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# Chapter 52: Grandmother’s Table
Grandmother woke at five in the morning, as the cool air seeped through the window. The moment her footsteps touched the wooden floor, she knew Eun-seo had been awake all night. She could feel it in the rhythm of those steps—different now. No longer anxious. No longer hurried. Grandmother moved into the kitchen, wondering where the girl might be. The pottery studio, she thought. It was always the pottery studio.
At nearly eighty, Grandmother’s hands still moved with practiced speed. Especially when making doenjang-jjigae. The knife met the cutting board with a rhythm like river stones tumbling—the sound of time itself. She cut the zucchini into bite-sized pieces, sliced the tofu into finger-thick blocks, and dissolved the soybean paste into broth made from kelp and anchovies. As the broth came to a boil, Eun-seo’s face appeared in her mind. She remembered when the girl first arrived—how she wouldn’t eat. How she ate like medicine, as if she couldn’t taste, as if she had no time to taste. Grandmother had thought then: This child has lived like a machine for too long. In Seoul. Editing books.
Everything was different now. For the past week, Eun-seo returned from the pottery studio each evening. Clay clung to her face. Her fingers were red. To Grandmother, it looked like her eyes were shining. No—not her eyes. Her voice. Eun-seo’s voice had changed. She chewed more slowly now. Sometimes she set down her spoon and gazed out the window. And in those moments, everything seemed good.
Grandmother leaned her face into the rising steam. The scent of soybean paste, green onion, and red pepper mingled with something else. Time. Time was in that pot. All the years she’d been making this same stew in this same way.
“Grandmother Jeong-soon?”
She turned. Do-hyeon stood in the doorway—the branch school teacher, his young face etched with exhaustion. He’d been up all night too.
“Already?”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s about Eun-seo. I wondered if she was awake yet.”
Grandmother sighed. All the young people in this village spoke in circles. Because of Eun-seo. What was that supposed to mean? Everyone knew Min-jun liked Eun-seo. The child knew. Grandmother knew. Eun-seo herself must know by now. So why did they keep saying because of Eun-seo? Why not just speak plainly? What was shameful about love?
“Sit and eat. I made doenjang-jjigae.”
“Oh, that’s kind, but I have school—”
“Eat.”
Do-hyeon fell silent. There was no refusal in Grandmother’s voice. He came into the kitchen and sat at the table. Grandmother brought out a bowl, ladled in the broth, added rice, placed down seaweed and red pepper paste.
When Do-hyeon lifted his spoon, Grandmother asked, “What did Eun-seo do wrong?”
He set the spoon down. “Oh, no. It’s not that. It’s just… Su-min wrote a diary entry yesterday. She wants to show it to Eun-seo. But Eun-seo’s been at the studio so much lately.”
Grandmother understood. Su-min—the quiet child. The one who wrote. Eun-seo was someone who could understand such a child. An editor. A reader of words.
“Isn’t that a good thing?”
“It is, but…” Do-hyeon drank more broth. “She’s been at the studio so often. It’s fine that she doesn’t come to school, but the villagers have been saying things. Not exactly criticizing, just…”
“What are they saying?”
Do-hyeon’s face flushed. “That she’s always with Min-jun. That she came from Seoul, so what can you expect? That it’s temporary.”
Grandmother looked at his honest face. A good boy. It was a shame he was alone at that branch school. She put a spoonful of rice in her mouth. It was warm.
“Do you know what ‘temporary’ means?”
“Ma’am?”
“’Temporary’ is just a label people stick on things. But really, it’s their own fear talking. If Eun-seo stays, she’ll stay. If she leaves, she’ll leave. That’s her choice to make, not the villagers’.”
Do-hyeon ate his rice. Drank his broth. Several more times.
“Grandmother, I… I wish Eun-seo would stay. Come to school. Help with the branch school.”
“Then tell her that.”
“Ma’am?”
“Tell Eun-seo directly. Tell her, ‘You are needed.’ People want to hear that. Especially a child like her, who keeps doubting her own worth.”
Grandmother looked at his nearly empty bowl and refilled it.
“Does everyone not know Min-jun likes Eun-seo? Of course they do. So why can’t anyone say it plainly? Why do people always have to complicate love with their words?”
Do-hyeon met her gaze. Grandmother ladled more broth into his bowl.
“Do you remember the first doenjang-jjigae Eun-seo ate here? No, you weren’t here then.”
Grandmother began her story. The day Eun-seo first arrived. How the girl ate like it was an obligation. Like medicine. But now—how she ate slowly. How she tasted.
“When food changes, a person changes. It’s simple, but it’s the truth. Someone who eats slowly is someone who lives slowly. And someone like that eventually learns what they truly want.”
Grandmother drew her spoon through the broth.
“Eun-seo goes to that studio so often because it tastes good. Like food. Min-jun tastes good. The space tastes good. The work tastes good. That’s why she goes. Not because it’s temporary or anything else.”
Do-hyeon finished his rice. Grandmother refilled it. He didn’t eat it. He just sat there.
“What’s happening at school next week?”
“There’s a cultural festival. The education office sent a notice that we need to prepare something, but there are only six students and just me…”
“Tell Eun-seo.”
“Ma’am?”
“She worked at a publishing house. She’s published books. She knows how to plan events. And that girl—she loves being asked for help. She loves being told she’s needed.”
Do-hyeon’s face brightened. “That’s a good idea.”
“It’s not an idea. It’s what’s right. People connect through helping each other. That’s how they take root.”
