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# Chapter 119: The Road Back
Spring drifted through the office window. Cherry blossoms bloomed one by one across Gangnam Station Plaza, and Eun-seo felt a beauty entirely different from spring in Hacheon-ri. Here, the flowers opened in perfect unison, then fell together—too uniform, too controlled. But the trees along the riverbank path in Hacheon-ri budded at their own pace. Some still clung to winter; others already hid spring’s green. Chaotic, yes. But alive. Eun-seo’s gaze followed the falling petals outside, captivated by their harsh, fleeting beauty.
Three manuscript stacks sat on her desk. Two weeks back at work, and the publishing house had welcomed her warmly. But beneath that warmth lay calculation—they needed her. She was meant to restore the company’s image, tarnished by plagiarism scandals over the past four years. Prove herself through work. If she stayed busy enough, there’d be no time to think. Work was the answer.
Her fingers stilled on the keyboard. The first manuscript was a debut author’s mystery novel—solid structure, decent prose. But something was missing. Breath. The sentences felt mechanical, lifeless clay on a potter’s wheel, spinning without the touch of hands. She thought of Min-joon’s hands turning that wheel. Clumsy but careful. Weak but resolute. Everything he made felt alive, each piece of pottery breathing like a living thing.
She closed the manuscript. Outside, spring remained bright. Somewhere, someone was drinking coffee. Someone was falling in love. Someone was missing the place they’d left behind. Her heartbeat slowed. She should call Grandma. Last week she had… no, yesterday. Grandma asked if she was eating well. Eun-seo said yes. Grandma said, “Don’t lie. Eat properly.” Grandmother always knew. Always saw through her lies. Her hand moved toward her phone.
The KakaoTalk list appeared. Do-hyun’s name was at the top. His message from yesterday: — How’s the branch school doing? She hadn’t replied. Now his response came: — Everyone’s doing well. Su-min’s been writing a lot lately. Oh, and Min-joon hyung was at the workshop until dawn yesterday. Working the wheel.
Min-joon. Until dawn. That was his pattern—when he wanted to create something, when he needed to complete something. Her heart quickened. His hands, his touch, reached into her chest.
She set the phone down and picked up the manuscript again. But the words wouldn’t focus. Instead, she saw Hacheon-ri’s nights. So quiet there. Not thousands of lights piercing the sky like Seoul. The moon and stars were truly stars. She’d learned for the first time how many stars existed. Her hand reached toward that night. The memory of it felt precious.
She left the office. Not for the restroom—just to leave. Walking the hallway, she heard her own footsteps. Tap-tap-tap. Rhythmic. Fast. Had her footsteps sounded like this in Hacheon-ri? No. There, the wooden floor’s creaking was louder. Warmer. She heard it now—the floor groaning beneath her steps, as if Hacheon-ri’s creaking floorboards were reaching toward her.
At the break room coffee machine, she stopped. Warm steam rose. Coffee’s aroma. But different. Seoul’s coffee was extracted too perfectly. A system, not a beverage. What about Grandma’s corn silk tea, boiled over fire? Heat still clinging to it, the corn’s sweetness spreading slowly on her tongue. Imperfect. But alive. She could taste it now—preserved in her memory.
Her phone rang. An unknown number. She hesitated, then answered.
“Hello?”
“Is this Eun-seo? This is the Hacheon-ri Health Center. Um…”
Her hand stiffened. “Is something wrong with Grandma?”
“Oh, no. She’s fine. It’s just that her blood pressure was a bit elevated at yesterday’s checkup. Nothing serious, but we needed to inform family.”
Relief flooded through her at those words. Grandma was safe. “I understand. Thank you.”
“Also, your grandmother mentions you often. Asks how you’re doing in Seoul. Whether you’re eating well these days.”
Something caught in Eun-seo’s throat. She answered, but couldn’t remember what she’d said. After hanging up, she sat on the break room sofa for a long time.
Grandma was thinking of me. All this time. Even while I was gone.
She didn’t return to the office. Instead, she left. No thought of reporting to her boss. 3:45 PM. Still hours until quitting time, but she walked. Down into Gangnam Station. People rushed past—earbuds in, eyes on phones, moving only toward their destinations. Who were they? What were they doing? Were they happy? Watching them, Eun-seo realized how long she’d lived exactly like this. She was different now. She didn’t belong with them anymore.
She didn’t take the subway. Instead, she emerged into Gangnam Station Plaza. Cherry blossoms scattered. Petals falling one by one. Time made visible. She opened her hand and waited. One landed on her finger. So light. So soft. Gone too quickly. She watched it and thought about how fast time moves. She thought about what she needed to do.
She opened her phone again. Still no reply to Do-hyun. She typed slowly.
— Min-joon worked until dawn?
His response came quickly.
— Yes, seems like he’s making something important. Oh, Eun-seo. When can you come down? Grandma keeps looking for you. She seems lonely these days.
Eun-seo’s fingers froze. Lonely. The word struck her chest. Grandma was lonely. Because of her. Because she’d left. And Min-joon was making something until dawn. Something important.
She set the phone down and looked at the petals again. Spring was passing. Seasons don’t stop. Time doesn’t stop. And she couldn’t stop either. She’d finally understood that.
She picked up the phone again.
— I’ll come down this weekend. Thanks, Do-hyun. And… don’t tell Min-joon.
His reply:
— Understood. We’ll wait. And Eun-seo, welcome home. This place isn’t right without you.
She set the phone down and closed her eyes. Gangnam’s spring sun warmed her face. But that warmth, Seoul’s warmth, nothing here could hold her anymore.
She’d already taken root elsewhere. On that riverbank path. In Grandma’s creaking house. In Min-joon’s workshop, where silence speaks everything.
She stood. And walked. Across Gangnam Plaza, toward the subway, through this perfectly designed city. But her heart had already fled elsewhere.
Cold Seoul spring brushed her cheek—nothing like Hacheon-ri’s spring breeze. This wind shattered between buildings, carrying exhaust fumes. She descended into the station.
The platform screen read: 2 minutes until the next train. She sat on a bench. Here, two minutes felt long. In Hacheon-ri, two minutes… time didn’t exist that way. Time flowed differently there. That’s what she’d been searching for.
The train arrived. She boarded, wedged among strangers, and wondered if she was really here. Really working this job. Really living this life.
No. This isn’t my life. This is someone else’s life.
She closed her eyes. Two more days until Friday. She’d endure them. She’d read manuscripts and breathe life into them, because that was her work, her skill. But she knew it wasn’t enough. Work alone couldn’t sustain her. Clay alone can’t become pottery without a potter’s hands.
And Min-joon’s hands. They were shaping her. Slowly. Carefully. Without words.
The train rumbled. She didn’t listen. Instead, she heard it in her mind—the sound of Hacheon-ri’s river. Flowing water. And beneath it, Min-joon’s breath.
Friday was far away. But now she knew: waiting wasn’t so bad. Time flows even while you wait. Your heart grows. And one day you realize you’ve already changed.
She looked out at Seoul. Everyone moving in the same direction. But she alone was heading elsewhere. And knowing it was her choice—her first real choice for herself—warmed her chest.
Two days until Friday. She could endure it. Because that place was calling her now. Grandma was calling. Do-hyun was waiting. And Min-joon… Min-joon was making something until dawn.
Let it be for me.
She whispered it. The train kept moving. But her heart had already left for that other place. The place with the riverbank path. Where spring comes slowly.