The bus station in Hado-gae was not really a station.
It was a concrete slab with a plastic bench bolted to it, a schedule board that hadn't been updated since 2019, and a single streetlight that flickered when the wind blew hard. The bus pulled away with a diesel cough, and Ha-neul stood alone with her two suitcases, breathing air that smelled like salt and pine and something else she couldn't name.
*Home.*
The word sat strangely in her chest. She had spent fifteen years avoiding this moment, and now that it was here, she didn't know what to feel. Relief? Shame? The vague, panicky sense that she had made a terrible mistake by coming back?
She was still standing there, frozen, when she saw them.
Her mother was walking up the road from the village, moving faster than a woman her age should move, one hand raised in an awkward wave. Behind her, carrying himself with the careful dignity of someone trying not to show how he felt, came Ha-neul's father. He was slower than she remembered. Grayer. Smaller, somehow, as if the years had folded him in on himself.
"Ha-neul-ah!" Her mother's voice cracked on the second syllable. "Ha-neul-ah!"
And then she was there, arms wrapped around her daughter, face pressed into Ha-neul's shoulder, and Ha-neul felt the sob rise in her own throat before she could stop it.
"Omma," she whispered. "Omma, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Her mother pulled back, hands cupping Ha-neul's face, eyes wet and shining. "Sorry? For what? For coming home? Don't be stupid." She laughed, a wet, wobbly sound. "You're too thin. Are they not feeding you in Seoul? Look at this, Jae-won-ah, look at how thin she is."
Ha-neul's father had reached them now. He stood a little apart, hands in his pockets, watching his wife fuss with an expression that hovered somewhere between amusement and emotion. When his eyes met Ha-neul's, something passed between them—a wordless understanding that didn't need to be spoken.
"Appa," she said.
"Ha-neul-ah." He nodded once. Then, quieter: "Welcome home."
That was all. But it was enough.
---
The walk to the house took fifteen minutes, though her mother made it last longer by stopping twice to point out things Ha-neul had already seen—the new roof on the Kims' house, the cherry trees that had grown twice as tall, the spot where Ha-neul had fallen off her bicycle when she was nine and scraped both knees.
The house itself hadn't changed. Same low wall, same rusted gate, same persimmon tree in the front yard that had never once produced a decent persimmon. Her father carried her suitcases inside while her mother guided her through the front door like she was a guest who might run away at any moment.
"Your room is still yours," her mother said, opening the door to a small, immaculate space. The bed was made with fresh sheets. A vase of wildflowers sat on the windowsill. The desk where Ha-neul had done her homework still had the same dent in the corner where she'd dropped a dictionary in middle school. "I cleaned it last week. And the week before. Just in case."
Ha-neul stood in the doorway, unable to move. The room was a museum of a life she had left behind. Her books still on the shelf. Her old posters, faded now, curling at the edges. A photograph of her with two friends from high school, all of them making peace signs, all of them certain they would conquer the world.
She hadn't spoken to either of those friends in years.
"Omma," she said. Her voice came out smaller than she intended. "I don't know if I can—"
"Hush." Her mother's hand found hers, squeezed. "You don't have to know anything today. Just rest. That's all. Rest."
---
The first day passed in a blur of small kindnesses.
Her father made dinner—doenjang jjigae with vegetables from the garden, exactly the way he used to make it when she was a child. They ate at the low table in the living room, the television playing softly in the corner, and no one mentioned Seoul or the business or why she was here. It was as if they had all agreed, silently, that those topics were forbidden until she was ready.
On the second day, the questions began.
Not from her mother—her mother was too busy feeding her, pressing food on her at every opportunity, watching her eat with an anxious intensity that would have been annoying if it weren't so touching. The questions came from her father, in his own quiet way.
They were sitting on the small wooden deck behind the house, drinking barley tea and watching the sun slide toward the sea. Her father had been a fisherman once, before his knees gave out. Now he did odd jobs around the village, helped where he was needed, and spent a lot of time staring at the water.
"What will you do?" he asked.
The question wasn't accusatory. It was practical, the kind of question a man who had spent his life solving problems would ask.
