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# Chapter 167: How Memory Flows in Water
Eun-seo stopped on the riverbank path. 5:47 AM. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but the sky was shifting from black to deep blue. That gray in between—that was her favorite time. A gray where nothing was certain, where everything remained possible. The morning air carried moisture rising from the water all night, and it stung her nostrils. Along with the smell of stone from the riverbank, the sound of flowing water drove straight through her ears into her mind. Spring had come after winter, and the current ran faster now. Melted snow must have flowed into the tributaries of the Seomjin River. Eun-seo wanted to go down to the water and soak her bare feet in it, but she knew she couldn’t. The water was still cold; her legs would go numb. Instead, she sat on a stone by the river. Its surface still held the chill of night, and it sent a cool sensation through her.
Earth from yesterday still clung to her fingertips. Between her nails, in the creases of her fingers. Eun-seo opened her hand and gazed at the river. As the dawn light touched the back of her hand, the dirt marks became clearer. Like boundary lines on a map. Like some kind of symbol. Things made by Min-jun’s hands. Her brain replayed yesterday. The ceramics in the studio. Each curve and color. And she imagined how his hands had moved while creating them. Eun-seo didn’t know how to make pottery, but watching the way he moved his hands was enough. Because his hands were speaking. Those hands couldn’t lie. Along with the sound of the river, the dawn air touched her face indirectly. Moisture gathered on her eyebrows, on her lips. As if someone were trying to make her cry.
Words from a radio kept coming back to her. “I lied every single day for five years.” Eun-seo thought, watching the water. What was a lie? There were lies told in words, lies told in silence. And lies told through action. Could there be lies told through hands? No—hands couldn’t lie. Hands simply followed faithfully what the brain wanted. If hands trembled, that wasn’t a lie but anxiety. If hands slipped, that wasn’t a lie but weakness. Min-jun’s hands hadn’t trembled. In every moment she’d seen, his hands were precise. Whether making pottery or holding her hand. His hands were saying exactly what he wanted. His hands couldn’t lie. But his hands were still speaking to her now. Sending her some kind of message.
Eun-seo clenched her hand into a fist. The dirt marks pressed deeper into her fingers. As if she were gripping some secret tight. The air by the river was cold. Dawn air always was. Unlike the air warmed during the day, the morning breeze carried moisture that had risen from the cold water all night. That moisture gathered on Eun-seo’s face. Warm breath came from her nose, and she could hear it evaporate as it met the air. The sound she heard. Min-jun’s footsteps. Until she heard his footsteps, she seemed to have been alone. Lost in thought. But now it was different. Now Min-jun was beside her.
“Why’d you come here?” It was Min-jun. He didn’t seem surprised to see her. As if he’d expected to find her at this time, in this place. His clothes were thin. A light shirt that didn’t match the spring temperature. There was dirt on his chest. He’d come from the studio. He’d been working through the night, it seemed. His hands were still covered in clay. From his fingertips to his wrists, all of it covered. Like a priest who’d performed some ritual. His hands were speaking to her. Telling her something. She was listening to what his hands said. What were his hands saying? What was he telling her?
“You’ve been making pottery all night?” Eun-seo asked. Min-jun nodded. His eyes were full of exhaustion. The dark circles under them were clear even in the dawn light. But his eyes were alive. Like some kind of flame burning. His eyes were speaking to her. Telling her something. She could hear what his eyes were saying. What were his eyes saying? What was he telling her?
“I don’t know. My hands were moving. My brain couldn’t keep up. What it was becoming, what it would be. My hands knew.” Min-jun spoke softly, his voice low and gentle. His voice brought her comfort. His voice made her understand what his hands were saying. What were his hands saying? What was he telling her? She looked at his hands, and they spoke to her. What were they saying? What was he telling her?
Eun-seo opened her hand again. The dirt marks were still there. She wanted to wash her hands in the river, but she decided against it. She didn’t want that earth to disappear. She didn’t want to erase yesterday’s memory.
A sound came from the riverbank. Eun-seo lifted her head. It wasn’t common to see someone walking by the river before 6 AM. But the rhythm of those footsteps was familiar. Slow but steady. Uniform like the sound of a pottery wheel turning.
“Why’d you come here?”
It was Min-jun. He didn’t seem surprised to see her. As if he’d expected to find her at this time, in this place. His clothes were thin. A light shirt that didn’t match the spring temperature. There was dirt on his chest. He’d come from the studio. He’d been working through the night, it seemed.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Eun-seo said.
“Me neither,” Min-jun replied.
He sat on the stone beside her. Not too close, not too far. His arm almost touched hers.
“What were you doing?”
“Pottery.”
“All night?”
“Yeah.”
Eun-seo studied him. His face was heavy with exhaustion. The dark circles under his eyes were clear even in the dawn light. But his eyes were alive. Like some kind of flame burning.
“What were you making?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“My hands were moving. My brain couldn’t keep up. What it was becoming, what it would be. My hands knew.”
Eun-seo looked at his hands. They were covered in clay too. From fingertips to wrists, all of it covered. Like a priest who’d performed some ritual.
