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# Chapter 6: Smoke Across the River
Eun-seo returned from the five-day market and had lunch with her grandmother. The smell of soybean paste stew, rolled egg, and seasoned vegetables filled the table. Her grandmother watched carefully to see if Eun-seo was eating her vegetables well, and Eun-seo felt that gaze but ate her rice without saying anything. When you poured soup over rice, it became rice soup—mixed together. Eun-seo still found this strange. Back in Seoul, meals had always been neat. White rice, soup in its own bowl, side dishes each in their place. But here, everything blended together. Her spoon was in her hand, but her heart still lingered over Seoul’s orderly table.
“Did you see the workshop across the river?” her grandmother asked suddenly while eating. Eun-seo paused, spoon mid-air, and looked at her. Her grandmother’s voice flowed slowly, as though Eun-seo should already know this place. “No. Where is it?” Eun-seo’s voice rose in question.
“Across the river. There’s someone there who does pottery.” Her grandmother spoke as though Eun-seo ought to know this already. Eun-seo tilted her head. At the market, she thought someone had mentioned a workshop across the river, but her memory was unclear. Dozens of faces, dozens of names from the five-day market swirled together in her mind. Her brow furrowed slightly as she tried to grasp the memory, but it remained hazy.
“Pottery?” Eun-seo asked carefully, her voice low. Her grandmother picked up some vegetables. “Yes. Someone who came down from Seoul. About five years ago now. At first, he didn’t talk much, kept to himself. But he seems better now.” Her grandmother’s hands moved slowly, carefully as she served the vegetables. “He teaches the village children how to make pottery. No one asked him to.” Eun-seo listened, but she didn’t understand why her grandmother was telling her this. A pottery workshop. Someone from Seoul. Someone who used to isolate himself but seems better now. What did any of this have to do with her? Eun-seo’s eyes searched her grandmother’s face, but it remained as it always was.
“Grandmother, why are you telling me this?” Eun-seo’s voice pitched higher. She didn’t understand. Her grandmother took another bite of rice, chewing slowly. That was her habit—she never rushed. Not when eating, not when speaking. Watching her, Eun-seo realized how quickly she herself had lived. In Seoul, always rushing. Eating fast, working fast, thinking fast. But here, there was no need for that. Eun-seo’s eyes blinked slowly. She was beginning to understand her grandmother.
“Just… thinking that there’s another person here who’s alone,” her grandmother said quietly. That was her answer. Eun-seo felt it. Her grandmother had seen her. Someone from Seoul. Someone who didn’t talk much, who wanted to be alone. Eun-seo continued eating her rice without responding. Her grandmother said nothing more. That was enough. Eun-seo’s heart grew a little calmer. She understood her grandmother.
After lunch, Eun-seo told her grandmother she was going for a walk. “The river wind is strong, so wear something warm,” her grandmother said. Eun-seo put on a cardigan. When she’d bought it in Seoul, it had been trendy. Now it was just an old piece of clothing. She buttoned it carefully, listening to her grandmother’s words. River wind. She understood what that meant. This place was different from Seoul. Here the wind was strong off the river, and here the people were warm.
Stepping outside, Eun-seo looked around. The workshop across the river—which way would that be? If her grandmother said across the river, she would have to cross it. Eun-seo headed toward the riverside path she’d discovered yesterday. The embankment was clearer in the afternoon sunlight than it had been in yesterday’s overcast. The water sparkled, catching the light. She walked slowly. The path continued along the river, and beside it stretched green fields. It was spring. Not yet the warmth of early summer, but everything was awakening. Her steps were unhurried. She watched the water. The river calmed her mind.
As she walked, Eun-seo thought of walks in Seoul. Those had been purposeful journeys—to get to Hangang Park, to reach a café, to arrive somewhere. But walking here was different. There was no destination. The walking itself was the purpose. Her heart grew peaceful. She enjoyed this kind of walking. The river, the fields, the wind off the water—all of it soothed her.
Walking further along the river, she saw smoke in the distance. Gray smoke, as though someone had lit a fire. Eun-seo turned in that direction. This must be the workshop her grandmother had mentioned. Her pace quickened. She was curious. She wanted to see it.
She needed to find a way to cross the river. Following the embankment path, she continued walking until she found a small bridge—an old concrete structure, weathered like everything else in the village. She crossed it. On the other side, the landscape changed. From fields to a small hill. And on the hill, a roof appeared. An old rural house. Eun-seo headed toward it. The smoke grew thicker. Now she could tell what it was: the smoke from a kiln, firing pottery.
The workshop was larger than she expected. It looked like an old Korean house that had been converted. In the yard lay several pieces of pottery—some finished, some broken. Bowls, planters, plates. Various forms gleamed in the sunlight. Eun-seo stopped at the entrance. She wasn’t sure whether to enter or turn back. This was someone’s workplace. She wasn’t certain if it was right to go in without permission.
