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# Chapter 240: Things That Return
Grandmother woke early. The moment she did, Eun-seo’s eyes opened to the smell of rice. The sound of miso soup simmering, eggs frying, the steam rising from freshly cooked rice—she didn’t need to check the clock. It was six in the morning. That smell never lied. Eun-seo got out of bed. The memory of yesterday at the river was still vivid. The feeling of holding Tae-oh’s hand lingered on her fingertips.
When they’d left the riverbank, the sun was already sinking behind the mountains. As the sky turned orange and pink, Tae-oh had spoken for the first time. “I should visit your grandmother’s house.” His voice was low and gentle. Eun-seo still couldn’t quite understand what he meant. A visit? A greeting? Or something more? She nodded instead of answering. “Alright.” That was all. They left the river. Their hands separated. They returned to everyday life. But something had changed. The density of the air, the texture of silence, the flow of the river itself.
Eun-seo got out of bed and dressed in yesterday’s clothes—the same pants, the same shirt. The river’s scent probably still clung to them. When she entered the kitchen, Grandmother was skimming foam from the miso soup with careful hands. Eun-seo looked at her face. When had the wrinkles become so deep? At the corners of her eyes, her forehead, her neck—time had left its mark everywhere. Yet Grandmother’s voice remained steady. “Eat. The soup will taste bad if it gets cold.”
Eun-seo sat at the table. Rice, soup, rolled egg, three kinds of vegetables. A simple meal, but made with care.
Grandmother prepared breakfast like this every day—before Eun-seo came, and now that she was here. Eun-seo put rice in her mouth. Grandmother asked, “Where did you go yesterday?”
“To the river.”
“Alone?”
“No.”
Grandmother lifted her spoon to her mouth the way she always had. Quietly, wordlessly, understanding everything without pretending to understand. “With that young man?”
Eun-seo chewed her rice slowly, taking time before answering. Grandmother waited—not impatient, but clear in her expectation.
“Yes.”
One word. That was all. Grandmother smiled—not a full smile, just the corners of her mouth lifting slightly. Eun-seo couldn’t tell what it meant. Approval? Worry? Or simple confirmation?
“That workshop of his has nothing,” Grandmother said.
Eun-seo’s spoon stopped. “What do you mean, nothing?”
“Rice. Side dishes. People.” Grandmother took another spoonful of rice as if stating an obvious fact. “That young man does everything alone. Cooks alone, makes his own side dishes. And he doesn’t have many people around him.”
Eun-seo understood what Grandmother meant. She was worried about Tae-oh. Or worried about Eun-seo. No—both.
“I brought him a bundle of vegetables a few days ago,” Grandmother continued. “He took it, thanked me. But that was it. He didn’t ask for anything else afterward. Didn’t come by again.”
Eun-seo began to understand. How could she explain Tae-oh? He wanted to be alone. But it wasn’t solitude—it was isolation. The distance between those two things, how vast and deep it was, Eun-seo was only now beginning to grasp.
“What is that person?” Grandmother asked, as if finishing a sentence Eun-seo couldn’t complete.
“He… makes pottery.”
“Does making pottery mean he doesn’t need to eat?”
Grandmother’s question was simple. But it contained everything. Eun-seo took another spoonful of rice instead of answering.
Breakfast continued quietly. Grandmother asked nothing more. Instead, she added more food to Eun-seo’s bowl, poured more rice, ladled more soup. Eun-seo ate in silence, with gratitude.
After finishing, Eun-seo washed the dishes. Grandmother went to the back garden to check on the persimmon tree. Eun-seo watched her back, which seemed more bent than before. Or perhaps it had always been that way, and she was only now seeing it properly.
After washing up, Eun-seo sat on the veranda. Sunlight stretched across the wooden floor. Dust danced in the light—tiny particles with no origin, no destination. Like herself.
Her phone rang. It was Do-hyun.
“Eun-seo? Do you have time right now?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Can you come to the branch school? Soo-min is… something’s off.”
Eun-seo jumped up. Soo-min? Off? Those words didn’t belong together. Soo-min was always quiet, always composed, always fine.
“I’m coming now.”
She put on her shoes without even telling Grandmother.
The branch school sat at the highest point in Hacheon-ri. Following the mountain path, you’d see a gray wall, and beyond it, an old building. The door was open.
Do-hyun was waiting at the entrance. “Thanks for coming. Sorry it’s so sudden. Soo-min hasn’t said a word all morning.”
Eun-seo removed her shoes and entered the classroom.
