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# Chapter 84: The Time Before Choice
At eight in the morning, when the sun had just begun to illuminate the alley, the door to Minjun’s studio opened. Eunseo was already there, her hands empty. During the walk from the bus stop, she’d searched for words to justify why she’d come, but found none. She’d simply arrived. Her body had moved first; her mind followed behind. As morning sunlight descended along the concrete wall, her shadow stretched long across its surface. The warmth of the light touched her skin, and she squinted slightly.
Minjun wasn’t surprised to see her. That unsettled Eunseo even more. His expression suggested he’d anticipated her visit—or perhaps he was simply a man who accepted everything as it came. He opened the studio door wide and stepped aside, creating space for her to enter. No words were spoken. Instead, there were gestures, and gestures said everything. Come in. You can be here. This moment is all there is. Eunseo stepped through the gap his hand had made, and the scent of the studio enveloped her: old clay, fired clay, and fresh clay. It was entirely different from the paper and printer ink that filled her Seoul office. This was the smell of something alive.
“You look anxious,” Minjun said simply, as if confirming a fact. Eunseo looked at her hands. Her fingertips were trembling slightly, imperceptibly. Her body was sending signals she hadn’t consciously registered. This was the most honest communication—the body revealing truth before words could. She felt the tremor, felt the difference in temperature as her warm hands met the studio’s warm air. Her warmth dispersed into the atmosphere like fine mist.
“Did Seoul call?” Minjun asked. He was organizing ceramic pieces on his worktable—unfinished ones, pieces not yet fired. His hands moved them carefully, arranging them in order, as if organizing his thoughts. Eunseo watched the way his hands moved. They approached her the same way they handled clay: calmly, warmly.
“Yes.” Her answer was brief. There was no need for more explanation. Minjun already knew. Or rather, he understood what she wanted. It was their quiet understanding—not complete comprehension, but the effort to understand. A relationship that accepted the incompleteness of understanding.
“When are you leaving?” Minjun’s hands stopped. That pause said everything. He moved again, returning the ceramic pieces to their original places, slowly. “Three days left.” Eunseo looked through the studio window at the street outside. Morning light illuminated the quiet alley of Hacheonri. Shops were beginning to open one by one. The weekday street, without the market day crowds, was even more serene. That serenity enveloped her, like being submerged in warm water. Standing beside Minjun, she felt grounded.
“Does your grandmother know?” Minjun walked toward the kiln. He opened its door and peered inside. Yesterday’s fired pieces sat within, not yet fully cooled. He removed one—a small teacup, pale gray in color, with the finest of hairline cracks across its surface. Imperfect. Yet beautiful.
Eunseo accepted it from his hands. The warmth of her hands transferred to the ceramic; the coolness of the ceramic returned to her skin. An exchange. A temperature exchange. An emotional exchange.
“There’s a crack,” she said.
“Yes. It formed as the kiln cooled. Unpredictable.” Minjun traced the crack with his finger, moving slowly across it as if reading a map. “Without this crack, it would have been a perfect cup. But because of it, it’s more beautiful. Because this is real. It’s proof that the impossible became possible. Proof that clay endured fire and transformed. Proof that it didn’t break.”
Eunseo heard his words and understood—or tried to. Like this cup, she too had cracks. Cracks from the plagiarism scandal. Wounds left behind in Seoul. Imperfections. But they had made her who she was. Without them, she wouldn’t be herself.
“You’ll do good work in Seoul,” Minjun said. It was certainty, not prediction—spoken as if he already knew it to be true. Eunseo nearly wept at his words but held back. Tears weren’t weakness; they were an acknowledgment of truth. But this wasn’t the time for that. This was a time for endurance.
She saw his eyes change as morning light reflected in them, and within that light, her own image reflected back. She saw herself as he saw her: small, seemingly fragile, yet determined. That was who she was.
“Minjun,” she said, calling his name. He looked at her. “Can you promise me something?” Her voice trembled, but her heart was steady.
“What?”
“Don’t lose yourself in Seoul. Don’t lose the person you’ve found here.”
His words hung in the studio air, settling slowly. They were love—not direct love, but love in the form of care. The wish that another person wouldn’t lose themselves. That was Minjun’s way.
“I can’t promise that. I might lose myself anyway.” Her answer was also truth. She couldn’t make a perfect promise, which made her more honest. Minjun heard her words and understood. His eyes accepted her.
“Then try. Not for me, but for yourself.”
He returned to his work, placing fresh clay on the table and beginning to press it. As his hands touched the clay, fine dust rose into the air, dancing in the morning light like a waltz. Another transformation. From clay to ceramic. From formless to fixed form.
Eunseo watched for a long time. The way his hands moved, his facial expression, his breathing. Everything was etched into memory—not like a photograph, but more vivid than that. A memory felt through all five senses: smell, sound, temperature, everything. Will I be able to remember this in Seoul? Or will I want to? she wondered. Remembering might hurt too much.
“Have you eaten?” Minjun asked, like his grandmother would. Eunseo almost laughed. This was how people greeted each other in this village. Not just asking if you’d eaten, but asking if you were well. Are you eating enough? Resting enough? Loved enough?
