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# Chapter 166: Lies at Fingertips
Eun-seo woke in her grandmother’s house at 4:23 in the morning. Checking the time wasn’t a conscious act. Her hand had simply reached for the phone beside her, and the screen’s glow revealed the hour. That dark hour. The one that had haunted her since Seoul. Between two and five in the morning—Eun-seo’s eyes always snapped open in that window, as if some alarm had been set deep within her body. Her heart beat lightly, her mind momentarily suspended.
Nearly a year had passed since she’d come to Hacheon-ri, yet the habit persisted. If anything, these past few days with Min-jun had made it worse. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Her grandmother’s ceiling, old and stained, looked like a map in the dark—fungal marks spreading like continents, spider webs drawn like longitude lines. The faint smell of stale cigarette smoke from the aged wooden beams hit her nose.
Eun-seo sat up. She placed her feet on the edge of the bed and remained there for a moment. Downstairs, her grandmother’s radio played softly. At 4 a.m., the radio was still on. Had it been on all night? Eun-seo decided not to wonder. Her grandmother’s daily life contained many illogical elements, and not all of them needed understanding. She felt yesterday’s soil still clinging to her fingertips.
Before heading to the window, Eun-seo opened her hands. The dirt from yesterday remained on her palms, under her nails, in the creases of her fingers. She didn’t regret going to bed without washing. From the moment she’d left Min-jun’s studio, she hadn’t wanted to erase that smell—the earth, the fired clay, the warmth radiating from his hands. Her mind worked hard to preserve it all in memory.
Each step down the stairs creaked. She couldn’t tell if her grandmother was awake or already asleep. In the living room, her grandmother sat on a cushion. The radio continued its quiet monologue. A late-night program that ran from ten at night until six in the morning, reading people’s stories.
“…He lied to me. Five years together, and he lied every single day. I didn’t know. Not until someone else told me.”
The radio host began responding in a measured voice. Eun-seo tried not to listen, but the words had already reached her ears. Her grandmother noticed her granddaughter’s arrival but said nothing, keeping her gaze on the radio—or perhaps beyond it. It was impossible to tell. Her grandmother’s expression was always so neutral, her eyes like a sea that had weathered countless storms.
“Will you eat?”
Her grandmother’s voice startled her. At 4:30 in the morning. The old woman’s voice was surprisingly soft, like the sound of an aged violin.
“No. I just… want to go out.”
“At this hour?”
“Yes.”
Her grandmother nodded. No further questions came. That was her way—knowing without asking, or asking without knowing. Eun-seo understood the meaning beneath her words but chose not to probe.
“To the river?”
“Yes.”
Her grandmother turned her gaze back to the radio, where someone continued seeking counsel. Five years of lies, they’d said. Eun-seo wondered how old those lies were—from the beginning, or had they started at some point? And when had suspicion first taken root? She tried not to listen, but her ears had already turned toward the voice.
Eun-seo changed into her outdoor clothes and left. The riverside path—it was her place now. Where Min-jun had first taken her. Or rather, where she’d been heading when he appeared. Her heart was already pulling her toward the water. She left her grandmother’s house at five in the morning. The world was still dark, but the birds had already begun to sing. When she reached the riverside embankment, mist was rising from the water like breath, and dawn light was slowly seeping through it.
She sat on the old concrete. Running her hand across its surface, the rough texture caught on her fingers. Yesterday’s soil was still there. She watched the river. Fish jumped, creating ripples. Where she sat, the water struck the embankment with a sound almost like music.
Her phone rang.
Eun-seo jumped and grabbed it. 5:05 a.m. Who would call at this hour? An unknown number lit the screen. A Seoul area code. 02-XXXX-XXXX. She stared at it for a moment. The call kept ringing, vibration trembling against her fingers.
She shouldn’t answer. That instinct was clear.
But her finger automatically touched the screen.
“Hello?”
A voice emerged. A woman’s voice—low, measured, authoritative.
“Is this Eun-seo? Yoon Eun-seo?”
“Yes… who is this?”
“Oh, I apologize for calling so early. This is Lee Su-hyun, Editorial Director at Seoul Culture Publishing.”
Eun-seo’s breath stopped. Seoul Culture Publishing. Not the company she’d left. She’d worked at Dongwon Publishing. Seoul Culture was their competitor. The moment she heard the name, her mind went blank.
“Have I reached the wrong person?”
Director Lee asked again.
“No, this is me. But… how did you get my number?”
“Well, we made some inquiries through various channels. You’re Yoon Eun-seo, the editor-in-chief who worked at Dongwon Publishing, aren’t you? The one who left after that plagiarism incident?”
The riverside at dawn—the mist, the bird calls—all of it suddenly felt distant. In Eun-seo’s ears, only Lee Su-hyun’s voice remained. It sounded like the rustling of old book pages being turned.
“The reason we found you is simple. You have a reputation for being an exceptional editor. Everyone in the industry knows that plagiarism incident wasn’t your responsibility. Since you left, Dongwon Publishing has been struggling. But the authors you discovered are still thriving.”
