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# Chapter 14: The Temperature of Lies
Eun-seo stood in the convenience store beside the bus stop, reaching for a caffeinated drink. Each time her fingers touched the cold glass of the refrigerator, a chill ran through her skin—like plunging her hand into water. More than two months in Hacheon-ri, and she still woke at three or four in the morning. Her grandmother said it was Seoul clinging to her body, but Eun-seo knew her insomnia ran deeper than that. It came from somewhere darker. The predawn air still carried the bite of night, and that cold scraped against her skin.
The ceramic piece Kang Min-jun had given her yesterday sat on her grandmother’s desk. Eun-seo had picked it up and set it down countless times, the texture shifting beneath her touch. Sometimes it felt warm. Sometimes strangely cold. She knew the temperature came from her own hands, not the clay—yet she kept trying to read Min-jun’s intention in that change. That’s the problem, she thought. You’re someone who reads words, not people. But now you keep trying to.
Her fingers traced the ceramic’s edge, and it felt like touching his skin.
The cashier waited by the register. Eun-seo set down the Americano she’d been holding. Green label. The most common kind in Korean convenience stores. She’d drunk the same thing in the underground passages of Gangnam Station—a signal there of speed, efficiency, constant motion. But the same drink tasted different here. Because she could watch it cool slowly. The fresh coffee smell mixed with the humid morning air, and goosebumps rose on her skin.
“You come by often,” the young clerk said. Early twenties, probably a student from the village near the branch school. His voice was low, careful not to draw attention.
“Yeah,” Eun-seo answered quietly. “Can’t sleep at night.”
The clerk didn’t seem surprised. Hacheon-ri people were like that—they didn’t ask questions or offer advice. They simply accepted. Eun-seo had found that strange at first, but now she understood it as a kind of warmth. When he handed her the drink, their fingers brushed. For a moment, their temperatures aligned.
She left the store and headed toward the riverbank path. 5:30 AM. That hour before sunrise was special only in Hacheon-ri. Mist hung over the water, and through it came the calls of birds. Eun-seo didn’t deliberately wake to walk this path, but once awake, her feet led her here. The riverside grass was still wet, dampening her steps with each footfall.
But today someone was already there.
Kang Min-jun stood on the embankment, small ceramic fragments in his hands. At first, Eun-seo didn’t understand what she was seeing. He was throwing them into the river one by one. With each splash, she watched the mechanical movement of his hands—not creation, but destruction. The delicate fingers she’d seen in his studio yesterday moved like a machine.
Eun-seo’s feet stopped. He hadn’t noticed her. She turned quietly and left, moving faster, disappearing into the mist before he could see her.
It was past seven when she reached the branch school. Teacher Park Do-hyeon was already tidying the classroom. He looked exhausted. The Hacheon branch school had only six students, yet Do-hyeon was principal, homeroom teacher, and administrator all at once. Sometimes he prepared meals. Sometimes he fixed the bathroom. His hands never stopped moving, and Eun-seo felt his relentless diligence.
“Oh, Eun-seo. Early morning,” Do-hyeon greeted her, his tone bright despite the dark circles beneath his eyes. She noticed his voice was slightly weaker than usual.
“Could you look at Su-min’s diary again?” she asked quietly.
This had become routine over the past few weeks. Su-min only showed her writing to Eun-seo. When the girl had told Do-hyeon, “I don’t want you to see it because you’ll grade it,” he’d gone silent for a long time before asking Eun-seo to read it instead.
Do-hyeon handed her a small notebook with a worn pink cover. Eun-seo opened the first page. Su-min’s handwriting was clean, precise—and reading it, Eun-seo felt herself entering the girl’s world.
Today I went to Uncle Min-jun’s studio. He was making a bowl, and his hands were so fast. Yesterday his hands were slow, but today they were different. Like he became a different person. His face was smiling, but his eyes weren’t. Mom says when that happens, something hurts inside. But what hurts Uncle? He’s always alone. Is being alone what hurts?
Eun-seo’s hand stopped. The precision of a twelve-year-old’s observation was startling. Su-min had sensed the change in Min-jun’s hands, described it as becoming “a different person.”
“Well?” Do-hyeon asked.
“It’s good. Really good,” Eun-seo said. “Can you tell me about Su-min? Her parents…”
Do-hyeon sighed. “Her mother works in Seoul. Her father… well, from what Su-min says, it’s like he doesn’t exist. Her mother rarely gets time off. So her grandmother raises her, but grandmother’s been very sick lately.”
Listening, Eun-seo thought of her own childhood. Her grandmother had taken care of her too—warming her food, dressing her, warning her to be careful not to catch her fingers in doors. She’d taken it for granted then. Only now did she understand how much love that was.