“Can I help you?”
A voice came from behind. Eun-seo turned. It was a man, appearing to be in his early thirties. His hands and clothes were stained with clay—he’d clearly just come from working. His face was expressionless, as though meeting someone was an inconvenience. Eun-seo met his gaze. There was something in his eyes that didn’t comfort her.
“No, I just…” Eun-seo stammered. “My grandmother said there was a pottery workshop across the river.” Her voice was low, hesitant.
The man studied her, as though trying to figure out who she was. Under that scrutiny, Eun-seo felt how out of place she was here. Her clean clothes, her urban bearing. She didn’t belong. His gaze made her uncomfortable.
“Who’s your grandmother?” His voice was steady, but his eyes never left her.
“Yun Jung-soon. She’s lived in the village a long time.” Eun-seo’s voice dropped further. She tried to avoid his gaze.
The man’s expression softened slightly. “Ah, her. Yes, I know her.” His voice remained unchanged, but something shifted behind his eyes. Eun-seo felt it. There was recognition there now.
Silence stretched between them. Eun-seo felt she should say something, but didn’t know what. The man didn’t speak either. He simply looked at her. The silence was awkward, yet it carried no falseness.
“Do you do pottery?” Eun-seo asked.
“Yes.”
One word. No elaboration. Eun-seo looked again at the pottery around the yard.
“Did you make all of these?”
“Yes.”
Again, one word. But this time it was different. There was pride in it. Certainty in what he’d created.
“How… how did you make so many?” Eun-seo asked, looking at each piece. Each was different in form, color, feeling. Some seemed perfect, others deliberately imperfect.
“When I have time, I make. When my hands are busy, my head gets quieter.”
There was much contained in that sentence. Eun-seo understood. This man was also running from something. Using his hands to occupy his mind. Just as she used books to escape her thoughts.
“Did your grandmother send you here because she thought there was another person here who was alone?” the man asked suddenly.
Eun-seo was startled. How did he know? “Yes… I think so.”
The man let out a short, dry laugh. “Your grandmother knows everything. But she doesn’t say it. She just… stays beside you.”
Eun-seo considered this. To stay beside someone. That was her grandmother’s way. Not trying to fix her, not trying to convince her. Just being there. Like the radio at four in the morning. Like meals. Like silence.
“I’m Kang Min-jun,” the man said.
“Yun Eun-seo.”
They exchanged names. They didn’t shake hands. Just names. For Eun-seo, that was enough.
Min-jun invited her inside. She followed. The interior was neater than she expected. On one wall, finished pieces sat on shelves. On another, works in progress. In the center was a pottery wheel, and beside it, a kiln.
“The kiln reaches twelve hundred degrees,” Min-jun explained. “That’s what makes the pottery hard. Too low, and it cracks. Too high, and it warps. The temperature has to be exact.”
Eun-seo watched the kiln. What transformation was happening inside? The form stayed the same, but internally, everything was changing.
“How long does it take?”
“Making takes hours to days. Firing takes all day. Cooling takes two days.”
“So a single piece takes days to complete.”
“Yes. You can’t rush. Time is necessary.”
Min-jun led her to one of the shelves. “This one broke.”
Eun-seo looked. What had seemed perfect was shattered in half, as though deliberately broken.
“Why did you break it?”
“It was too perfect. Perfect means dead. For pottery or for people. You need some imperfection to be alive.”
Hearing this, Eun-seo looked at her own hands. Still long fingers. Still an editor’s hands. But now they made nothing. They simply existed.
“Do you work alone?”
“Yes. Sometimes village children come to learn how to make pottery.”
“Do they want to learn?”
“No. Without meaning to… I just end up teaching them. My hands move, and I teach.”
Eun-seo understood. Unintended things happen. Her grandmother’s suggestion about the market, this visit across the river, this conversation now. All unintended.
“How was it when you first came to the village? It must have been hard.”
Min-jun paused, thinking. “Yes. It was hard. People from Seoul usually find it that way. This place seems inconvenient, slow, suffocating.”
“And now?”
“Now… it’s comfortable. The inconvenience became comfortable.”
Eun-seo grasped the meaning. When discomfort becomes familiar, it stops being discomfort. It becomes natural. Min-jun had crossed that threshold.
“My grandmother said you teach the children.”
“Yes. Six children from the branch school.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
There was pride in that single word. Teaching alone was his way.
Eun-seo continued looking around the workshop. She examined each finished piece. Each carried its own story. Some were elegant, some humble, some deliberately rough.
“Do you sell any of these?”
“Sometimes. Village people buy them, and I take orders online.”
