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# Chapter 4: Voices at the Five-Day Market
3:47 a.m. Eun-seo’s eyes were open in the darkness.
She lay in bed, but her body trembled. Like a bird unable to adjust to a new time zone. It had been the same in Seoul. Insomnia was a shadow that followed her everywhere. During her days as an editor, she’d blamed it on work stress. After the plagiarism scandal, she’d blamed it on anxiety. But now, staring at the ceiling in this empty room for hours, Eun-seo understood something: insomnia wasn’t a symptom. It was part of who she was—something she couldn’t escape, something she’d have to learn to live with.
Moonlight filtered through the window, casting the shadow of a persimmon tree across the room. The branches formed perfect silhouettes, like someone’s fingers reaching across the floor. Eun-seo traced them with her own hand, trying to find where her fingertips met the shadow’s edge. But they never quite aligned. And as she chased that misalignment, she only grew more awake. Sleep drifted further away.
Past 4 a.m., the village began to stir. A dog barked somewhere. A car engine hummed in the distance. And then—something that startled her. Someone singing. A woman’s voice.
Eun-seo sat up, ears straining. Her grandmother. Downstairs, the old woman had turned on the radio. A late-night program. A DJ’s voice, then a trot song filling the speakers. Her grandmother hummed along, off-key but earnest. At four in the morning. Through the window, Eun-seo could see the light on downstairs. Her grandmother wasn’t sleeping either. Or perhaps she couldn’t sleep.
Eun-seo lay back down, listening. The song was melancholy. The lyrics were clear: “Even if this night passes / will I be left alone / until you return / I will wait.” An old song. One she’d heard in childhood. Her grandmother sang on—perfectly pitched, full of feeling, breaking the silence of 4 a.m.
In that moment, Eun-seo realized something: her insomnia wasn’t hers alone. Her grandmother was awake too. But where Eun-seo filled the night with thoughts, her grandmother filled it with radio and song. Two different ways of surviving the dark. Both, she suspected, equally lonely.
By 8 a.m., Eun-seo had been awake for three hours. Not fatigue, but a strange alertness gripped her body—as if she’d overdosed on caffeine, every nerve firing. She got out of bed and changed clothes. A short-sleeved shirt and jeans. Seoul clothes. Could she wear the same things here? She looked for a mirror. There was none in the room.
Downstairs, her grandmother was already cooking rice. Steam filled the kitchen, and the smell of it made Eun-seo’s nose twitch. The pot lid rattled softly. Almost done.
“Did you sleep?” her grandmother asked. The old woman’s face looked tired—dark circles under her eyes, evidence of her own sleepless night. But her voice was bright, as if staying up all night were the most natural thing in the world.
“A little,” Eun-seo lied. Her grandmother seemed to know but didn’t push. Instead, she began scooping rice into bowls. “I made more side dishes today. We’re going to the market.” She glanced at Eun-seo. “Come with me. You should meet the neighbors.”
Eun-seo nodded. The five-day market. She’d seen it on Google Maps once—a marketplace in Hacheon-ri’s central square, open every five days. She’d never been.
After breakfast, her grandmother handed her an old black cloth basket. The handle was frayed, one side slightly torn. Eun-seo took it. Light, but the texture was unfamiliar. Cloth, not plastic. In Seoul, she’d never seen anyone carry a basket like this. Everyone used convenience store bags or ordered delivery apps. But here, it seemed natural.
Her grandmother walked faster than Eun-seo could easily follow. As they navigated the village alleys, Eun-seo observed the details she’d missed yesterday. Graffiti on a wall. A child’s handwriting: “Mi-young likes Dong-jun.” The paint was peeling—years old, at least. How long had those words been there? How long had that feeling lasted?
When they emerged onto the wider street, Eun-seo saw the heart of Hacheon-ri for the first time. A small plaza. Asphalt. Already crowded with people. Vendors. Merchants. And their voices—waves of them, flooding the square.
“Here again! Buy some side dishes, side dishes!”
“This gochujang is the real deal. Try some!”