Soo-min sat by the window, looking out. Or looking at nothing. Eun-seo sat beside her slowly, carefully.
“Soo-min.”
The girl turned. Her eyes were red. She’d been crying. Or was still crying.
“What happened?”
Eun-seo asked directly. Soo-min was the kind of child who would answer such questions.
“Yesterday… Mom called.”
“From Seoul?”
“And?”
“She… she wants to take me away. Because of school. She says it’ll be hard to get into university from a branch school.”
Eun-seo felt the weight of those words. Like Tae-oh’s name, heavy. But a different kind of heaviness. The weight of the future. Of choice. Of departure.
“What did you tell her?”
“I haven’t decided yet. Mom said to think about it. Dad will probably object, but Mom says she’ll convince him.”
Soo-min’s voice was flat, emotionless. A defense mechanism—a way of hiding what she felt.
“What do you want to do?”
Eun-seo asked.
Soo-min didn’t answer. Instead, she looked back out the window. The mountains of Hacheon-ri were visible. The green was so deep—the green of late spring, moving toward summer.
“I like it here,” Soo-min said quietly.
“Then tell your mom that.”
“Mom is… thinking about my future. She says I’ll regret it later if I stay here.”
Eun-seo thought of her own past as she listened. Seoul. The publishing house. The plagiarism scandal. And her escape to Hacheon-ri. No—not escape. Return.
“Regret… you can feel that anywhere. In Seoul or here.”
“What do you mean…?”
“Soo-min, what do you want to do right now? What do you want to do in the future? Can you only do it in Seoul?”
Soo-min looked at her. There was something in those eyes—a depth beyond her years. As if she already knew all the answers but was waiting for someone to speak them aloud.
“I… I want to write.”
“And then?”
“I can write in Seoul or here.”
Her voice grew firmer.
“Right. So tell your mom that. That you can write here too. And…”
Eun-seo paused. What else should she say? That this place is good? That people here are waiting for you? Such words felt too naive, too sentimental.
Instead, Eun-seo took Soo-min’s hand. The way she’d held Tae-oh’s hand.
“Soo-min, you’re already writing. You showed me.”
“That was just… a diary.”
“A diary is writing. And it was good writing.”
It wasn’t a lie. What Soo-min had shown her was genuinely good—mature and honest and beautiful for something written in a child’s hand.
“If I go to Seoul… I’ll have to go to hagwons. Mom said there’s a good one. A famous instructor.”
“There’s something more important than a famous instructor. Knowing what you want. That’s what matters most.”
Do-hyun came through the door.
“Eun-seo, thanks. I thought Soo-min might talk to you.”
His expression was heavy with worry. The branch school’s closure looming, and now a student transferring. Everything weighed on him.
“Soo-min, you need to listen to your mom. Think about it. And decide. Whatever you decide, that’s your choice. Remember that.”
Soo-min nodded. But her eyes remained on the window, on the mountains of Hacheon-ri, on the green of spring.
Eun-seo left the branch school and walked back down the mountain path. Between the trees, she could see the river—the same river where she’d sat with Tae-oh yesterday. Spring was passing there too, moving toward summer. Everything was flowing. Like the seasons, like the river, like time.
Her phone rang again. An unknown number. She answered.
“Hello?”
“Ah, Eun-seo? This is the publishing house. Hello.”
Eun-seo’s heart stopped.
“Yes?”
“Our president has been looking for you. We have a new project, and we need your help.”
Eun-seo found herself standing by the river, though she didn’t remember walking there. The water brushed past her feet—cold, soft, endlessly flowing.
“What kind of project?”
“A project to discover and develop new writers. The work you used to do. The president says he can’t do it without you.”
Eun-seo watched the river without speaking. It kept flowing, not knowing where it was going.
“Just think about it and call back. This is your number, right?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Then think it over. We can wait for you anytime.”
The call ended. Eun-seo lowered her phone. Her hand was trembling—trembling like the river.
The stones along the riverbank glimmered in the sunlight. She’d touched these stones yesterday, holding Tae-oh’s hand. And they were still here now. Unchanged, not flowing away, simply existing.
Eun-seo walked along the river, not knowing where she was going. Like the river itself. Like the way water flows.
On the other side of the river, smoke rose from the pottery workshop. Tae-oh was firing something. Or doing nothing at all. Eun-seo stopped.
Should she go back to Seoul? Start the new project? Or stay here? Like Soo-min, she stood at a crossroads.
The river kept flowing, brushing past her feet. As if that were the answer.