“Not yet.”
“Let’s eat here.”
Minjun stopped working and washed his hands, rinsing away the clay. It was like a ritual—a purification, a return to everyday life. From studio time to ordinary time. Eunseo watched and thought about how precious she was to him.
The back room of the studio held a small kitchen. A cabinet Minjun had made himself, a table he’d crafted. Everything was ceramic—surrounded by things he’d created with his own hands. As Eunseo entered that space, she understood something: this was Minjun’s world. This was how he endured. By living among the things he’d made.
He heated leftover rice from yesterday, gathered eggs and seaweed from the refrigerator, and a few side dishes. He made egg fried rice. The sizzle in the pan, the eggs turning golden, the rice rustling as it mixed—all of it was morning music.
“I don’t think I can come on Monday,” Eunseo said as she set out rice bowls.
“I know.”
“I have to go to Seoul on Wednesday. Pack, organize the house.”
“I know.”
His answers were always the same: brief, accepting, non-judgmental. Eunseo understood how precious that was. So many people pretended to understand her choices while actually judging them by their own standards. But Minjun was different. He simply accepted.
As she ate, Eunseo realized how hungry she was—physically and spiritually. The rice softened in her mouth, spreading warmth. The tender eggs, the savory seaweed, the plain rice all came together. This was Minjun’s food. Not fancy, but made with care.
“Will you come tomorrow?” he asked.
“If I can.”
“You will.”
He declared it, not as prediction but as something already decided. Eunseo nodded. Yes, she knew. She would come tomorrow, and the day after, and Sunday too. She would spend all three remaining days here—not because she wanted to delay Seoul, but because she couldn’t bear to miss this moment.
After eating, Eunseo participated in the studio work. Just as Minjun showed her. Submerging her hands in water, touching clay, forming shapes. Her hands felt clumsy, but he didn’t correct her. He simply watched from beside her. That too was a form of teaching—not instructing, but being present. It was the greatest lesson.
Morning passed, and noon approached. Sunlight streamed into the studio, illuminating the space. In that brightness, Eunseo felt where she was: not Seoul, but somewhere she had chosen. Choice changes everything. The same place, the same person—once chosen, they become different.
“Is the time okay?” Minjun asked.
Eunseo checked her phone. One in the afternoon. Her grandmother would be waiting for lunch. But she didn’t want to leave. She wanted to stay in this space, with this person. Yet she had to go. Leaving was part of a relationship too. As essential as being together.
“I should go.”
“I know.”
Minjun walked her to the entrance. At the door, in the sunlight. Eunseo turned back one last time to see his face. It appeared dark in the bright light, yet his eyes still shone. That was his final signal to her: It’s okay. You can do this. Go.
Walking along the riverbank path toward her grandmother’s house, Eunseo looked at her hands. There was clay on them again. This time, she decided not to wash it off. She would carry this clay to Seoul. As proof. Proof that she had been here. Proof that she had been with someone.
The sound of the river reached her ears. The sound of flowing water. It always flowed toward the same place, yet never the same water flowed twice. Eunseo wanted to flow like that—changing while continuing forward, never stopping while not losing herself. That was the way of life this river taught.
When she arrived at her grandmother’s house, her grandmother had already prepared a table. Not just lunch, but a meal full of apology. Long-simmered soup, carefully made side dishes. Looking at that table, Eunseo felt how deeply loved she was. Unspoken love. Love conveyed through food. That was this home’s language.
“I thought you should eat before packing some things,” her grandmother said.
Eunseo looked at her grandmother’s hands—the hands that had served her food, the hands that had supported her for so long.
“Yes, Grandmother.”
She sat at the table and began to eat. The last meal before Seoul. But not the last. This was a beginning. The beginning of departure. And the beginning of something new. Eunseo resolved to remember this moment with her grandmother for a long time.
As she ate, Eunseo and her grandmother talked. Her grandmother listened carefully to everything Eunseo shared—the time with Minjun, walking along the riverbank, every moment she felt her grandmother’s love. Her grandmother’s eyes filled with tears as she listened.
“Grandmother, why are you crying?”
“I’m sorry, Eunseo. Seeing you happy here makes me happy, so I cry.”
Eunseo took her grandmother’s hand and looked into her eyes, feeling both love and apology within them.
“Grandmother, I was happy here. And the time with you was precious to me.”
“Yes, Eunseo. I knew you were happy here. And even when you leave, I’ll always be here. Remember that this is a place you can always return to.”
Hearing her grandmother’s words, Eunseo understood that her grandmother’s love wouldn’t change even when she left. She realized she could carry everything she’d felt here to Seoul. In that moment, she understood she didn’t regret coming here. Everything she’d felt in this place would bring new change to her life.
Eunseo said her final goodbye to her grandmother and set out on the path back to Seoul. Walking along the riverbank, gazing at the water, she thought of everything she’d felt here. And she remembered Minjun’s face—that moment when she’d found herself reflected in his eyes. She knew she could carry everything she’d felt here to Seoul, and she prepared her heart to face this new beginning.