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# Chapter 172: The Meaning of a Place to Return To
Grandmother always measured the water for rice by sight alone. Eun-seo had watched her do it hundreds of times and still couldn’t grasp the exact ratio. Yesterday morning, when the sound of grandmother scooping rice drifted from the kitchen, Eun-seo sat on the veranda listening. The clink of grains against the spoon, the scatter and fall, the soft landing in the bowl—each sound distinct, yet all achingly familiar. The aroma of rice mingled with the dawn air tickled her nose, and with each scoop, her hunger grew.
Eun-seo returned home after her early morning walk with Min-jun, arriving when the spring sunlight streamed through the house most intensely. Dirt still clung to her fingertips—the clay from yesterday night at the pottery workshop, when Min-jun had pressed her hands into the earth. As it dried, the soil had settled deep into the lines of her palms. Before washing, Eun-seo studied it carefully, as if the dirt itself were proof that everything was real, that last night had truly happened. She liked how the earth felt between her fingers.
“You’re out late,” Grandmother said, setting a bowl of rice on the table. Her voice held no reproach—only acknowledgment. Eun-seo answered simply, “Yes,” as she headed to wash her hands. The cool kitchen air brushed her forearms, different from the intense wind she’d felt by the river at dawn. There, the breeze and water had created a refreshing chill; here, it was merely the nature of morning. Yet standing in that coolness, Eun-seo felt genuinely alive.
By the time Eun-seo sat at the table, Grandmother was already eating. Her spoon moved with metronomic precision: rice to mouth, soup to mouth, seaweed placed atop the rice. Everything was repetitive, natural. Eun-seo lifted her own bowl. The rice was still warm. No matter where Eun-seo went or what she did, Grandmother always had warm rice waiting. That was her way—asking not in words, but through rice. Eun-seo savored that warmth, feeling it spread through her mouth and settle gently in her chest.
“You have something on your fingers,” Grandmother observed. Eun-seo examined her hands. Despite washing, the dirt hadn’t completely vanished. Black marks still lingered beneath her nails and in the creases of her knuckles. She studied them quietly, aware of Grandmother’s gaze. Whether it was concern or simple interest, Eun-seo couldn’t tell.
“I was working with pottery,” Eun-seo replied simply. Grandmother nodded, spooning more rice into her mouth. She asked nothing further. This was how Grandmother respected people’s secrets—through silence, through mere presence. Eun-seo wondered what that gesture meant to her. There were many ways to respect someone, but they all shared the same purpose: acknowledging their existence.
As Eun-seo ate, she found herself thinking of last night. Min-jun’s words echoed: “Unfinished things must be destroyed.” She knew what needed destroying—her old life in Seoul, her identity as an editor, everything that had fallen away after the plagiarism scandal. Destruction was easy, as Min-jun had said. The hard part was what came after. What would she build in the ruins? That was what held her back. When she abandoned her Seoul life, what would remain? Would this village life be enough? Or was this too just temporary? The thought made her head ache.
Grandmother lifted her soup bowl, drinking the last of the broth. The gesture was so natural that Eun-seo took it for granted, yet it was anything but ordinary. Every day, Grandmother ate rice, drank soup, ate seaweed. She lived within that repetition. And that repetition was her life. Eun-seo felt a sudden respect for it—the understanding that what seemed mere routine could become something meaningful.
“Grandmother, when did you come to Hacheon-ri?” Eun-seo asked suddenly. Grandmother set down her spoon and looked at her. Her eyes were deep and quiet. Eun-seo felt their weight but couldn’t discern whether they held understanding or pity.
“When I was forty,” Grandmother answered. “Your grandfather bought a house here. So I came.” Her voice was quiet, composed, and somehow reassuring.
“Forty?” Eun-seo did the math. “So you’ve lived here nearly forty years.” The span of time astonished her. She could suddenly feel how long forty years truly was.
“That’s right,” Grandmother said, scooping more rice. “At first, I hated it here. It was too rural, too few people, nothing to do. Coming from Seoul, I thought I’d go mad.” Eun-seo heard her own story in these words. She too had hated Hacheon-ri at first. Sometimes, she still did—the quiet of the countryside, the villagers’ stares, the sense of helplessness.
“When did it change?” Eun-seo asked. Grandmother didn’t answer until she’d finished eating—emptying her rice bowl, taking one more spoonful of soup, wiping her mouth. Only then did she speak.
“It didn’t, really,” Grandmother said slowly. “It wasn’t that I came to like it. I became accustomed to it. Hacheon-ri seeped into my bones. Like eating rice. At first your hands are clumsy, but do it enough times and they move on their own. That’s all.”
Eun-seo turned the words over in her mind. Becoming accustomed. Sinking into your bones. Did that become love? Or was it merely time’s work?
“But Grandmother, did you miss Seoul at first?” Eun-seo pressed. Grandmother laughed—a small, quiet laugh, the sound of someone remembering something long ago. The warmth in that laugh touched Eun-seo’s heart.
“Of course. For the first few years, Seoul kept coming back to me. The night sky of Seoul, the sound of the subway, the perfume in the department stores. Those things. At night, lying in bed, I’d hear Seoul’s sounds. But as time passed, those sounds grew distant. Like tuning a radio dial. Then one day, I realized I couldn’t hear them anymore. Instead, I heard Hacheon-ri’s sounds. The river’s voice, the birds singing, the wind.”
