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# Chapter 75: Where the River Bends
Grandmother’s table was a celebration of everything summer had left behind. The gentle fragrance of perilla powder like corn silk, the slow burn of red gochujang crushed like tomato, and the delicate passage of time—like seaweed floating in broth simmered since dawn. Eun-seo picked up her spoon, then set it down. Picked it up, set it down again. The aroma of food dispersed into the air while the rice cooled further. In a room thick with the smell of rice, Eun-seo avoided her grandmother’s gaze.
“Why aren’t you eating?” Grandmother emerged from the kitchen, water still clinging to her hands. Droplets fell between her fingers. She didn’t look directly at Eun-seo. Her gaze merely brushed past the girl’s shoulder. Grandmother already knew everything—Eun-seo’s expression, her lack of appetite, all of it.
“I am eating,” Eun-seo’s voice was small but clear. Yet Grandmother shook her head.
“That’s not eating. That’s staring at a rice bowl.” Grandmother’s voice was firm. But Eun-seo found herself laughing. Something felt strange. The strangeness of laughing at all. Days ago, she couldn’t laugh. Days ago, hearing Kang Tae-o’s name made her heart plummet, her fingers tremble, woke her in the night. But now she was laughing. While staring at a rice bowl.
“Kang Tae-o came by.” Eun-seo looked at her grandmother. Grandmother’s expression shifted—her eyelids flickered, her lips curved upward ever so slightly. But she quickly composed herself.
Grandmother sat at the table. Her knees didn’t straighten as easily as before. Eun-seo noticed. When had it started? When had Grandmother begun moving so slowly? Days ago? Weeks? Eun-seo realized how little she’d truly been seeing her grandmother. Perhaps her aging hadn’t been gradual at all.
“Mm-hmm.” Eun-seo’s voice was barely audible. But Grandmother was listening.
“What did he say?” Grandmother’s voice carried interest.
“…I don’t know.” Eun-seo shrugged. Grandmother sighed—not an angry sigh, but one that resurfaced something long buried. She took Eun-seo’s hand. It was warm. And fragile. That fragility awakened something in Eun-seo.
“His hands were shaking,” Grandmother said quietly. But Eun-seo heard.
“Kang Tae-o’s hands?” Eun-seo looked up. Grandmother’s expression shifted again—eyelids flickering, lips curving upward.
“Yes. Trembling. Like someone waiting for a kiln to fire, terrified it might crack.” Grandmother gripped Eun-seo’s hand more firmly. “What did you do to him?” Her voice was grave.
Eun-seo couldn’t answer. Couldn’t admit she didn’t know what she’d done. Couldn’t confess she couldn’t remember what she’d said, what she’d promised, what she’d refused. So she answered with silence. And Grandmother read that silence. She always could.
“Did he come from Seoul?” Grandmother’s voice was low. Eun-seo nodded.
“Yes.” That single word said everything.
Grandmother took a spoonful of rice. Still warm. She chewed slowly. Three times, four, five. Eun-seo watched her grandmother’s jaw move, noticed it wasn’t as firm as it once was. Perhaps her aging hadn’t been slow at all.
“What do you want, Eun-seo?” The question was enormous. It seemed large enough to overturn the rice bowl. Eun-seo didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. Because she didn’t know what she wanted. Did she want Kang Tae-o? Or did she want the feeling of being wanted by him? Or did she want someone to hold her hand and whisper, “You are enough”?
“Grandmother… I think I need to go back to Seoul.” Eun-seo’s voice was small. But Grandmother’s expression changed. Her hand stilled. The spoon fell from the bowl onto the floor—a sound like ceramic shattering, sharp and fragile.
“Why?” Grandmother’s voice was low. But Eun-seo couldn’t answer.
“I have… work.” Eun-seo’s voice was small. But Grandmother held that word in her mouth like bitter medicine.
“Work.” She repeated it as though it were the most significant word in the world.
“It was… three months ago.” Eun-seo’s voice was small. But Grandmother shook her head.
