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# Chapter 192: The Weight of a Name
Min-jun spoke.
“My name isn’t Kang Min-jun.”
Eun-seo’s fingers stilled. She stood on the embankment path, about to turn back toward the pottery studio, her gaze fixed on the steps below its entrance. The evening light cut his face in half—the side in shadow harbored something that looked like sorrow. Her heart hammered against her ribs, and before she could open her mouth, his words already blocked every thought.
“What?”
His voice dropped lower. Her eyes found his lips. The sincerity in his voice set all her questions ablaze.
“Kang Min-jun… it’s a name I created.”
He sat on the steps. She followed, settling beside him. One step between them—close enough, yet far enough. She studied his profile. His eyes were shut so tightly she couldn’t read what lay behind them.
“My real name is Lee Tae-oh. That’s what I was called in Seoul.”
Eun-seo’s mind struggled to arrange this information. Lee Tae-oh. Where had she heard that name? Where had she seen it? She was an editor, someone trained to read text with precision. But she couldn’t read this man’s face. His voice overwhelmed everything else.
“Why… did you change your name?”
Her curiosity drew his gaze. His eyes found hers.
“Five years ago, I wanted to become a famous potter in Seoul. I was preparing for a solo exhibition. Everything was perfect. My pieces were what people wanted—refined, modern, sellable.”
He spread his fingers, mimicking the motion of shaping clay. But his hands trembled slightly. She watched them, then her eyes drifted to his wrist. A small scar there caught her attention.
“Ten days before the opening, I destroyed every piece.”
Her chest dropped. The steps beneath her seemed to shift. Min-jun’s eyes studied her reaction.
“Why?”
Her voice shook. His gaze held hers.
“Because… they weren’t made by my hands.”
He fell silent. The sound of the river reached them. As evening deepened, insects began their chorus along the embankment. Only Eun-seo seemed to hear them. Min-jun stared at his own hands.
“I was paid. By a gallery owner in Seoul. She wanted my work. But she needed quantity—for the scale of the exhibition. So I…”
Eun-seo’s intuition tried to complete his sentence, but he stopped. His eyes searched her face.
“Used someone else’s work?”
Her voice came out small. His gaze intensified.
“I exhibited my students’ pieces under my name. They didn’t know. Not at first. When they found out later… the posters were already printed, the articles published, famous critics were already saying they’d come see my work.”
Eun-seo didn’t look at him. She looked at the river. Water flowing as it always did—indifferent, eternal. But her heart churned violently.
“Did your students protest?”
“One did. A female student named Seo-hyun. Incredibly talented. I coveted her work most, so I took the most from her. When she created three exceptional pieces, I went to her the very next day after seeing them.”
“What did you say?”
“That I was sorry. And that I’d buy those three pieces from her. Since I couldn’t exhibit them under my name, I’d pay her to own them privately instead.”
Eun-seo finally looked at him—his profile bathed in fading light. His eyes met hers.
“What did she say?”
“’You’re not a potter. You’re a thief.’ And I fired her as my student. The others left one by one. They’d only come to the opening to see how their own work would be received. When they realized I was selling their creations under my name…”
He cleared his throat. His voice sank further.
“I panicked. So three days before the opening, I broke into the gallery late at night—around ten. I destroyed every piece I’d brought. Threw them, smashed them with a hammer… When I came to my senses, my fingers were bleeding.”
Eun-seo’s hand moved to his. She examined his fingers. A small scar on his right ring finger caught the light. Had she seen it before? Yes. She had. But she’d never asked.
“Were you reported to the police?”
“The gallery owner sued me. Property destruction. But during the trial, my reason for destroying the pieces came out. My students testified. Even Seo-hyun.”
“What did she say?”
“’This man is a thief, but more than a thief, he’s a coward.’ She was right. I was a thief. And I chose destruction to hide that theft. That was the greater crime.”
Min-jun stood. Eun-seo rose with him. His gaze held hers.
“How did the trial end?”
“We settled. I publicly apologized to all my students and compensated each with the sales revenue they should have received. I also compensated the gallery owner. My bank account emptied. I couldn’t stay in Seoul. Everyone knew me. The pottery community is small.”
He opened the studio door. Darkness filled the interior. Eun-seo followed him inside. Faint evening light filtered through the windows. Beside the wheel lay unfinished pieces. She saw them differently now. Their incompleteness had new meaning.
“So I came here. To Hacheon-ri. I thought no one would know me. That I could start again with the name Kang Min-jun.”
Eun-seo stepped further inside. His gaze found hers.
“But why… tell me this now?”
Min-jun picked up one of the unfinished pieces. A boat. Half-formed.
“Because… you trusted me.”
His voice trembled.
“You never asked who I was. Never asked what I’d done. You just… watched my hands move. Looked at my work. Saw me as a person.”