“Oh, Jung-soon! Haven’t seen you in ages—your granddaughter’s here?”
The moment her grandmother entered the plaza, every eye turned toward her. Then toward Eun-seo.
Heat flooded Eun-seo’s face. It had been a long time since she’d felt so many eyes at once. In Seoul, people ignored each other. On the subway, on the street. Everyone stared at their phones. But here was different. Here, everyone saw everything.
“Is this the granddaughter from Seoul?” A woman approached, her voice loud and bright, her face radiant. “Welcome, welcome! I’m Bok-soon. The side-dish queen of this market!” Bok-soon placed her warm hand over Eun-seo’s. It smelled of fermented things. Kimchi. Old soy sauce.
“Hello,” Eun-seo said quietly.
“You must have suffered in Seoul. Your face is pale.” Bok-soon studied her closely. “Jung-soon, we need to feed this girl. She’s too thin.”
“She eats fine. Her heart just won’t follow,” her grandmother said. It was true.
Bok-soon released her hand and returned with vegetables—several kinds of seasoned greens. “Take these. Free. Mix them with soy sauce and eat them with rice. Then you’ll want to eat more and more.” She handed them over in a plastic bag, still warm from her hands.
Her grandmother talked with Bok-soon for a long time. Village news. Who was sick. Who’d sold their house. Who’d gone to Seoul and come back. Eun-seo stood quietly beside them. Other vendors smiled at her. “Jung-soon’s granddaughter looks like a city girl.” “We need to feed her well.” “The village needs young people to survive.”
Their words made Eun-seo uncomfortable. She was being seen as something hopeful. A young person. Potential. The village’s future. She was the opposite of all that. She was someone who’d run from Seoul. Someone broken. How could she possibly be anyone’s hope?
After the market, her grandmother took her to another place. A small building with a sign: Hacheon Store. A shop, or perhaps something more—a shop and café and something else entirely.
“Lee Jang-i runs this place,” her grandmother explained. “It’s the heart of village information. Say hello.”
Inside, Eun-seo found the first quiet space she’d encountered in this village. A stark contrast to the market’s chaos. Small bookshelves lined the walls. A few chairs and tables in one corner. And on one wall, photographs—dozens of them. From decades ago to now.
“Welcome,” a man said, emerging from behind the counter. Mid-fifties, probably. Bright face, warm eyes. The kind of eyes that seemed to know everything about the village. About everyone.
“This is Eun-seo. She’s come from Seoul,” her grandmother introduced.
Lee Jang-i studied her carefully. Like he was reading a book. Eun-seo felt exposed. This man seemed to know things. Her past. Her state. Why she’d come.
“How was life in Seoul?” he asked.
“Fine,” Eun-seo lied.
“Then why did you come here?”
Eun-seo couldn’t answer. Her grandmother gently tapped her arm. “She needed rest. Too much work.”
Lee Jang-i nodded. “People who need rest come here. And when you rest here, you remember who you really are.” It sounded like prophecy. Eun-seo didn’t believe it. But his eyes suggested he did.
On the walk home, her grandmother took the vegetable bag from Eun-seo’s hands. “From Bok-soon?”
“Yes.”
“Good woman. Big mouth, but bigger heart. First one in the village to help anyone.” Her grandmother began preparing the vegetables. “You’ll understand eventually. How warm this place is.”
Eun-seo heard her but didn’t fully believe. Warmth was dangerous. Warmth created dependency. Dependency created wounds. She’d been wounded enough.
That night, Eun-seo couldn’t sleep again. But this time, she heard her grandmother’s radio. The same trot song. The same humming. The same hour. 4 a.m. Eun-seo closed her eyes and listened. The song was sad, but it felt like someone was keeping watch over the night.
Then she understood. Her grandmother hadn’t stayed awake because of her own insomnia. She’d stayed awake knowing about Eun-seo’s. She’d turned on that radio, sung those songs, kept vigil over her granddaughter’s darkness.
Something caught in Eun-seo’s throat. Not tears, exactly. But something flowing—like ice beginning to thaw.
At 5 a.m., her grandmother’s humming continued.