이 포스팅은 쿠팡 파트너스 활동의 일환으로, 이에 따른 일정액의 수수료를 제공받습니다.
# Chapter 211: Cracks in Spring
When Minjun pushed open the door to his studio, the earthy smell of clay drifted out—the scent of soil after rain. Eunseo breathed it in, unsure what to say. Five days ago, by the river, kept surfacing in her mind. Because of his name. Not Minjun, but someone else’s name entirely. That was what held her captive. The spring light streaming through the studio window shone as brightly as when he’d spoken that other name.
“You came?” Minjun looked up from his workbench. His hands were buried in clay, gray earth trickling between his fingers. Eunseo stared at those hands. Were they really Minjun’s hands, or someone else’s—someone with a different name? Each time the air in the studio grew heavier, so did her heart.
“How is your grandmother?” he asked. Eunseo startled. Had she told him about her grandmother? No. She’d mentioned it to Dohyun, but never to Minjun. Yet he knew. That’s how the village worked. Everything leaked out. Everyone pretended to know. They never asked directly. The village’s whispers lived in his words.
“She’s improving,” Eunseo answered. The hospital medication seemed to be working. Her grandmother’s cough had lessened, color returning to her face. But it wasn’t enough. Would she really get better when spring fully arrived, as the doctor said? Or did her grandmother’s age simply want to believe it? Like everything renewed itself with spring, like her grandmother was beginning a new life. Eunseo looked at the spring light filling the studio.
Minjun stood to wash his hands. He scooped water from the basin. Clay flowed away. The sediment drifted in the water, then sank. Eunseo watched the process unfold. How could she treat him naturally anymore? That was the problem. Once she’d learned he wasn’t really Minjun, everything had shifted. His face seemed strange. His voice seemed strange. Even the way he washed his hands looked strange. The sound of water in the studio echoed like his other name being spoken.
“Is something wrong?” Minjun asked. His hands were clean now, though soil still clung between his fingers. Eunseo noticed. Some things can never be completely clean—the spaces between fingers, for instance. Like that, she felt she could never fully know him. The air in the studio waited for his name to be spoken.
“What is that name?” Eunseo asked. She couldn’t put it off any longer. Asking “which name?” would sound too awkward. They both knew what she meant. His pupils moved. His lips parted, then closed. The air grew heavier.
“Why do you want to know?” he asked instead. His voice was low. The noise in the studio seemed to stop. Eunseo searched his eyes, wanting to read his name from them. But his eyes didn’t speak. They only hid it.
“Because…” Eunseo trailed off. Why did she want to know? She couldn’t say it. Was it because he’d lied? Or because she’d believed the lie? “Because you won’t tell me.” Her voice trembled. The air waited for his name.
Minjun turned back to his workbench. Eunseo watched his back. Could a back hide a name too? The width of his shoulders, the curve of his spine, the way he bent—everything seemed to tell a story. But she couldn’t read it. As an editor, she’d read countless texts, yet she couldn’t read the story written in his body. His body didn’t speak his name.
“When I was in Seoul, I was someone else,” Minjun said quietly. “That name belongs to that person.” The air waited. Eunseo wanted to hear it. If she knew his name, she felt she could know everything about him.
“What kind of person were you?” she asked. To hear his name. To know everything. His pupils moved. His lips parted, then closed. The air grew heavier.
“Perfect,” Minjun let out something like laughter, but it wasn’t laughter. “Everything went according to plan. University, exhibitions, recognition, awards. Everything I wanted.” The air waited. Eunseo wanted to hear his name. If she knew it, she felt she could understand him completely.
“Then why…” Eunseo began. To hear his name. To know everything. His pupils moved. His lips parted, then closed. The air grew heavier.
“Why did I throw it away?” Minjun turned to face her. Light caught his face. His eyes were strange—a different kind of strange than before. “Because I hated being perfect.” The air waited. Eunseo wanted to hear his name. If she knew it, she felt she could understand him completely.
“What does perfect even mean?” Eunseo asked. To hear his name. To know everything. His pupils moved. His lips parted, then closed. The air grew heavier.