“Are you popular?”
Min-jun laughed. “No. They sell slowly. But I like that. If they sold fast, I’d have to make more, and I can’t. I only make until I’m satisfied.”
As Eun-seo listened, she thought of her own editorial philosophy. Finding good books, bringing them to the world. Not rushing, but doing things in their proper time. That mattered. But after the plagiarism scandal, she’d lost that philosophy. She no longer searched for books or brought them into the world.
“Isn’t creating difficult?” Eun-seo asked.
Min-jun looked at her as though she’d asked something important.
“It is. Every day is difficult. But I think you need that difficulty to be alive. Without it, it’s just work, money, repetition.”
Eun-seo considered this. She felt no difficulty now. Instead, she felt emptiness. And that emptiness was heavier.
Time passed. Eun-seo and Min-jun continued talking. About pottery, about the village, and sometimes they simply walked through the workshop in silence. Min-jun showed her how to make pottery. His hands working the clay—precise, delicate, like playing music.
As afternoon deepened, Eun-seo said she needed to leave. Her grandmother would be preparing dinner.
Min-jun walked her to the door. “Come again.”
It was an invitation. Not a demand, but a natural one. Eun-seo nodded. “Yes. I’ll come back.”
Leaving the workshop, she looked back. Min-jun was sitting before the clay again, hands moving. As though she’d never come. But Eun-seo knew something had changed. Quietly, subtly, but certainly.
Crossing back over the river, Eun-seo reached into her cardigan pocket. Inside was a small bowl Min-jun had given her. It wasn’t perfect. One side was slightly off-center, the surface not perfectly smooth. But that’s what made it good. That imperfection made it feel alive.
That evening, Eun-seo told her grandmother she’d visited the workshop across the river.
Her grandmother laughed as she scooped rice. “Good. You did well.”
There were no more questions. That was enough for her. That Eun-seo had gone out. That she’d met someone. Just that.
A new side dish appeared on the evening table. Not from Mrs. Oh Bok-soon, but something her grandmother had prepared that afternoon. Grilled fish. While Eun-seo was at the pottery workshop, her grandmother had been preparing dinner.
Eating the fish, Eun-seo thought about this. Her grandmother had known where she was going. Or rather, she’d anticipated it. That Eun-seo would go to the workshop across the river. And she’d wanted her to go. That’s why she’d prepared dinner with such care.
That night, Eun-seo lay in bed holding the small bowl Min-jun had given her. Her fingers traced its surface. Imperfect form. But within it, clear intention. Someone had made this. With time, with hands, with heart.
At 2 a.m., Eun-seo’s eyes were open. But not with anxiety this time. With curiosity. What would Min-jun make next? What were the children at the branch school learning? How would the village change? Questions occupied her mind. But they weren’t dark thoughts. They were living thoughts.
Outside her window, the moon shone. Branches of the persimmon tree cast shadows in its light. The same shadows as yesterday. But the way Eun-seo saw them had changed. The shadows were no longer symbols of anxiety. They were simply the tree’s form. As it was.
She heard the river flowing. From far away. The night river sounded different than the day river. Deeper, louder, more present. Eun-seo listened and thought. The river doesn’t rest. It flows day and night. But it doesn’t carry that as a burden. That’s the river’s nature.
Perhaps Eun-seo would become that way too. Not seeing her flowing as a burden, but accepting it as her nature. Whether she flowed fast or slow, accepting that as her pace.
After 3 a.m., Eun-seo finally fell asleep. Her insomnia hadn’t disappeared, but she’d found something to bear it with. The pottery bowl Min-jun gave her. In her hand, it was warm. Imperfect but certain. The trace of time made by someone’s hands.
Morning came, and Eun-seo woke to her grandmother’s voice calling her. Not the radio like yesterday. Her grandmother calling directly. “Eun-seo, come eat.”
She got up. The morning was like yesterday’s, but her feeling was different. Through the window, she could see the riverside, and somewhere across it, Min-jun would be making pottery. And someday, she would meet the children at the branch school.
Eun-seo placed the bowl Min-jun gave her on her bookshelf. Among the books. That felt like its proper place. Books and pottery. Words and form. Both made by someone’s hands. Both containing time. Both imperfect yet certain.
While eating, Eun-seo asked her grandmother, “Grandmother, where is the branch school?”
“Across the river. Go down the path next to Min-jun’s workshop.”
“How many children are there?”
“Six. Good children, all of them.”
Eun-seo nodded. She hadn’t gone to the school yet, but she sensed she would someday. It was what her grandmother wanted, what the village needed, and perhaps what Eun-seo wanted too.
After lunch, Eun-seo went back to the riverside. The same path as yesterday. But this time with a different purpose. Toward Min-jun’s workshop. To make something not yet decided.