in the darkness, it felt as though he were beside her. His words wrapped around her heart gently, and her pulse learned to match the rhythm of his script. Days passed. Then weeks. A month, perhaps—or maybe longer, maybe shorter. Time was easy to forget in this place.
Grandmother studied Eunseo’s face each time she set breakfast on the table. She noticed the dark shadows beneath her eyes fading incrementally, the mechanical movements disappearing when she lifted her spoon. Grandmother said nothing, only watched. She had known for a long time what Eunseo was learning now: sometimes words solve nothing at all.
“Do you need more doenjang?” Grandmother asked. Eunseo turned to look at her, a question blooming in her eyes. “I’m fine,” she answered, her voice steady.
“Is ‘fine’ actually fine, or are you just saying it?” Grandmother’s gaze pierced through her. Eunseo’s spoon stilled. Few people in this world could answer such a question honestly. But here was different. Here, everyone could read each other—like the river, like the earth itself.
“It’s really fine,” Eunseo said quietly, but with certainty. Grandmother laughed—a sound that held both approval and blessing. It warmed something in Eunseo’s chest.
Whenever Mrs. Oh Bokson saw Eunseo at the market, she pressed something into her hands. Today it was fresh fatsia shoots. “Look at this—you can’t get this in Seoul, can you? I picked it straight from the mountain. Smell it.” Eunseo brought the sprouts to her nose. The scent of earth and spring mingled together, filling her nostrils. In that moment, she realized how long it had been since she’d smelled anything like this. In Seoul, all scents blurred together into one—exhaust fumes, laundry detergent, the voices of people. One undifferentiated smell.
“Thank you,” Eunseo said with genuine warmth. “Thank you? Look at this! My granddaughter’s talking like a real person now. Before, she just said yes and no.” At Mrs. Oh’s words, Eunseo couldn’t help but laugh—a laugh that surprised her, a laugh that came from realizing she had changed.
The riverside path had become Eunseo’s territory. Every day at the same hour, walking the same route, she thought of Minjun. But today she met someone else. Teacher Park Dohyun was sitting by the water. The usual brightness had drained from his face, as if the earth itself had absorbed all his light.
“Dohyun?” His name escaped her lips. He turned toward her as though he wasn’t quite seeing her. “Oh, Eunseo. Hello.” His greeting was hollow, his voice thin. Without asking, she sat beside him. There was no need to ask. In this place, everything speaks louder in silence.
An hour passed, or perhaps ten minutes. Dohyun finally spoke. “The branch school is going to close.” His voice was barely audible. “Really?” Eunseo’s question drew out his words.
“The education office already decided. Next March. The school will only exist until then. After that… it’s gone.” His words were flat, like someone reading from a script they didn’t believe in. Eunseo watched the river. It flowed on, unchanging. Between what changes and what doesn’t, how small humans truly are.
“What about the students?” “The children? They’ll send them to the town school. Bus rides both ways. There’s a convenience store nearby, they said. More freedom.” His voice remained flat, as if reciting lines someone else had written.
“What about Sumin?” The question changed his expression. For the first time, Dohyun looked directly at her. “Do you know how often Sumin says your name? That child didn’t raise her hand once before you came. Didn’t draw, didn’t write. Just… existed like a ghost. But after you arrived, everything changed. She raises her hand, she speaks, she writes.” His words struck something deep in Eunseo’s chest.
“They’ll take it all away. The school, the teacher, and you.” Dohyun stood. His shadow fell across the water. “I’m sorry. Burdening you with this. You came here to rest.”
As he turned to leave, Eunseo spoke. “What do you think rest means?” Dohyun stopped and turned back. “Rest isn’t doing nothing. It’s facing things. Facing them, accepting them, and continuing anyway.” Eunseo didn’t know why she was saying this, but it was true. Over the past month, she had faced her own fears, her loneliness, her helplessness. And in accepting them, she had learned to breathe for the first time.
Dohyun’s eyes blurred. He looked at the river. “Just because the school closes doesn’t mean the children disappear.” His voice was still quiet. “No,” Eunseo agreed. “Will it be okay if you’re here?” Instead of answering, Eunseo placed her hand on his shoulder. That was answer enough.
As evening fell, Eunseo went to Minjun’s studio. It felt natural now, as if it had always been her destination. He was working the clay, his fingers pressing, turning, shaping it. His movements were a language—everything words couldn’t say, his hands were speaking.
“You came?” His voice welcomed her. “Yes.” Her answer made him stop. He washed his hands, watching the clay flow away with the water—like time washing everything clean.