Eun-seo couldn’t speak.
“And you believed in me. Not in who I was before, but in who I am in this moment. But that’s… dishonest. I’ve been lying to you.”
He set down the boat-shaped piece.
“For five years, I made pottery here. Every day. Incomplete. I couldn’t finish anything. Because I didn’t know if what I was making came from my hands or someone else’s.”
Eun-seo asked her first real question. An editor’s question. A reader’s question.
“But when I came? The things you made for me?”
Min-jun turned to her. His eyes were dark.
“All mine. For the first time in five years, all of it came from my hands.”
Eun-seo’s breath shallowed. She had to feel the weight of those words. Had to determine if it was truth or another lie. As an editor. As a person.
“Why tell me now? Why?”
“Because…”
Min-jun stepped closer. His gaze held hers.
“It seems like you love me. And I… I don’t even know if I love myself. But one thing I know: love built on lies melts away when spring comes.”
Eun-seo stepped back. The studio wall met her spine.
“Lee Tae-oh?”
“Yes.”
“You’re really…”
“A thief. And someone who chose destruction to hide that theft. And for five years, I’ve tried to atone. But atonement… you can’t do it alone.”
He opened his hands—the hands that shaped clay.
“I wanted to tell you everything before this ends. You’ll want to know who I am. And you’ll probably… leave.”
Eun-seo’s heart sank. Leave. What did that word mean? She was already someone who had left. Left Seoul. And the reason had been a lie. Or not a lie. But not the whole truth either.
“Does your grandmother… know about this?”
“Yes. She’s known since I came here. She took me in.”
Eun-seo sat down. Right there on the studio floor.
“Then why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“Because… she was the only one who accepted me without judgment. And I didn’t want to lose her grace.”
Min-jun sat beside her. But at a distance that didn’t touch.
“And you… when you came to this village, you were already carrying wounds. That plagiarism incident. It reminded me of myself. So I thought you didn’t need to know my past. You needed healing, not my sins.”
Eun-seo almost cried. But the tears wouldn’t come. Her body refused the response. A refusal, or perhaps readiness.
“But now?”
“Now you seem like someone other than who you were. And I think… you deserve that.”
The studio grew darker. Evening was becoming night. Eun-seo needed this darkness. She could only think in it.
“Are you still… lying?”
“What?”
“Everything you just said. Is it all true?”
Min-jun didn’t answer for a long time.
“I don’t know. I’m good at lying. Five years proved that. So I don’t even know if what I’m telling you now is atonement or another lie.”
His voice was breaking.
“But one thing is certain: the pottery I made with my own hands, the things I created for you—they’re not lies. They’re the only truth I can speak.”
Eun-seo stood.
“I… have to go.”
“I know.”
“I have to talk to my grandmother. And… I need to think.”
“I know.”
“You should too. Think about whether what you said is true or…”
She didn’t finish. He didn’t seem to want her to.
When she left the studio, Eun-seo didn’t look back. Looking back would make her weak. Or make her return.
The embankment path was night now. Stars had emerged. In the spring sky, they were faint. Yet they shone anyway—impossible to distinguish between false light and true.
Eun-seo walked. Toward her grandmother’s house. The distance felt impossibly long. And impossibly short. When she arrived, her grandmother was sitting on the porch. As if she’d been waiting.
“Did he tell you?”
Her grandmother’s first words.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“His name is… Lee Tae-oh.”
Her grandmother nodded.
“That’s right. Want me to tell you the rest?”
Eun-seo sat. Beside her grandmother.
“He came here five years ago. Broken. Called a thief, refusing to become one. Shattered between the two. So I asked him: ‘Do you want a new name?’ And he asked: ‘How?’ So I told him: ‘Where the river bends, start again with a new name.’”
Her grandmother’s hand found hers.
“The pottery he makes—you’ve seen it, haven’t you? It’s not a lie. It’s atonement. Daily atonement.”
“But grandmother… why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you wanted to run away. You didn’t need truth—you needed peace. So I told him not to tell you. One small lie wouldn’t hurt healing.”
Eun-seo cried. Finally, the tears came.
“Then why… tell me now?”
“Because lies melt away when spring comes, just like he said. And you’re not running anymore. Now you’re ready to hear his truth.”
Her grandmother’s hand patted her back.
“And you have to judge. What Lee Tae-oh told you. And that judgment… you have to make alone. I can’t make it for you. No one can.”
Night deepened. The village lights went out one by one. The river kept flowing. Nothing had changed there. What changed was Eun-seo. And which direction that change would take remained unwritten.
She entered her room. Ten at night. She didn’t open the window. She didn’t sleep either. Until two in the morning, she stared at the wall. There was nothing on it. But in her heart, there was everything.
The river flowed on. Bending, curving. And Eun-seo was within that current.