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# Chapter 201: What the River Speaks
The door to Minjun’s workshop stood open. When Eunseo arrived, the space was filled with silence. The earthy smell of clay mingled with cool air that made her breathe deeply. The calendar on the wall still showed last month, and the worktable held a line of unfinished bowls—one missing its handle, another dried and dull. Eunseo sighed as she looked at them. The workshop’s silence weighed on her heart. Ever since last night’s conversation, Minjun seemed to be avoiding her. His absence felt like the very air around her.
On her walk along the riverbank path, Eunseo reread the letter from her grandmother. The old woman’s handwriting brought her comfort. It contained only a few short sentences: “When a person hides something, it means they hold it dear. That’s why the wound runs so deep. Are you ready to see that wound?” Every time Eunseo thought of those words, her chest sank. Last night, that name had fallen from Minjun’s lips—Kangta-o. It wasn’t simply a past. It was someone he’d had to abandon, a weight that still pressed down on him. Eunseo’s feet naturally stopped on a stone by the river.
Spring had deepened, and the river had changed with it. The bare willow branches of winter now wore delicate green leaves, and the water itself had grown darker. Small fish occasionally leaped above the surface. Eunseo sat on a riverside stone and watched the current lap near her feet. She thought about why Minjun had come to Hacheon-ri, why he’d changed his name. The river doesn’t lie. That’s what Minjun had said. But the river didn’t always wear the same face. In spring, it swelled with melted snow; in summer, it raged with downpours; in winter, it froze solid. The river changed. Yet its current never flowed backward. As Eunseo watched the water, she wondered if Minjun might be the same. Perhaps he had changed, but the direction of his flow was already set.
She returned to her grandmother’s house when the sun reached its peak. Her grandmother was in the kitchen, trimming dried radish greens. She twisted the withered vegetables in her hands to remove moisture, then laid them out to dry in the cool breeze. Her grandmother looked up at the sound of Eunseo’s footsteps. “Have you eaten?” Eunseo gave a small smile. “Not yet.” Her grandmother said, “Then come eat,” and called her into the kitchen. In that brief exchange, Eunseo understood how much was left unsaid. Her grandmother knew she’d been with Minjun. She knew Eunseo was anxious. But she didn’t ask directly. Instead, she set the table.
The meal her grandmother brought out held dried radish soup, rolled egg, and radish kimchi—all of Eunseo’s favorites. They weren’t special dishes. Yet looking at them, Eunseo felt something rise in her throat. This is care, she thought. Care without words. She took a spoonful of rice and let the savory radish and deep miso flavors meet on her tongue. As she ate, she asked her grandmother, “Grandmother, when a person changes their name… what do you think that means?”
Her grandmother paused mid-bite and looked at her. It wasn’t merely a glance—it felt like she was reading something written on Eunseo’s skin.
“A name is the first garment a person wears when born. Most people wear it their whole lives. But some people…” her grandmother continued slowly, “find that garment too heavy, or it doesn’t fit who they want to be. So they take it off and wear something else instead.”
“Does the first name disappear then?” Eunseo asked.
Her grandmother considered this. “No. It doesn’t disappear. It stays inside. Like winter clothes folded away in a closet somewhere.”
She resumed eating, then added, “When a person changes their name, it means they couldn’t bear that weight alone. But it also means they’re preparing to carry it again—or waiting for someone to help them carry it.”
Eunseo absorbed these words slowly. Had Minjun told her his name because he was ready to set that burden down? Or was he hoping she would help him bear it? His name had opened new questions in her heart. It held his past, his pain, his understanding of himself.
In the afternoon, Mrs. Obok-soon arrived, unwrapping a cloth bundle as she began to chatter. “Goodness, Grandmother Jungsun! Look at this dried radish. This is real food for times like these. Those Seoul folks, what do they eat? Something complicated and expensive, I hear. Nothing beats filling your belly with dried radish and rice.”
Her grandmother laughed and welcomed her. Eunseo sat in the kitchen doorway, listening to their conversation. Obok-soon’s energetic voice put her at ease.
“But Jungsun, that bachelor at the workshop—haven’t you noticed something odd about him lately?” Eunseo’s ears perked up. Her grandmother asked, “What do you mean?” Obok-soon leaned in. “Well, his workshop light used to be on late every night, but these days you don’t even see it during the day. Do-hyun mentioned it—the door’s been closed when he passes by for school. And I saw him at the restaurant across the river, and he hardly eats. His face looks terrible.”