“It’s like death,” Minjun said. “When everything is predetermined, you’re not alive anymore. You’re just… a moving corpse.” The air waited. Eunseo wanted to hear his name. If she knew it, she felt she could understand him completely.
Eunseo considered this. A moving corpse. Was that what she’d been? In Seoul, waking at the same time each morning, drinking the same coffee, sitting at the same desk, repeating the same work. Had she been alive? Or just moving? The studio’s silence sounded like his name being spoken.
“So you destroyed it?” Eunseo asked. To hear his name. To know everything. His pupils moved. His lips parted, then closed. The air grew heavier.
“No,” Minjun shook his head. “I abandoned that name. I abandoned that person.” The air waited. Eunseo wanted to hear his name. If she knew it, she felt she could understand him completely.
“What is that name?” Eunseo asked again. She kept repeating the same question, like searching for a signal in waves of noise. The air waited. Eunseo wanted to hear his name. If she knew it, she felt she could understand him completely.
Minjun said nothing for a long time. The studio’s time seemed to stop. The shadows in the window unmoving. The smell of clay hung in the air—the only movement. Eunseo wanted to hear his name. If she knew it, she felt she could understand him completely.
“Tae-o,” Minjun finally said. “Kang Tae-o.” The air waited. Eunseo wanted to hear his name. If she knew it, she felt she could understand him completely.
Eunseo repeated it. Kang Tae-o. It was an unfamiliar name. Strange on her tongue, like reading a word for the first time. But it was already someone’s name—the person standing in this studio. The name he’d abandoned. The air waited for his name to be spoken.
“What kind of person was Kang Tae-o?” Eunseo asked. To hear his name. To know everything. His pupils moved. His lips parted, then closed. The air grew heavier.
“Ambitious,” Minjun said. “Someone who believed he was the best. Someone who thought his work would last forever.” The air waited. Eunseo wanted to hear his name. If she knew it, she felt she could understand him completely.
“And now?”
“Now I’m Minjun,” he said. “Someone who touches clay here, walks by the river, eats with you.” The air waited. Eunseo wanted to hear his name. If she knew it, she felt she could understand him completely.
Eunseo considered the contrast. Kang Tae-o and Minjun. Perfection and imperfection. Plan and chance. And somewhere between them was herself. The river she’d walked beside, thinking she was with Minjun. Was all of it a lie? Or was it the first time it had been true?
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Eunseo asked. To hear his name. To know everything. His pupils moved. His lips parted, then closed. The air grew heavier.
“I didn’t want to,” Minjun answered. “The moment I said that name, I felt like that person would come back to life.” The air waited. Eunseo wanted to hear his name. If she knew it, she felt she could understand him completely.
“Would that be so bad?”
“Yes,” Minjun said firmly. “That person has to die. That person killed me.” The air waited. Eunseo wanted to hear his name. If she knew it, she felt she could understand him completely.
Eunseo felt the weight of those words. The word “death” fell into the studio like a stone into water, sinking heavily. And the ripples it made shook everything.
“Couldn’t you have told me?” Eunseo asked. Her voice trembled.
“When?” Minjun asked. “When we first met? When we walked by the river? When I held your hand?”
“Anytime would have been fine.”
“Is it too late now?” Minjun asked. His question pinned her to the spot. Was it really too late? Or had he simply never been able to tell? How can someone who hides themselves suddenly reveal themselves? It would be like dying.
“I don’t know,” Eunseo said. That was the truth. She really didn’t know. Whether this was the end or the beginning. Whether this was a lie or the truth. Whether this could be forgiven or not.
“I never lied to you,” Minjun said. “Everything I did, everything I said, everything I showed you—it was all real.”
“But you weren’t real.”
“That’s wrong,” Minjun said. “Kang Tae-o was fake. Minjun is real. And the person standing in front of you right now is real.”
Eunseo wanted to believe him. But she didn’t know where belief began. It doesn’t appear suddenly. It grows—through time, through small repeated truths. And once broken, it needs much more time to grow again.
“Did you tell your grandmother?” Eunseo asked.
“No,” Minjun answered. “No one.”
“Dohyun?”
“He doesn’t know either,” Minjun said. “No one knows. You didn’t until yesterday.”