“Something on your mind?” His question opened her heart. “The branch school is closing.” At her words, he stilled. “Next March. Dohyun told me today.”
Minjun turned back to the clay, but this time he didn’t touch it. He only looked. “And you?” Her question hung in the studio. “Me?” His echo revealed something.
“Will you stay? Keep staying?” His eyes were as deep as the river visible through the window. “What about you?” His counter-question made her search for an answer.
“I…” As she spoke, his phone rang. He looked at the screen and his face changed color. It was an expression she’d never seen before. Fear. His face was drawn with fear.
“Who is it?” He didn’t answer. Instead, he took the call, his voice too quiet to hear clearly—as if speaking softly enough that no one could steal his words away.
When the call ended, Minjun wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“It’s an exhibition proposal,” he finally said. “An exhibition?” “Seoul. A major museum. They want to show my ceramics. After five years.”
Eunseo’s heart lurched. It was good news. But why was there no joy in his voice?
“Congratulations,” she said. “Thank you,” he replied. But his eyes weren’t the eyes of someone being congratulated. They were the eyes of someone standing at a crossroads, someone who knows what must be sacrificed.
“When?” “June.” June. Just over two months away. Time, which had felt like seasons, suddenly became concrete—days, weeks, months, a countdown.
“You’ll go, won’t you?” Minjun didn’t answer. Instead, he went back to the clay and placed his hands on it—but didn’t move them. As if holding onto something drowning.
Eunseo said nothing more. She knew that sometimes silence speaks louder than words. And in this silence, she faced her true fear. It wasn’t the school closing, wasn’t Dohyun’s sadness, wasn’t even Minjun’s success. It was something more primal: fear of things that cannot return. Despair at things that, once released, can never be grasped again. And the responsibility of holding them in her hands.
The sun set beyond the window. The river kept flowing—looking unchanged, yet different water flowing every moment. They would be like that too. Becoming different people with each passing moment, yet continuing as if they were the same.
“I’m sorry,” Minjun said, breaking the silence. “For what?” “For pulling you into this. For making someone who came to rest feel so complicated.”
Eunseo laughed—a sad laugh. “I was always complicated. You just… made it so I wasn’t lonely in that complexity.”
“That’ll end.” “Maybe.” She admitted it. There was no point in lying. Everything could end. That’s what life is. Where there’s a beginning, there’s an ending. But that doesn’t make every moment in between meaningless.
“Until June… do we have plans?” It wasn’t a question of choice. It was a question of confirmation—whether this time would really end, or continue in some other form.
“Plans?” “Yeah. Is there anything you want to do?”
Eunseo thought. Things she wanted to do in Hacheon-ri. Things she wanted to do with Minjun. But she’d already done them all. Walked the river, watched ceramics, eaten meals, sat in silence. What else could there be?
“I don’t know.” “Then let’s decide together.”
He extended his hand. It still bore traces of clay. But she took it anyway.
As night deepened, Eunseo left the studio. Minjun walked her to the door. No words passed between them, but the gesture itself was language.
“See you tomorrow?” “Yeah.” “Promise?” “I promise.”
She walked along the riverside path. Night transformed the river into something different from its daytime self. Darkness simplified everything. Complex shapes disappeared, leaving only the flow. That was the river’s gift—washing away everything, leaving only what was essential.
Grandmother was still awake, listening to the radio. An old song was playing. Eunseo didn’t know the singer, but the melody was sad.
“Is Minjun doing well?” “Yes, he’s fine.” “He’s going to Seoul, isn’t he?”
Eunseo was startled. “How did you…” “There are no secrets in this village. We all know. We just don’t say anything. That’s respect.”
Grandmother turned off the radio.
“He should go. That’s how you come back.” “Do you think he’ll come back?”
Grandmother looked at her. Her eyes held forty years of living, and all the choices she’d witnessed in those four decades.
“You won’t know until he goes. And coming back isn’t always the right answer. Sometimes leaving is what’s meant to be. But if he wants to come back—if you both want him to—then there’s something between you two. Those things don’t die easily.”
Grandmother went to her room. Eunseo was left alone in the living room. The radio song continued to echo. Or no—it wasn’t coming from the radio. It was coming from her own heart.
As the night grew deeper, Eunseo looked out the window again. The river flowed on—unchanging yet always changing, like water itself. And she would be like that too. Whether Minjun stayed or left, whether she remained or went, she would keep flowing. Like the river.
But whether that was sad or beautiful, she still didn’t know. Perhaps it was both. As all endings are.