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# Chapter 173: Winter’s Choice
Eun-seo stood before the pottery studio. Cold wind chafed her fingertips raw. Through the window, she could see Min-jun shaping clay, his hands and face smudged with earth. He moved as though the clay were part of him—naturally, without hesitation. She watched him for a long time, not merely observing his movements, but witnessing his very existence.
When she opened the door, warm air spilled out, carrying with it the scent of clay and water. Eun-seo breathed it in deeply. It was a familiar smell now. Months ago, on her first visit, it had felt foreign. Now it belonged to her world. Pottery pieces lined the studio walls—vessels shaped from earth. Beyond the windows, autumn leaves scattered in the wind.
“You came?” Min-jun asked without wiping his clay-covered hands. His voice was calm as always. But Eun-seo knew what lay beneath that calm—something like a river, invisible yet constantly flowing. There was a subtle tremor in his words.
“Yeah.” Her answer was brief. They didn’t need many words in this space. Min-jun returned to the clay, shaping it further. Eun-seo’s eyes followed his hands, watching as form emerged from formlessness. What it would become, no one could say—perhaps not even Min-jun himself. His hands simply obeyed their own logic, guided by something deeper than intention. The kiln hummed softly in the background.
“How’s Grandmother?” he asked, his hands never stopping their work.
“She’s preparing dinner.” Eun-seo paused. “What are you making today?” Her voice carried a lighter tone.
“What do you think?” Min-jun smiled, lines deepening at the corners of his eyes.
Eun-seo considered his question. This was how Min-jun always asked—never providing answers, only inviting her to find them herself. At first, it had frustrated her. Now she understood its meaning. It was a form of trust. Faith that she could discover her own truth. His hands moved like a musician playing an instrument.
“It looks incomplete,” she said, watching his hands work.
Min-jun laughed quietly. “Incompleteness isn’t the problem. Dishonesty is.” His voice was low and gentle.
Eun-seo turned this over in her mind. Incompleteness and dishonesty—they were different things entirely. One was process; the other was intention. What had she been doing in Seoul? After the plagiarism scandal, every time she read, she searched only for lies. She doubted the author’s intent, questioned their sincerity. That doubt had spread like poison until she doubted even her own choices. And that doubt had paralyzed her.
“I can see the sincerity in it. That’s why it’s incomplete,” she said, her voice steadier now.
Min-jun returned to the clay, submerging his hands at a different angle. The form shifted gradually, becoming softer. The kiln’s hum grew louder.
“Did you know that?” he asked, his gaze finding hers.
Eun-seo didn’t answer. Instead, she stood beside him, and together they watched the clay. That was her answer. Time moved strangely in the studio—there was no clock on the walls. Min-jun didn’t measure time in minutes. Only until his hands stopped. Only until his heart found stillness.
“A publisher in Seoul called,” Eun-seo said suddenly, as though the words had been waiting to escape for a long time. Her voice was softer now.
Min-jun’s hands stilled. Just for a moment. Then they resumed their work.
“What did they say?”
“They offered me the editor position again. Different team this time. Working with new writers—nothing to do with the scandal.” Her voice sounded more settled, though her hands trembled slightly.
She felt her heartbeat as she spoke—irregular, uncertain, as though even she hadn’t decided.
“What did you tell them?”
“I haven’t answered yet.”
Min-jun withdrew his hands from the clay and went to wash them. As he passed, his shoulder brushed against hers. Whether intentional or accidental, Eun-seo knew it didn’t matter. What mattered was that it had happened.
“Why did you tell me?” he asked as water ran over his hands.
“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. She truly didn’t understand why she’d spoken those words aloud. Had she wanted him to know? Or was she trying to make sense of her own heart?
Min-jun returned, his face still bearing traces of clay—on one cheek, across his forehead. He hadn’t bothered to wash it all away.
“Do you want to go?” he asked. His voice was low and gentle.
The question stopped her. “Do you want to go?”—not “Should you go?” or “Don’t you think you should?” Just that simple, honest question.
“I don’t know,” she answered again, with complete honesty.
“Then don’t go.”
His words hung in the studio air. Could something so simple exist? Something so clear?
“Why not?”
“Because you’re not finished yet.”
Min-jun returned to the clay, submerging his hands once more. Eun-seo watched his back. It said nothing. And yet it said everything.
Eun-seo left the studio. Cold air struck her face—winter air. Not quite the full grip of winter yet, but it was coming. The season was turning. And with it came a pressure she couldn’t ignore. Time was passing. A decision was required.