Eun-seo didn’t respond. Her mind was already in chaos. She watched the river. Small birds were swimming on the water. Had they stayed awake all night, or were they already living a new day? She saw herself in those birds. She wanted to start anew.
“We also know you’re somewhere in South Jeolla Province. What are you doing now?”
“… I’m resting.”
“Resting? It’s such a waste. An editor like you resting in the countryside. In any case, we’d like to invite you to join us. With excellent terms.”
Eun-seo watched the river. The mist was slowly lifting. Small birds swam on the water. Had they stayed awake all night, or were they already living a new day?
“I can give you time to think. But don’t take too long. We’re preparing a major project—discovering writers who will lead the next generation of Korean literature. You’re exactly who we need.”
“… I’ll think about it.”
“Good. Call me at this number. Within a week if possible. Take care.”
The call ended. Eun-seo held the phone, then set it down. Her hands were trembling. She watched the river as dawn light began to illuminate it. The mist was gone. Everything was becoming clear—the water’s flow, the birds, the grass on the embankment. And her hands. She watched yesterday’s soil scatter in the wind from the river, and standing on the dawn-lit embankment, she felt a new beginning taking shape.
Her phone rang again. This time, a different number. Hacheon-ri’s number. Min-jun.
“Hey. I just woke up. You left already?”
Eun-seo didn’t answer.
“Eun-seo? You there?”
“Yes… I’m at the riverside.”
“At this hour? Alone?”
“Yes.”
Min-jun was silent for a moment. Only his breathing came through.
“Do you want to go?”
“What?”
“Seoul. Do you want to work again?”
Eun-seo’s heart lurched. She hadn’t said anything, so how could he know?
“I got a call from Seoul. Just now.”
“Yes… just now.”
“Yeah. I knew they’d call you. I heard about it yesterday evening.”
“Yesterday evening?”
“Yes. I got a call at the studio yesterday. From someone at that company.”
Eun-seo didn’t understand. Min-jun getting a call from a publishing company made no sense.
“Min-jun. I don’t understand.”
“I recommended you. To that company.”
“What? Why?”
“Why? Eun-seo, you’re an editor. That’s your work. It’s hard watching you unable to do it.”
Eun-seo pulled the phone from her ear. The sound of the river grew louder. The bird calls too. And beneath it all, her own heartbeat echoing.
“Eun-seo? You there?”
His voice came from far away.
“Yes… I’m here.”
“I’m coming out. I’m heading there.”
“No. It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine. I’m coming.”
The call ended. Eun-seo stood alone on the riverside. The phone was in her hand, and dawn was growing brighter. On her palm, yesterday’s soil remained.
It was lying. As if everything were permanent. As if nothing would change. As if she could stay here forever.
But her fingers knew the truth. Soil washes away in water. Nothing lasts forever. Not the pottery Min-jun made. Not the warmth of his hands. Not all the time they’d spent together on this riverside path.
She stood and turned from the river, walking toward the village. Even though she knew she’d meet him on the way.
Min-jun got out of his car at the river’s entrance. He met her on the path. His face was dark—the kind of darkness that morning light reveals.
“What did I do to you?”
Eun-seo didn’t stop walking.
“Min-jun. I’m grateful. Really. But I can’t leave my work in your hands.”
“Did I make you do it? I just introduced you. To where you can really work.”
“That wasn’t my choice.”
“Then what is your choice? Staring at the river all day? My hands have no feeling. Because of you.”
Eun-seo stopped and looked at him.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m someone who makes pottery. Making things is my existence. But lately my hands shake. Because of you. Because touching you feels too good, when I touch clay my hands search for you instead. It ruins the shape. Hands that want to hold you can’t properly shape clay.”
When he finished, silence settled between them.
“So what are you saying?”
“Go. To Seoul. Work again. And think about it. Really think about whether that’s what you want. Whether being with me is really what you want. I can’t lose you because of my hands. Because of my pottery.”
Eun-seo’s eyes blurred. But no tears came. Her vision simply clouded.
“That’s a lie at your fingertips.”
“What?”
“You’re lying right now. With your fingertips. With the warmth of your hands. But your words say the opposite.”
Min-jun stepped closer and took her hand. He traced the soil still clinging to her palm with his fingers.
“This isn’t a lie.”
His lips touched her fingers. Soil stained his mouth.
“Go. To Seoul. And come back. Really.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Eun-seo looked at his face. In the dawn light, it still appeared dark. But his eyes were bright. The brightness of resolve. Or the brightness of surrender. She couldn’t tell the difference.
“What if I don’t come back?”
“Then I’ll break my pottery. Again. All of it.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Then come back.”
Eun-seo didn’t release his hand. The warmth at his fingertips was still transmitting. That warmth didn’t lie. But the lies at his fingertips covered it. Covered everything.
Dawn was growing brighter. The river continued to flow.