“I think Su-min wants to write,” Eun-seo said. “Really wants to.”
Do-hyeon nodded. “That’s true. But she won’t show anyone at school. Not me. Only you.”
Eun-seo didn’t know how to respond. She only read Su-min’s words, didn’t do anything special. Just read them, occasionally asked her to reread a line or two. Was that enough?
But looking at Do-hyeon’s face, she saw hope in his eyes. His smile gave her strength.
That afternoon, Eun-seo sat on her grandmother’s porch, holding the ceramic piece Min-jun had given her. The surface was smooth, but inside, fingerprints remained—someone’s touch preserved forever. She turned it over in her hands, imagining his hands shaping it. The clay, the wheel turning, fingers pressing the interior, thumbs smoothing the rim.
But what had she seen at the riverbank at dawn? He’d been destroying those same pieces, throwing them into the water.
It’s a lie, she thought. What he said yesterday with his eyes—that was a lie.
As an editor, Eun-seo was good at detecting lies. In text, a lie felt like sand in food—the word placement became awkward, the sentence rhythm broke. People were the same. When someone lied, their temperature changed.
Min-jun’s temperature had changed. More precisely, he’d tried to hide it. When he’d handed her the ceramic, his voice was low and calm, as if nothing was wrong. But Eun-seo knew better. It was a lie.
Her grandmother emerged from the kitchen with a cold cloth. “You didn’t sleep again. Your face is pale.”
“I’m fine,” Eun-seo answered—and immediately knew she was lying too.
Her grandmother didn’t accept the lie. She sat beside Eun-seo on the porch, an arm’s length away. Close, but not too close.
“Is it because of a man?” her grandmother asked. Blunt, but not unkind.
Eun-seo didn’t answer. Her grandmother took that as an answer.
“Do you know what that boy was doing in Seoul?”
Eun-seo shook her head. Min-jun’s past remained a mystery. All she knew was that five years ago, he’d destroyed all his work and come here.
Her grandmother sighed. “I don’t know exactly. But when he first came, his eyes were dead.” She pointed beneath her own eyes. “Dark here. Like someone had beaten him.”
Eun-seo remembered Min-jun’s face from yesterday. His expression was blank, but his eyes looked backward—toward the past, not the present.
“I don’t know what he destroyed,” her grandmother continued, “but he was trying to rebuild here. For five years, that’s what he did. But…”
She paused.
“But?” Eun-seo prompted.
“But sometimes it seems like he still wants to destroy. Like he wants to break what he’s made all over again.”
Eun-seo’s grip on the ceramic tightened. Her fingers pressed into the clay, feeling Min-jun’s fingerprints beneath. They were traces of the past—of love or loss, of time that had shaped him.
At six in the evening, Eun-seo went to Hacheon Trading Company, run by Mrs. Oh Bok-soon. It was market day, and the woman was making kimbap in a small kitchen in the back. The evening market was still going strong as the sun set.
“Oh, Eun-seo! What’s wrong with your face?” Mrs. Oh pulled her finger from her mouth, rice clinging to it. “Did you stay up all night?”
“No, just…” Eun-seo trailed off.
“It’s because of Min-jun, isn’t it?” Mrs. Oh cut right through it.
Eun-seo stared at her. The intuition of Hacheon-ri people was remarkable. Like they all shared a telepathy.
“Did Min-jun come to his studio yesterday?” Mrs. Oh asked.
“Yes. He gave me a ceramic piece.”
Mrs. Oh laughed—but it was sad laughter. “Don’t take what that boy gives you, Eun-seo. That’s not a gift. That’s a goodbye.”
Eun-seo’s face went pale. “What?”
“He’s leaving. Going back to Seoul.”
At ten o’clock at night, Eun-seo stood outside Min-jun’s studio. The light was on. Through the window, she could see his silhouette. He was still making something, his hands moving. But the speed was wrong—fast, rough, like he was hitting something.
She opened the door and went in.
Min-jun looked up. His eyes saw her, but it was as if she wasn’t reflected in them. Like looking at a ghost.
“You’re leaving?” Eun-seo asked. Her voice was calm, but anger lived beneath it.
He didn’t answer.
“Can’t you answer?”
“Yes,” he said shortly.
“Why?”
“I’ve already decided.”
As she heard those words, Eun-seo felt her heart remember something. The sensation of betrayal. The same feeling from four years ago, when the plagiarism scandal broke. When she’d believed in someone and found it was all a lie. That temperature.
“You lied,” she said. “Yesterday. With your eyes.”
Min-jun looked at her. Now there was emotion in his eyes. She didn’t know what kind.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
And those two words shattered her chest.