Ha-neul wrapped her hands around her tea cup. "I don't know yet. I need to think."
He nodded, accepting this.
"I was thinking," she continued, the words coming out before she could stop them, "that I should find work. Something temporary. Just to... you know. Feel useful."
Her father was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "There's the Family Mart."
Ha-neul blinked. "The what?"
"In the village square. It's been empty for two years. Old Mr. Kwon ran it before he passed, and no one's taken it over since." He sipped his tea. "The building belongs to the village association. They've been wanting someone to reopen it. A convenience store, like in the city. The old people would appreciate it. And the tourists, when they come."
Ha-neul stared at him. "Appa. I ran a three-location café business. You want me to work at a Family Mart?"
"I want you to do something that makes you happy," he said simply. "Or at least something that keeps you busy while you figure out what happy means. The mart is small. Simple. No loans, no investors, no pressure. Just a counter and some shelves and people who need things."
She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it.
Because he wasn't wrong.
The thought of jumping back into something big, something risky, made her stomach clench with a fear she hadn't fully acknowledged. The business had broken her. Not just financially—she could recover from that—but in some deeper way, some place where her confidence used to live. The thought of facing that again, of putting herself out there, of risking failure in front of people who would watch and whisper...
The Family Mart was small. The Family Mart was safe.
"I'll think about it," she said.
Her father nodded, accepting this too.
---
By the fourth day, Ha-neul was going slightly insane.
She had unpacked her suitcases. Reorganized her room. Helped her mother clean the kitchen. Read an entire novel. Started another novel. Walked to the pier and back twice. Eaten approximately seventeen meals, by her mother's count, and gained approximately two kilograms, by her own horrified estimation.
She needed to do something.
The Family Mart kept nudging at the edges of her mind. She had walked past the village square twice now, seen the empty storefront with its dusty windows and faded sign. It was small, yes. Humble. But it was also right in the center of things, surrounded by houses and the pier and that little restaurant everyone kept talking about.
*Jiwon's Table.*
She had heard the name three times already. From her mother, praising the owner's kindness. From a neighbor who stopped by to borrow sugar, mentioning how he had helped her carry groceries. From her father, in passing: *"The best food in the village. Maybe the best food I've ever eaten."*
Ha-neul was curious. She was also bored.
On the afternoon of the fourth day, she put on actual clothes—not the sweatpants she had been living in—and told her mother she was going for a walk.
"To the square?" her mother asked, too quickly.
"Maybe."
"Good. Get some air. Say hello to people. And if you see the man at the restaurant, tell him his radishes are ready. I told him I'd save him some from the garden."
Ha-neul raised an eyebrow. "You're friends with the restaurant owner?"
"He's friends with everyone." Her mother's smile was warm, a little mysterious. "You'll see."
---
The walk to the square took seven minutes.
Ha-neul took twelve, stopping to look at things she had walked past a hundred times as a child. The old well, now covered with a wooden lid. The stone wall where she and her friends used to sit and gossip. The giant zelkova tree that shaded half the square, its branches heavy with leaves.
And there, on the far side of the square, the two buildings.
One was traditional, with a tiled roof and wooden beams and large windows that glowed with warm light. A hand-painted sign hung above the door: **Jiwon's Table**. Even from here, she could smell something amazing—garlic and sesame and maybe fish, braised until it fell apart.
Next to it, the empty storefront.
Ha-neul stood for a moment, imagining it. Clean windows. A new sign. Shelves stocked with instant noodles and toilet paper and ice cream, the kind of place where old men could buy cigarettes and children could spend their allowance on candy. It would serve the village. It would give her something to do. It would be small and safe and completely, utterly unambitious.
*Maybe that's what I need right now,* she thought. *Something small. Something safe.*
She was still standing there, lost in thought, when she noticed the door to the restaurant open.
Her father stepped out.
He was holding a small takeout bag, and he was laughing at something someone inside had said. She hadn't heard her father laugh like that in years—a real laugh, easy and unguarded, the kind of laugh that belonged to a younger man.
He turned, saw her, and waved her over.