“I think hands can’t lie,” Eun-seo said. It wasn’t a question. It was a confirmation.
Min-jun looked at his own hands. As if they belonged to someone else. A long silence fell. Only the sound of the river could be heard. That sound repeated in the same tone. Like a mantra being chanted.
“Hands are slaves to the brain,” Min-jun said slowly.
“Then what if the brain lies?”
“Then the hands lie too.”
Eun-seo’s chest sank. That wasn’t the answer she wanted. She wanted to believe his hands were truthful. She wanted to believe they were pure. Especially his hands.
“Then what about you? Is your brain lying?”
“I don’t know,” Min-jun said, looking at the river.
“If the brain is lying, the hands follow that lie. Hands can’t deceive the brain. That’s why hands always reveal what the brain truly wants. No, that’s wrong. Hands always do what the brain wants. Even if the brain tries to deceive, the hands know that deception before the brain does.”
As Eun-seo listened, she remembered him making pottery. The moment his hands touched the clay, his eyes changed. He became someone else. Or perhaps he became himself for the first time.
“So what is your hand telling you?” she asked.
Min-jun didn’t answer for a long time. The dawn wind from the river passed between them. It carried moisture from the water and dampened their faces. The moisture that had gathered at Eun-seo’s eyes flowed down her cheeks. She couldn’t tell if it was tears or the river’s mist.
“What is my hand saying?” Min-jun asked again. It was a question—but not to Eun-seo. It was a question to himself.
“I don’t know. My hands don’t know either,” Eun-seo said.
“Then when will we know?”
“…When the pottery is finished.”
Eun-seo swallowed. There was an urgency in his words. No, it wasn’t urgency. It was desperation. As if he were losing something. Or searching for something.
“What about you? What is your hand telling you?” Min-jun looked at her hand. Her hand covered in earth.
“My hand is…” Eun-seo opened her hand. “My hand is telling me it wants to touch what your hands have made.”
When those words left her mouth, Min-jun’s eyes changed. As if a light had turned on. No—that light had already been burning. Eun-seo was just seeing it for the first time.
“Then what is this?” Min-jun took her hand. His was warm. Covered in clay, but beneath it, she felt his body heat. Eun-seo came to her senses in that warmth.
“What did you do at the studio yesterday?”
“I looked at the pottery.”
“And then?”
“I just… was there. Without you.”
Eun-seo’s voice grew small.
“Is that all?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re lying.”
Eun-seo raised her head. Min-jun’s eyes were fixed on her. They were like the eyes he had while making pottery. Focused eyes. Pure eyes. Eyes that couldn’t let in a lie.
“Yesterday at the studio… I thought about you. All night.”
“And then?”
“And then…”
Eun-seo fell silent. After that, she’d woken at her grandmother’s house, listened to the radio, thought about someone who’d been lied to for five years, and then she was here. But she couldn’t say all of that. Because it all connected to one anxiety.
“I was anxious,” she said.
“About what?”
“You.”
Min-jun gripped her hand more tightly.
“Me?”
“Yeah. Are you… real?”
When that question left her lips, Min-jun’s face hardened. As if someone had thrown cold water on it. His eyes were no longer the eyes of someone making pottery. They were the eyes of someone losing something.
“Why are you asking that?”
“At the studio yesterday… looking at your pottery, I thought. What if all this is a lie? I thought your hands couldn’t lie, but still… you said if the brain lies, the hands follow too.”
“Do you think I’m lying with my brain?”
“I don’t know. But… why do I keep feeling anxious? Why do I keep…”
Eun-seo couldn’t finish the sentence. Because she didn’t know the reason. Her body, her hands—something was telling her something was wrong.
Min-jun let go of her hand. Slowly. Reluctantly. As his hand left hers, Eun-seo felt the warmth disappear. Like a light going out.
“I’ve never lied to you,” Min-jun said.
“Not in words.”
“Then in action?”
“Not in action either.”
“Then in silence?”
Min-jun didn’t answer. His silence itself was the answer.
Eun-seo looked at the river. The current was getting faster. As dawn deepened, the water seemed to be urging something. As if awakening the passage of time. As if announcing that some change was happening.
“There’s something,” Eun-seo said. “Something with you.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a certainty.
Min-jun’s body went rigid. As if he were being tortured. No—it wasn’t torture. It was confronting the truth.
“Yeah,” Min-jun said.
“What is it?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Not yet.”
“When?”
Min-jun looked at her. His eyes changed again. No longer the eyes of someone making pottery, no longer the eyes of someone losing something. They were the eyes of someone making a decision. Heavy eyes. Eyes full of responsibility.
“When the pottery is finished. I’ll tell you then.”
The dawn by the river deepened. The sun still hadn’t risen, but the sky was growing brighter. Eun-seo and Min-jun sat side by side on the stone, listening to the river flow.
That sound repeated in the same tone. As if holding some secret. As if knowing everything but saying nothing.
Eun-seo looked at her hand. The earth was still there. And now it was mixed with the earth from Min-jun’s hand. Indistinguishable.
Until the pottery is finished.
Those words embedded themselves in her mind. And she was slowly, slowly beginning to understand what they meant.