Until yesterday. That was the precise dividing line. Until yesterday he was Minjun; from today he was also Kang Tae-o. Or vice versa. Until yesterday was truth; from today it was a lie. Or vice versa. The boundary flowed like the river water. Nothing was fixed.
“I’m sorry,” Minjun said. Eunseo couldn’t tell if it was genuine sorrow or just words that needed to be said. But what mattered wasn’t the sincerity of the words—it was that they existed at all. It was a signal. Not a signal to ignore everything and move forward, but to stop and think.
“I don’t know either,” Eunseo said. She moved toward the studio door. She had to leave. Had to escape this space, his gaze, the smell of clay. She couldn’t think here.
“Wait,” Minjun followed her outside. Spring sunlight illuminated him. Did he look like Kang Tae-o? Or still like Minjun? Eunseo couldn’t tell. His face existed between light and shadow. Both right, both wrong.
“I’m sincere with you,” Minjun said. “That much is certain.”
“What is sincerity?” Eunseo asked. “Is sincerity shown through a false name really sincere?”
“I think so,” Minjun said. “Because a name doesn’t make the person.”
Eunseo heard those words. They sounded logical. But logic and emotion were different things. Her emotions were chaos. Anger and sadness and longing all at once.
“I need time,” Eunseo said. That was the best she could do. Anything else would be a lie.
“How much?” Minjun asked.
“I don’t know,” Eunseo answered. And she walked toward the riverside path. She didn’t hear him following. That was the right choice. Some things can’t be followed. Sometimes you have to go alone.
The riverside was still spring. Willow branches swayed in the sun. Frogs croaked over the water. The seasons don’t care about human emotion. They continue. Spring becomes summer becomes winter. And within that cycle, humans play out their small dramas.
Eunseo looked at the water. It was flowing. Not the same river as yesterday. Completely different water flowing. That’s why rivers never age—because the water is always new.
What about people? Do they change like water too? Today’s self, not yesterday’s. Tomorrow’s self, not today’s. Then what is a lie? Is it that the past self was false? Or is the present self false?
Eunseo didn’t know. And that uncertainty held her captive.
By evening, Eunseo still hadn’t gone home. She sat on a stone by the river and watched the sun set. The sky turned orange, then gradually red, then finally black.
Stars appeared. Eunseo looked at them. Were they lies too? Would they be different stars if they changed their names? No. A star is a star. No matter what you call it.
She finally stood. Her grandmother would be waiting. She always waits. Without words, without complaint.
On the way home, Eunseo passed the Hacheon store. Mrs. Oboksun was closing up. She waved when she saw Eunseo.
“Where were you, Seoul girl? Why do you look so sad?”
Eunseo didn’t answer. Mrs. Oboksun accepted the silence. The village people were used to questions without answers.
“Did you eat?”
“No,” Eunseo said.
“Then take this. It’s seasoned greens. Good when you have no appetite.” Mrs. Oboksun handed her a small bag. Inside was a mixture of dried radish greens and gochujang. The smell hit Eunseo’s nose—complex. Loneliness and comfort mixed together.
“Thank you,” Eunseo said.
“Don’t thank me with words. Just eat it. That’s thanks enough,” Mrs. Oboksun said.
Eunseo went home. Her grandmother had already set the table. Rice, soup, a few side dishes. Eunseo looked at it. Her grandmother asked nothing. Just gestured to the food.
“Eat.”
Eunseo sat. She picked up a spoon. She ate the rice. She ate the greens her grandmother had given her. They mixed in her mouth. Loneliness and comfort met on her tongue. Then slowly descended.
Her grandmother sat across from her, eating too. She said nothing special. But that silence spoke volumes. It said that no matter what happens, you eat. Not everything can be forgiven, but eating together makes it bearable.
Night deepened. Eunseo lay in bed. She looked at the ceiling. Even in the darkness, she could see the wood grain. Or maybe she imagined it. Now she couldn’t tell the difference.
Was Minjun right? Was Kang Tae-o right? Were both right? Or both wrong?
Eunseo thought: I don’t know. And that not-knowing pressed down on her, slowly, like the weight of the night.
But the night continued. The stars kept shining. The river kept flowing. And tomorrow would be another spring day.
Eunseo didn’t know. And that uncertainty held her captive.