"Ha-neul-ah! Come here. There's someone you should meet."
She walked across the square, her curiosity piqued. As she got closer, she could see through the restaurant window—the warm wooden interior, the long counter, the stools. And behind the counter, a man.
He was washing dishes, his back to the window, but even from this angle she could see something in the way he moved. Deliberate. Careful. Like every motion meant something.
Her father held the door open. "Come in, come in. Ji-won-ssi, this is my daughter. The one I told you about."
The man turned.
And for a moment, Ha-neul forgot to breathe.
He was handsome in a way that wasn't flashy or obvious—the kind of handsome that crept up on you, that you noticed slowly, in pieces. Kind eyes, dark and observant. A calm mouth that looked like it smiled rarely but meant it when it did. Strong hands, drying now on a towel, with the kind of scars and calluses that spoke of work. Real work. The kind that left marks.
He was probably in his late thirties, a few years older than her. He wore a simple shirt, rolled at the sleeves, and a canvas apron tied at his waist. And when he looked at her, really looked, she had the strangest sensation that he was seeing something no one else could see.
"You must be Ha-neul-ssi," he said.
His voice was quiet. Warm. Like the first sip of tea on a cold morning.
"I—" She stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. "Yes. Ha-neul. Choi Ha-neul."
Her father was watching them both with an expression she couldn't read. "Ji-won-ssi here makes the best food in the village. Maybe the best food I've ever eaten. I was just picking up some soup for your mother."
"It's just soup," Ji-won said, but there was something in his voice—a modesty that wasn't false, exactly, but also wasn't quite true.
"It's not just soup," her father said firmly. To Ha-neul: "You should try it sometime. Come for lunch. He'll take care of you."
Ji-won's eyes met hers again. "You're welcome anytime."
The words were simple. Ordinary. But the way he said them, the way he looked at her, made something shift in Ha-neul's chest. Something she couldn't name and didn't want to examine.
"I might take you up on that," she heard herself say.
A small nod. A flicker of something in his eyes—surprise? Interest? She couldn't tell.
Then her father was saying goodbye, guiding her out of the restaurant with a hand on her elbow, and they were standing in the square again, the door closing softly behind them.
"He's quiet," Ha-neul said. It was the only thing she could think to say.
"He is," her father agreed. "But quiet doesn't mean empty. That man has more inside him than most people show in a lifetime."
They started walking back toward the house. Ha-neul glanced over her shoulder once, twice. The restaurant windows glowed warm against the afternoon light, and through them, she could just make out his shape, moving behind the counter with that same deliberate grace.
"Appa," she said.
"Yes?"
"How long has he lived here?"
"Three years. Maybe a little more."
"And where did he come from before?"
Her father was quiet for a moment. Then: "No one knows."
Ha-neul stopped walking. "What do you mean, no one knows?"
"I mean exactly that. He arrived one day, bought the old Choi house—the one near the well—and started cooking. He doesn't talk about his past. Doesn't mention family or work or where he learned to cook like that. The village has learned not to ask."
"That's..." She trailed off, not sure what word she was looking for. Strange? Suspicious? Intriguing?
"That's Ji-won," her father finished. "He's a good man. Whatever came before, it made him who he is. And who he is, is someone worth knowing."
They walked the rest of the way in silence, but Ha-neul's mind was spinning.
A man with no past. A restaurant that smelled like memory. A village that had wrapped itself around him like a blanket.
And now, a convenience store next door, empty and waiting.
She didn't know it yet, but something had already begun. Something small, like the first ripple before the tide turns.
Back in the restaurant, Ji-won stood at his counter, staring at the door.
His hands were still. His tea was growing cold.
He hadn't felt that in years. That jolt. That sudden awareness of another person, sharp and unexpected, like stepping into sunlight after a long darkness.
*Choi Ha-neul.*
She had her father's eyes. But there was something else there too—a weariness she tried to hide, a hope she hadn't quite killed. He recognized it because he had seen it in his own mirror, every day for three years.
The door to his restaurant was closed.
But somewhere, deep in the space between them, something had just opened.