Grandmother cleared the table. Do-hyeon tried to help, but she raised her hand. “You go. Tell Su-min that her grandmother says, ‘A child who writes well will always touch someone’s heart.’ And find Eun-seo. Show her that someone needs her.”
Do-hyeon left. Grandmother was alone. The kitchen was quiet. The scent of soybean paste lingered. As she cleaned, she thought of Eun-seo’s face—the face she’d worn when she first arrived, and the face she wore now.
They were not the same face.
In the pottery studio, Eun-seo’s fingers touched clay. Min-jun’s hand held hers as the wheel turned. The sound was constant. Like a clock’s ticking. But not anxious. Free.
“Turn it faster.”
Min-jun said it. Eun-seo increased the speed. The clay moved. Her fingers moved. Searching for the clay’s center.
“Relax your hands.”
“Okay.”
She released the tension. The clay transformed. Softer. More natural.
“That’s right. That’s it.”
His voice was always like that. Short. Precise. Warm. Eun-seo wondered: How can he see me like this?
“Min-jun.”
“Mm.”
“What are you thinking right now?”
He stopped the wheel. Her hands stilled. The clay froze. He looked at her—his eyes deep and quiet.
“I’m listening to what the clay wants.”
“The clay?”
“Clay doesn’t lie. If your hands shake, the shape wavers. If your mind rushes, the clay tears. So I always ask the clay what I really want. And the clay always tells me.”
Eun-seo watched the clay on the wheel, shaped by her own hands. As if her heart were entering that clay.
“What do you think I want?”
Min-jun smiled. He rarely smiled. But when he did, it touched her chest.
“You already know. You’re just afraid to admit it.”
“What is it?”
“Here. This place. This moment. This time with me. That’s what you want.”
Eun-seo couldn’t speak. The wheel began turning again. Min-jun made it spin. Her fingers touched the clay. It softened.
“In Seoul, you lived fast. When you made books. When you ate. When you tried to sleep. Everything fast. But here…you can go slow.”
“How did you know?”
“Your hands told me.”
His hand wrapped around hers. The wheel kept turning. The clay kept changing. Eun-seo closed her eyes. She wanted that moment to last forever—even knowing it wouldn’t.
In the afternoon, Bok-soon came into the studio. She always came. There was no formal reason. She simply appeared.
“My goodness, look at your fingers, Eun-seo. All red from working. Have you eaten?”
Eun-seo looked at her hands. They were red. But it didn’t hurt.
“Yes, at Grandmother’s house.”
“What did Jeong-soon make?”
“Doenjang-jjigae.”
Bok-soon’s mouth fell open. “Doenjang-jjigae? Again?” She laughed. “I don’t know how Jeong-soon makes the same thing every day. But it really is the best doenjang-jjigae in the world.”
Min-jun worked the clay. Bok-soon ignored him—or rather, she saw only Eun-seo.
“Eun-seo, do you know a student named Su-min?”
“Yes, I do.”
“She’s been writing lately. She only showed it to Teacher Do-hyeon, but he wants you to read it. You’re good with words.”
Eun-seo thought of Su-min. That quiet child. Writing? And wanting her to read it?
“What should I…say to her?”
“Just read it. Tell her if it’s good or not. Tell her what works. That’s all. Someone like you, who’s read so many books—when you read her writing, she’ll understand that what she writes has value.”
Eun-seo’s chest tightened. Value. That word. The one she’d longed for most.
“I understand.”
“And Do-hyeon wanted to ask you something. The branch school is having a cultural festival. They need to prepare something, but he can’t do it alone. Can you help?”
Eun-seo looked at Min-jun. He was working the clay. His fingers shaped it. He must have heard. But he said nothing.
“I can help.”
“Good. Do-hyeon will be so happy.”
Bok-soon left. Eun-seo and Min-jun remained. The wheel began turning again.
“Eun-seo.”
“Yes?”
“What do you want to do here?”
Eun-seo thought. In the pottery studio. In this place. Beside this person.
“I want to touch clay. And…I want to be with you.”
Min-jun stopped the wheel. He looked at her face—his deep, quiet eyes searching hers.
“Then keep coming. Every day. To this place. To this moment.”
“Okay.”
The wheel started again. The clay began to change. And Eun-seo understood. What she wanted. Why she was here. Why she couldn’t leave this person.
That it was love. She hadn’t said it yet. But it was already beginning at her fingertips.
Evening came. Eun-seo returned to Grandmother’s house. Grandmother was preparing dinner. Doenjang-jjigae again. But Eun-seo didn’t complain. She simply sat at the table.
“Do-hyeon came this morning.”
“Ma’am?”
“Because of you.”
Eun-seo spooned rice into her mouth. It was warm—the warmth of Grandmother’s hands.
“What did he want?”
“He wants you to help with the branch school’s cultural festival. And there’s a child, Su-min, who wrote something. She wants you to read it.”
Eun-seo’s hands stilled. Su-min. That child’s writing. That she could be of help.
“Grandmother, can I…really be helpful?”
Grandmother looked at her. And refilled her bowl with more stew.
“You’re already helping. That child wrote because she believed someone would read her words. And that someone is you.”
Eun-seo set down her spoon. Tears threatened. But she didn’t cry. She simply ate. Slowly. Tasting.
Grandmother sat beside her. She didn’t speak. But it was enough.
Outside, the river flowed. As it did yesterday. As it would tomorrow. Endless. Unceasing. Continuing.
And Eun-seo understood now. She too was flowing like that river. Not stopped. But finally finding her direction.
At Grandmother’s table.
In Min-jun’s hands.
In Su-min’s words.
In the knowledge that everyone needed her.