Grandmother stood slowly, carefully, as if aware her body was fragile as porcelain. She went to the kitchen. And Eun-seo heard her grandmother turn away—the sound of running water, dishes being washed, the performance of busyness.
Eun-seo rose and walked toward the river.
The embankment path showed summer departing and early autumn arriving. The air had changed. No longer clinging to her skin, it now brushed past her back. Eun-seo walked with her shoelaces untied, thinking about what she should say.
To Kang Tae-o. Or rather, to Kang Min-jun. Or simply to him.
He’d said he’d been in Hacheon for five years. Five years spent with pottery. And five years without a genuine conversation with anyone. Only now did Eun-seo understand. Why his hands trembled. Why he’d come to her house in the middle of the night. Why he couldn’t speak his past aloud.
He’d thrown himself into the air. And she’d jumped after him. But neither had found solid ground.
“It’s dangerous to be alone by the river.” Park Do-hyun’s voice came from behind. He appeared on his bicycle. His face was exhausted. The branch school teacher was always exhausted.
“I’m fine,” Eun-seo said quietly. But Do-hyun shook his head.
“That’s exactly when it’s most dangerous—when you look fine.” He dismounted. “Min-jun didn’t come find you?”
Eun-seo didn’t answer.
“I saw his face. That’s deus ex machina level desperation. The kind of despair you’d see in a tragedy. So why are you running?” Do-hyun’s voice was low. But Eun-seo looked up.
“I’m not running,” she said quietly. But Do-hyun shook his head.
“Then what is it?” His voice held genuine curiosity.
Eun-seo looked at the river. It kept flowing. The same as before. Different from before. The river doesn’t remember. The river only moves forward. That’s why it’s always the same and always changing.
“I think I need to go back to Seoul,” Eun-seo said quietly.
Do-hyun’s bicycle fell over. He didn’t pick it up.
“Why?”
“I have… work.”
“Eun-seo, really?” Do-hyun’s eyes were genuinely tired. “Why do you do this to people?”
“What have I done?”
“You came here. You helped the branch school. You woke Min-jun up. You gave your grandmother back her laughter. And now you’re leaving?” His voice rose. “Is that fair?”
“I have reasons for needing to go…”
“What reasons? Money? Work? Pride?” Do-hyun rubbed his face. “Eun-seo, I know. You lost something in Seoul. You were hurt there. But this isn’t a pharmacy. This is a place where time moves slowly, not where it stops.”
Eun-seo had nothing to say.
“Su-min showed me her diary yesterday. The first one she’s ever shown anyone. Do you know what she wrote?” Do-hyun’s voice held that curiosity again.
Eun-seo met his eyes. But Do-hyun continued.
“‘If noona leaves, I think the river will flow away too.’ A twelve-year-old girl. That’s what she’s thinking about.” Do-hyun’s voice was low. But Eun-seo heard him. While watching the river.
Eun-seo couldn’t respond. She couldn’t say she didn’t know what she’d done. Couldn’t confess she couldn’t remember what she’d said, what she’d promised, what she’d refused. So she answered with silence. And Grandmother read that silence. She always could.
“Did he come from Seoul?”
“Yes.”
Grandmother took a spoonful of rice. Still warm. She chewed slowly. Three times, four, five. Eun-seo watched her grandmother’s jaw move, noticed it wasn’t as firm as it once was.
“What do you want, Eun-seo?”
The question was enormous. It seemed large enough to overturn the rice bowl. Eun-seo didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. Because she didn’t know what she wanted. Did she want Kang Tae-o? Or did she want the feeling of being wanted by him? Or did she want someone to hold her hand and whisper, “You are enough”?
“Grandmother… I think I need to go back to Seoul.”
Grandmother’s hand stilled. The spoon fell from the bowl—a sound like ceramic shattering, sharp and fragile.
“Why?”
“I have… work.”
“Work.”
Grandmother held that word in her mouth like bitter medicine. “What work? Didn’t you come here to rest?”
“That was… three months ago.”
Grandmother stood slowly, carefully, as if aware her body was fragile as porcelain. She went to the kitchen. And Eun-seo heard her turn away—the sound of running water, dishes being washed, the performance of busyness.