Walking, she looked at her hands. Clay still clung to them—beneath her nails, in the creases of her fingers. That clay was proof. Proof she had been here. Proof she hadn’t been alone.
When she arrived at Grandmother’s house, dinner was already prepared. Warm rice. Soybean paste stew. Bean sprouts. Rolled eggs. Everything Grandmother had made for her. The aroma made her stomach ache with longing.
“You’re here,” Grandmother said. That single phrase contained everything—the gentle criticism that she was late, the worry, and an acceptance that transcended both. Her voice was warm.
Eun-seo ate. With each spoonful of rice, she asked herself: What do I want? What is this work in Seoul? What is my identity as an editor? Does it define me? Or does this table, this moment, define me instead?
“You’ve got clay on your hands again,” Grandmother observed, her eyes on Eun-seo’s fingers.
Eun-seo looked down. Yes, more clay—from the studio this time.
“I’ve been working with pottery more,” she said softly.
Grandmother swallowed her rice and took a sip of soup.
“Do you like it?”
“Yes.”
“Then that’s enough.”
Was it really so simple? In Grandmother’s world, it was. If you liked something, you did it. If you didn’t, you didn’t. Everything else—the complicated emotions in between—was irrelevant. Only the essence mattered.
Eun-seo ate while looking out the window. Through the glass, she could see the persimmon tree in the yard. Most of its leaves had fallen. Winter would come soon. And after that, spring. Seasons turn endlessly. They never stop. Eun-seo found this both terrifying and comforting.
“What did you do when you were in Seoul?” Grandmother asked suddenly.
“Editorial work.”
“What’s that?”
Eun-seo thought. It wasn’t a simple question. It was asking for the essence. She began explaining: reading manuscripts, refining them, sending them into the world. Finding good writing and sharing it with people.
Grandmother listened, even as she ate.
“Did you love it?”
Eun-seo couldn’t answer. Had she ever loved it? Before the scandal, perhaps. But after? Hadn’t it become an obligation? A way to prove herself?
“I’m not sure.”
Grandmother took another spoonful of rice.
“Then what do you want to do here?”
Another question. And Eun-seo had no answer.
After dinner, she washed the dishes. She submerged her hands in warm water. The clay dissolved and floated away. Her hands became clean. But that cleanliness unsettled her. Without the clay, without that evidence, how could she prove she had been there?
Night was falling outside. Winter nights were long. And that length pressed down on her—both a blessing and a curse, this abundance of time to think.
Eun-seo wanted to return to the studio. She wanted to see Min-jun. But it was late. Too late. So instead, she went to the river. Alone.
The riverbank path was filled with the silence of night. Only the sound of flowing water and wind. Eun-seo listened. The river seemed to be speaking to her. But she couldn’t understand what it was saying. Rivers always say the same thing: flow. Keep flowing. Never stop.
She looked up at the night sky. Stars hung there, unmoving yet constantly shining. No one knows when they began to shine or when they’ll stop. But they shine anyway. Without doubt. Without hesitation.
Eun-seo wondered if she could shine like a star. Or flow like a river. And if she could be neither, what could she become?
Then she heard footsteps behind her. She turned.
It was Min-jun. His silhouette emerged from the darkness. He wore a coat and held something in his hands.
“Why did you come here?” she asked.
“I thought you would.”
Min-jun stood beside her, looking at the river.
“Look at this,” he said, showing her what he’d brought. It was a small piece of pottery—a finished work. Incomplete, yet honest. Without deception.
“When did you make it?”
“After you left.”
Eun-seo took it. It was warm. The heat of freshly worked clay still lingered in it.
“What is it?”
“You.”
That single word. It said everything.
Eun-seo held the pottery and looked at him. In the darkness, she could see his face. Clay still clung to it. He hadn’t bothered to wash it away. He’d simply come.
“It’s not finished,” she said.
“That’s right.”
Min-jun took her hand—the one holding the pottery. His touch was warm.
“You’re still being made. That’s why you need to stay here.”
Eun-seo understood. Incompleteness meant unfinished. It meant there was still time to become. Here. Now. On this riverbank. With this person.
“Should I go back to Seoul?”
“What do you think?”
The question had returned. And this time, Eun-seo found her answer.
“I don’t want to go.”
Min-jun’s grip tightened. That was all the answer he needed to give.
“Then stay.”
The river continued to flow. The stars continued to shine. And Eun-seo remained. Incomplete, yet sincere.
[End of Chapter 173]
Preview of Next Chapter: As winter deepens, Eun-seo’s resolve grows stronger. But the Seoul publisher keeps calling. And Grandmother’s health begins to change. The finale of Book 7 approaches. Everything is about to transform.