이 포스팅은 쿠팡 파트너스 활동의 일환으로, 이에 따른 일정액의 수수료를 제공받습니다.
# Chapter 24: The Sound of Ceramic Breaking
Grandmother sat at the edge of the veranda that morning. The moment Eun-seo descended to the kitchen, her posture suggested someone wrestling with an important decision. Sunlight streamed through the window, deepening the lines etched into her face. Her hands trembled as she held the medicine packet, her fingers moving as if tracing invisible letters.
“Grandmother?”
Eun-seo’s voice reached her, but there was no response. In that silence lay something more than exhaustion. Eun-seo found herself employing a skill learned from proofreading manuscripts—one she hadn’t wanted to use. Reading silence. Understanding what remains unspoken. Her grandmother was afraid.
“What did the hospital say?”
Eun-seo sat beside her and asked. Grandmother placed the medicine packet on the table, the printed letters blurring beneath her fingertips.
“They said I’m old. Well, naturally. My heart’s weakened a bit, they said. I suppose I’ve lived too hard. Couldn’t eat properly most days.”
Eun-seo’s heart hammered against her ribs. She placed her hand over her grandmother’s on the table. But the old woman didn’t respond.
“It’s not because of you.” Grandmother spoke as though reading her granddaughter’s thoughts. “It was like this before you came. Time just… did its work.”
Eun-seo’s hand remained still on the table. She found it difficult to look at her grandmother. The old woman’s voice wavered in an unfamiliar way.
“If you need to take medicine, how often?”
“Every morning and evening. And I need to cut back on salt.” Grandmother released something like a laugh. “My whole life has tasted of salt, and now even that’s taken away?”
Eun-seo stood. She couldn’t bear to look at her grandmother any longer. She’d felt this same impulse in Seoul—when work went wrong, when people blamed her, she had to move. Had to do something. Couldn’t sit still.
“I’ll make breakfast.”
“No breakfast. It’s time for medicine.”
Eun-seo picked up the medicine packet. The printed text blurred before her eyes. Heart medication. Drug interactions. Side effects. Dosage instructions. She’d read it all, but nothing penetrated. Her mind was rejecting it.
She closed the door and stepped outside. After putting on her shoes and walking through the village alleys, she found herself at the riverbank path. The pottery studio came into view. Smoke rose from the kiln. Min-jun was working the wheel, clay slowly losing its form beneath his hands.
“My grandmother came home with heart medication from the hospital.”
The words escaped her. Min-jun’s hands stilled. The clay returned to its original shape—an unfinished vessel. He slowly washed his hands in water.
“How serious?”
“I’m not sure. Grandmother won’t say. It just seems… like aging.”
Min-jun looked at her. His eyes had changed since they first met. Then, they’d held the distance of strangers. Now they held understanding. He saw her hands trembling.
“Sit.”
That was all Min-jun could offer. Eun-seo settled into an old chair in the corner of the studio. Min-jun returned to the wheel, but this time he didn’t work. He simply rested his hands on the clay. Motionless hands.
“How was it in Seoul?”
Min-jun asked quietly. Eun-seo thought for a moment.
“Busy. There was always something to do. When one task ended, another began. Without work… I didn’t know who I was anymore.”
“Is that why you came here?”
“No. I came here and lost the work entirely. So now I know even less.”
Min-jun’s fingers began moving slowly across the clay—not creating, just sweeping it away. Through the studio window, the river was visible. May’s waters looked deeper somehow. Perhaps all of spring’s snowmelt had flowed down, darkening the current.
“When my father died, I was in Seoul,” Min-jun said. Eun-seo didn’t look at his face, knowing he would continue. “I was preparing for an exhibition. A very important one. The day my father passed, I was still making work. When my mother called, I answered without washing my hands. Clay smudged the phone.”
Now Eun-seo looked at him. Min-jun’s face was still, like ceramic.
“Did you hold the exhibition?”
“No. Ten days before it was scheduled, I broke every piece. Shattered them one by one with my own hands. Then I came here.”
Eun-seo struggled to breathe. Now she understood why Min-jun was in Hacheon-ri. Why he hadn’t produced a single finished work in five years. It wasn’t perfectionism. It was fear. Deep fear of completing something and releasing it into the world.
“Do you… feel guilty?”
“Yes. Still. It’s like when I answered my mother’s call without washing my hands—I always feel something clinging to them. That’s why I have to keep moving them. If I stop, I’ll freeze.”