Eun-seo rose and walked toward the river.
The embankment path showed summer departing and early autumn arriving. The air had changed. No longer clinging to her skin, it now brushed past her back. Eun-seo walked with her shoelaces untied, thinking about what she should say.
To Kang Tae-o. Or rather, to Kang Min-jun. Or simply to him.
He’d said he’d been in Hacheon for five years. Five years spent with pottery. And five years without a genuine conversation with anyone. Only now did Eun-seo understand. Why his hands trembled. Why he’d come to her house in the middle of the night. Why he couldn’t speak his past aloud.
He’d thrown himself into the air. And she’d jumped after him. But neither had found solid ground.
“It’s dangerous to be alone by the river.”
Eun-seo’s body tensed. Park Do-hyun appeared on his bicycle. His face was exhausted. The branch school teacher was always exhausted.
“I’m fine.”
“That’s exactly when it’s most dangerous—when you look fine.” He dismounted. “Min-jun didn’t come find you?”
Eun-seo didn’t answer.
“I saw his face. That’s deus ex machina level desperation. The kind of despair you’d see in a tragedy. So why are you running?”
“I’m not running.”
“Then what is it?”
Eun-seo looked at the river. It kept flowing. The same as before. Different from before. The river doesn’t remember. The river only moves forward. That’s why it’s always the same and always changing.
“I think I need to go back to Seoul.”
Do-hyun’s bicycle fell over. He didn’t pick it up.
“Why?”
“I have… work.”
“Eun-seo, really?” Do-hyun looked at her. His eyes were genuinely tired. “Why do you do this to people?”
“What have I done?”
“You came here. You helped the branch school. You woke Min-jun up. You gave your grandmother back her laughter. And now you’re leaving?” His voice rose. “Is that fair?”
“I have reasons for needing to go…”
“What reasons? Money? Work? Pride?” Do-hyun rubbed his face. “Eun-seo, I know. You lost something in Seoul. You were hurt there. But this isn’t a pharmacy. This is a place where time moves slowly, not where it stops.”
Eun-seo had nothing to say.
“Su-min showed me her diary yesterday. The first one she’s ever shown anyone. Do you know what she wrote?”
Eun-seo shook her head.
“‘If noona leaves, I think the river will flow away too.’ A twelve-year-old girl. That’s what she’s thinking about.” Do-hyun looked at the river. “She thinks you’re like the river. Always flowing, always changing, so you could stay here.”
Eun-seo’s eyes burned.
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t matter. What matters is choosing. You need to choose—stay or go. But remember one thing when you do: everyone here has been waiting for you. And they still are.”
Do-hyun rode away. Eun-seo watched his retreating figure. And suddenly understood. Do-hyun was alone too. Do-hyun was waiting for someone. Probably riding that bicycle every day to keep from watching the branch school close.
The river was growing darker. Evening was coming. Eun-seo walked home.
Grandmother was sitting on the veranda. In her hands were needle and thread. Old-fashioned mending. She was repairing Eun-seo’s clothes—the ones she’d worn in Seoul. Black. Professional. Sleeves coming apart.
“Grandmother…”
“Sit.”
Eun-seo sat beside her. Grandmother worked the needle. Tap, tap, tap. There was rhythm to it. Like a heartbeat. Or a clock. Grandmother’s stitching was measuring time.
“What will you do in Seoul?”
“I need to find work.”
“Work.”
Grandmother held that word again. This time it didn’t taste bitter. This time it tasted sad.
“In Seoul, I think I can work as an editor. My old company offered to rehire me. They’ve already done the background check, the articles have run…”
“What do you want to do?”
Eun-seo was silent.
“Do you want to be an editor? Or does it just feel easier to be called one?”
“…I don’t know.”
Grandmother’s needle stopped. She looked at Eun-seo. Really looked. Met her eyes. In those eyes were three months. Every moment Eun-seo had spent in Hacheon.
“What did Kang Tae-o do?”
“He didn’t really do anything. He just… told me about his past.”
“I see.”
“And I told him about mine.”