Her grandmother’s expression grew thoughtful, but she said nothing. Instead, she handed Obok-soon some dried radish. “Take this. Your family eats a lot of it too.”
Eunseo’s heart sank. Minjun wasn’t coming to the workshop? He wasn’t eating? That didn’t match the Minjun she’d seen last night. After telling her his name, he’d been quiet, but he hadn’t seemed completely broken. Unless… had she missed something?
After Obok-soon left, Eunseo helped her grandmother prepare dinner. As she peeled potatoes, she wrestled with what to do. Should she go find him? But if he was clearly trying to avoid her, shouldn’t she respect that? She continued peeling, watching the thin brown skins fall into the water.
“Eunseo,” her grandmother said softly.
“Yes?”
“People can’t bear their weight alone. That’s why someone needs to be there. But being there doesn’t always mean speaking. Sometimes…” her grandmother paused, “just being together is enough.”
Eunseo stopped peeling. Her grandmother’s words opened a new path for her.
When evening came, Eunseo returned to the riverbank, this time heading toward Minjun’s workshop. As she crossed the wooden bridge over the river, the sky had already begun to turn orange. When she reached the workshop, Minjun was sitting on a wooden chair, facing the river. He didn’t move when he saw her—just sat there, gazing at the water.
Eunseo sat beside him. “I heard you haven’t been eating.”
Minjun continued looking at the river. “News travels fast.”
“Mrs. Obok-soon came to Grandmother’s. The village people are worried.”
“There’s nothing to worry about.”
His voice was cold, distant. Eunseo felt a pang—had she made a mistake? Was knowing his name too much of a burden for him?
“Did I… do something wrong?”
For the first time, Minjun looked at her. His eyes were exhausted.
“Wrong? No. You didn’t do anything wrong. If anything, it’s me…”
He didn’t finish. He turned back to the river.
“I still can’t explain what the name Kangta-o meant to me. But when I told you that name… I was hoping you’d see that part of me. The problem is, I’m not showing it to you. I’m not facing it myself.”
Without asking permission, Eunseo sat beside him. Minjun didn’t pull away. They watched the river together—still flowing, carrying the scent of spring. The fragrance of new green, of earth, of water.
“I wish I could bear some of that weight with you,” Eunseo said slowly. “So you don’t have to carry it alone.”
Minjun’s shoulders trembled slightly—as if he were holding back tears. But he kept his eyes on the river. After a long moment, he spoke.
“Kangta-o was… my older brother.”
Eunseo’s breath caught. His brother? That was too profound a reason for changing his name.
“Five years ago, my brother… he took his own life.”
The words hung in the air. Eunseo tried to accept them, but it felt like a stone had fallen into her chest. Minjun had changed his name after his brother died. Beneath the name Kangta-o lay all that sorrow, regret, and guilt.
“Why… why did that happen?”
“The day before my brother died, we fought. I criticized something he’d done. I thought he’d made a wrong choice. So I told him he needed to change, that he couldn’t live like that. And the next day…” His voice remained steady, but beneath it ran a current of deep wound. “…he was gone.”
“I didn’t abandon his name to forget him,” Minjun continued. “I did it to remember him—but also as a promise that I would never carry the weight he carried. That’s why I became Minjun. To live a new life.”
Now Eunseo understood. Why he’d tried to avoid her. Why he’d seemed to crumble after telling her his name. It wasn’t because of her. It was an internal war, and he’d been fighting it alone.
“I won’t leave you,” Eunseo said.
“It doesn’t matter if you’re Kangta-o or Kangminjun or any other name. I’m fine just having you here beside me.”
Minjun looked at her. Tears glistened in his eyes, but he didn’t wipe them away. He simply looked at her—as if she were his only anchor.
The river continued to flow. Spring water moved differently than winter’s—faster, deeper, warmer. Eunseo watched it and understood: everything flows. The past, the present, the future. And all we can do in that current is hold someone’s hand and move forward together.
As the evening deepened, Eunseo and Minjun remained on the riverbank. They didn’t speak, but their silence was comfortable. Minjun gently took her hand. It was the first time. Last night he’d only brushed her fingertips, but now his grip was certain. It was like a promise: I am here. I won’t run away.
Eunseo squeezed his hand in return. Another promise: I’m here too. I won’t leave.
The river kept flowing, and their story was far from over.