Min-jun lifted his hands. Clay still clung to his fingers. He looked at it, then submerged his hands in water again. But he didn’t wash it away completely. Traces remained between his fingers.
“Where is your mother now?”
Min-jun was silent for a long time. That silence was the answer.
“You’re alone because of that?”
“Yes. I thought being alone was better. Then I couldn’t disappoint anyone.” He looked at Eun-seo. “But now that you’re here, I know that was wrong too.”
The studio door suddenly burst open. Do-hyun stood there, his face pale.
“Eun-seo, your grandmother—”
Eun-seo was on her feet before he finished.
“What?”
“She collapsed. The branch school called. Bok-soon gathered the villagers. They’re taking her to the hospital now.”
Eun-seo ran without looking back at Min-jun. She didn’t stop to put on her shoes. She ran along the riverbank path toward the village, her footsteps on gravel, her breathing, her heartbeat—all of it overlapping with the river’s voice.
When she arrived at the hospital, Grandmother was already in a bed. A doctor was speaking. Myocardial infarction. Emergency intervention. Observation necessary. The words passed through Eun-seo’s ears but didn’t reach her brain.
Grandmother’s hand lay on the bed—the same hand that had held the medicine packet. Now it was wrapped in medical tape.
“Grandmother.”
Eun-seo took her hand. Grandmother’s eyes opened slightly, hazy and distant.
“I didn’t… make you rice.”
“It’s all right.”
“I didn’t…”
Grandmother said nothing more. Her eyes closed again. The doctor administered something. A sedative. Grandmother’s breathing became slow and steady.
Eun-seo sat in the chair. The hospital’s fluorescent lights were too bright. They were the same as Seoul’s hospital lights. She knew this light. It always announced someone’s ending.
Do-hyun came in with coffee. Eun-seo didn’t take it.
“Bok-soon asked me to tell you to eat. She’s preparing food for you.”
“I’m fine.”
“You always say you’re fine. That’s the problem.”
Eun-seo looked at him. His face was serious—not like a schoolteacher, but like a person.
“Min-jun came. He’s waiting outside.”
Eun-seo looked out the window. Min-jun stood in the hallway, hands in his pockets. Hands that probably still bore traces of clay.
In that moment, Eun-seo understood what she’d misunderstood. Resting wasn’t doing nothing. You could lose someone while resting. Time kept flowing even as you rested. People became ill. Things broke. Grandmother’s heart. Min-jun’s hands. And her own faith.
She stood, releasing Grandmother’s hand. As her fingers separated from the old woman’s, Grandmother stirred slightly—as if dreaming.
Eun-seo stepped into the hallway. When Min-jun saw her, something crossed his face. Relief, perhaps. Or fear.
“Where is your mother?”
Min-jun didn’t answer.
“If you lost your mother, then I should be able to prevent my grandmother from losing me. But I can’t. And that…” Eun-seo’s voice broke. “That terrifies me.”
Min-jun stepped closer. His hand grasped her arm—the hand stained with clay. That clay now transferred to her skin.
“Your grandmother will be all right.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t. But you’re here.”
Min-jun’s voice was low, but it wasn’t weak. It was a decision. A decided voice.
The hospital corridor was flooded with fluorescent light. Somewhere, medical staff moved. Min-jun’s hand remained on Eun-seo’s arm, and it was warm.
She looked at his hand. Clay-stained. The hand that makes pottery, breaks it, makes it again. Five years lived this way. And now it held her arm.
“If my grandmother recovers… can we start again?”
Min-jun said nothing. Instead, his fingers gripped her arm more firmly. That was answer enough.
Night deepened. The hospital lights remained bright. Grandmother’s heart continued beating in mechanical rhythm. Regular beeping. Once. Again. A sound that wouldn’t stop.
Eun-seo sat beside her grandmother, hand in hand. And Min-jun waited in the hallway, hands in his pockets.
Tomorrow was the village market day. Bok-soon was already making rice porridge for Grandmother. The branch school children were drawing pictures wishing for her recovery. The village moved where Grandmother was. That was Hacheon-ri’s way.
And Eun-seo finally understood. Resting wasn’t running away. It was staying. Staying to hold someone’s hand. That was the hardest thing of all.
Three in the morning. Eun-seo’s insomnia hour. But this time, she didn’t sleep. She didn’t want to let go of Grandmother’s hand. While that hand remained warm, everything seemed all right.
Chapter 24: End
Next chapter: She must return to Grandmother’s house. But it’s no longer the same place.