Eun-seo listened intently. Was such a thing truly possible? Could you completely forget Seoul’s sounds? Or did Grandmother still long for them sometimes, in secret?
“But don’t you still think of Seoul sometimes?” Eun-seo asked. Grandmother began clearing the table as she answered.
“Yes. Sometimes,” she admitted. “But I’m not sure if it’s longing or just nostalgia for time that’s passed. I’m here now, and this is my home. That’s enough.”
Eun-seo felt the question Grandmother’s words posed to her: Where are you now? Where do you call home? She wanted to find an answer, but it wasn’t simple. What was a home? Beyond mere physical space, what made a place home?
After breakfast was cleared, Eun-seo sat on the veranda. The persimmon tree still stretched its branches skyward. With spring’s arrival, new leaves had begun to emerge—small, pale green leaves that glimmered in the sunlight. Watching them, Eun-seo tried to think of nothing at all, to simply observe. That alone felt sufficient. The way the tree’s branches swayed gently brought her peace. She felt reassured by its presence, grounded in the reality of being here, now.
She didn’t know how long this time would last. Whether her life in Hacheon-ri would be permanent or eventually end. But as Grandmother had said, perhaps that wasn’t what mattered. I am here now. That is enough. The thought calmed her. She was here. That was enough.
From the direction of the river, birdsong drifted toward her. Spring birds. Birds returning after winter. Listening to them, Eun-seo thought again of Min-jun’s hands from last night—their warmth, what they might mean. But that didn’t matter now. What mattered was being here. That was enough. As she sat with this realization, the birdsong grew louder, and Eun-seo understood what it meant: You are here. That is enough.
Around midday, Oboksoon entered the house, carrying bundles of vegetables from the market. Her conversation with Grandmother drifted out to the veranda.
“Jungsoon, how’s Eun-seo doing these days? Does she see Min-jun often?” Oboksoon’s voice carried clearly. Eun-seo froze. How obvious had she been?
“Hmm,” Grandmother replied tersely, offering nothing more.
“Goodness, did you see that young man’s face? It’s brighter now. Before, he looked like someone buried in dirt. Now it’s as if sunlight has entered him,” Oboksoon continued. “Eun-seo’s having a good influence. On his house, on him.”
Grandmother didn’t respond. Instead, the sound of vegetables being chopped filled the silence—the knife striking the board, leaves being severed. The rhythm continued steadily.
Eun-seo rose from the veranda and retreated to her room, not wanting to face whatever Oboksoon might say. But their voices still reached her there.
“Eun-seo’s been going to Min-jun’s workshop a lot lately, I hear. Do-hyun saw her. Says her hands are covered in clay now,” Oboksoon’s voice persisted. “Isn’t that good? The girl from Seoul is putting down roots in Hacheon-ri.”
“Putting down roots isn’t always good,” Grandmother’s voice finally cut through, firm and decisive. “Once you take root, you can’t leave.”
Oboksoon fell silent. Eun-seo couldn’t gauge how long that silence lasted, but within it lay understanding. Ah. Grandmother worries that I’ll leave. No—that I won’t be able to.
Eun-seo lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling. The water stains of an old house. She didn’t know how long they’d been there, but their presence was undeniable. Like Grandmother. Like Hacheon-ri itself.
And Eun-seo herself was beginning to take root here too. Like the dirt on her fingertips, settling into her heart.
In the afternoon, Eun-seo went to the riverside again. Grandmother said nothing, only: “Come back for dinner.” It wasn’t a restriction—it was acceptance that Eun-seo would return.
The riverside path was filled with spring sunlight. Pale green willows cast shadows on the water. Eun-seo naturally chose the path to Min-jun’s workshop. Going there had become second nature, as if it were her destination, as if it called to her.
She stopped before the workshop door. Inside, the potter’s wheel hummed. Min-jun was working. Listening to that sound, she thought again of last night. “Unfinished things must be destroyed.”
She opened the door. Min-jun was at the wheel, his face slightly dusty with clay. His hands moved over the earth, shaping something. What it would become, she couldn’t yet say. But whatever it was, it came from his hands, his intention.
“You came,” he said without stopping the wheel. His voice was calm, as if he’d known she would.
“I did,” Eun-seo answered. And in that moment, she understood: this was becoming her new routine. Life in Hacheon-ri. Seeing Min-jun. And it wasn’t bad at all.
Evening came, and Eun-seo returned home. Grandmother was cooking. The sound of rice being scooped drifted from the kitchen—the most familiar sound now, the warmest sound.
Grandmother set the table without looking at Eun-seo. But that silence held much: questions, concerns, and acceptance.
As Eun-seo ate, she thought again of Grandmother’s words: “Once you take root, you can’t leave.”
Had she already taken root? Or was she taking root now?
The river’s voice carried from the distance. The night river’s voice—a different tone than daytime. Eun-seo chewed slowly, listening. Everything was slow. Everything was settling into place.
And for the first time, Eun-seo felt completely at ease in Hacheon-ri. As if Grandmother’s life were her own. As if this place was truly home.
She lay in bed later, studying the ceiling’s stains. Old house marks. She didn’t know their age, but she knew they were here. Like Grandmother. Like the river.
And Eun-seo herself was rooting here now. Like clay on her fingertips. Settling into her heart.