“I see.”
“And then…”
“What?”
Eun-seo remembered that moment. In the workshop. When Kang Tae-o had taken her hand. When he’d looked into her eyes. When he’d said nothing at all.
“And then I didn’t know what to say.”
Grandmother’s needle moved again. Tap, tap, tap. But this time the rhythm was different. Faster. Firmer. She was mending Eun-seo’s clothes quickly, as if she’d wear them tomorrow.
“Did you hear what he said?”
“Yes.”
“Then what will you do for him?”
Eun-seo couldn’t answer.
Grandmother paused her needle and looked at her again. “What have you been doing here? For three months?”
“…Resting.”
“Yes, you’ve been resting. But resting isn’t all. While resting, you saw other people. You saw their lives. And they saw you. They trusted you.” Grandmother’s voice trembled slightly, but distinctly. “Will you throw that away now?”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?”
Eun-seo rose and went to her room. The room that had become hers over three months. Through the window, the persimmon tree. Fruit that had been green was now turning yellow.
Eun-seo pulled a notebook from under her bed. The one Su-min had given her at the branch school. She reread what she’d written. At first, she’d recorded her insomnia. Waking at 3 AM. Thoughts at 4 AM. Feelings at 5 AM. But somewhere, the notebook’s contents had changed.
‘Grandmother’s hands. Warm. Why are they warm?’
‘Walked by the river. Heard the water flowing. Does the river wait for someone too?’
‘Saw Kang Tae-o firing pottery in the workshop. His hands were shaking. Why? Ah, that’s the tremor of waiting for perfection.’
‘Su-min asked me to read her diary. A twelve-year-old’s words, but they felt more real than anything I’ve written.’
‘Do-hyun rode his bicycle. That bicycle goes to the branch school. He rides it every day for six children. And he smiles while saying, “Not yet.”’
‘Kang Tae-o said, “I want to believe in you.” What should I do for him? What can I do?’
Eun-seo looked at the last page. Written this morning.
‘I need to go to Seoul. But why won’t my feet move? Why haven’t I packed? Why do I keep seeing Grandmother’s face?’
Eun-seo returned to the living room with the notebook.
“Grandmother.”
Grandmother was still mending.
“I… I…”
Grandmother set down her needle and took Eun-seo’s hand. It was still warm. But now it seemed more fragile.
“What do you want right now? Really. Don’t think there’s a right answer like in a game. What do you want?”
Eun-seo closed her eyes. If she went to Seoul. If she worked again. If she returned as an editor. What would she gain? Pride? A paycheck? Proof she was still useful?
But if she stayed here…
Grandmother squeezed her hand tighter.
Eun-seo opened her eyes and looked at her grandmother.
“Grandmother… I want to stay here.”
Grandmother’s eyes glistened. Quietly. Like the river seeping in.
“Then do that. And go tell him. Tell him you’ll stay. Tell him you won’t leave. Ask him what he wants. And listen to what he wants. You can’t hear it through silence alone.”
Eun-seo nodded and stood.
“Now?”
“Now. He’s probably awake in the dark, wondering what to do.”
Eun-seo put on her shoes. Grandmother handed her the mended clothes.
“Wear this.”
Eun-seo dressed. And walked toward the river.
Kang Tae-o’s workshop had its light on. Even in the dead of night, like dawn. Eun-seo opened the door. Without a word.
Kang Tae-o sat before his pottery. His hands were trembling. He saw her. And moved. But Eun-seo spoke first.
“I’m staying here.”
His hands stilled.
“I’m not going to Seoul. I’m going to do something here. I don’t know what yet, but I’ll be here. By your side. By Grandmother’s side. By the branch school. By this river.”
He stood.
“And you need to tell me too. What you want. I can’t hear it through silence alone. Neither can you.”
Kang Tae-o came to her. And took her hand. His hand no longer trembled.
“I want you. And tomorrow, and the day after, I’ll keep wanting you.”
Eun-seo held his hand. And heard the river. It kept flowing. Now she understood she could flow with it.
The river bent. And bent. And would keep bending.