Chapter 75: Cabbage Forecast
The eastern ridge was still only graphite against a paling sky when Seo-yeon slid the café's side door open. A thin ribbon of steam curled from the rice cooker, carrying the nutty scent of barley, and Min-ji—hair coiled in a hasty top-knot—was already at the prep table, reducing a mountain of scallions to neat emerald confetti.
"Musician's hands up before sunrise?" she teased, eyes bright despite the hour. "Must be kimjang week."
Seo-yeon answered with the single bar of Arirang she had been humming since last night, letting it curl through the warm kitchen air. Her palms, still pink from the salt-room soak, glided over the stainless counter to claim a paring knife. The blade felt honest—weighty, chilled, unpretentious.
Outside, the first rooster crow fractured the hush, and a delivery truck growled into the narrow alley. Its headlights splashed through the back doorway, illuminating the steam that hung in lazy halos over simmering stockpots.
A diesel cough and a hiss of brakes announced the arrival of the ganghwa cabbages. The flat-bed's tarpaulin flapped away to reveal a fortress of pale-green heads, each beaded with dawn dew. Kang Madam, apron already dusted with flour, strode into the alley like a field marshal.
"One hundred twenty heads," she barked. "We check every crate—no rot, no slug trails. Min-ji, blades. Seo-yeon, clipboard."
The clipboard was a sun-warped plank of plywood, but Seo-yeon accepted it like a promotion. Ha-eun's low hum rose inside her ribs, matching the rhythm of the head-count. Left row, six per layer; easier to tally in twelves.
Seo-yeon called the numbers while a two-person chain ferried cabbages from truck to loading bay. The air smelled of damp burlap, exhaust, and peppery leaves split by rough hands. Every thump into the plastic crates vibrated through the alley's walls and up her arms, but she kept the ledger neat, columns aligned as precisely as any Seoul spreadsheet.
When the last crate touched down she tapped the plywood twice—a banker's gavel—and announced, "Total: one-hundred twenty. All sound."
Kang Madam's eyebrows inched upward, equal parts approval and surprise. "Quick like a calculator, this one."
Min-ji's grin flashed. "Told you city math might come in handy, Eomma."
At 05:45 the cabbages steamed gently in the chill while the women gathered around a portable propane heater. It popped and flared, painting their cheeks gold. Yujin arrived in a navy windbreaker with a thermos under one arm and a stack of printouts tucked beneath the other. She distributed foil packets of electrolyte powder the colour of late-summer persimmons.
"Five-day forecast," she said, sliding the pages onto an overturned crate. The header read CABBAGE FORECAST – 60 % RAIN, LOW – 2 °C.
A collective hiss rose from the circle. Frost could scatter a season's profit, and rain would drown the brine barrels.
"We move harvest up," Kang Madam declared after one glance. "Everything out of the field today, salted by nightfall."
Min-ji groaned but nodded. Yujin produced pH strips and tucked them into Seo-yeon's apron pocket. "For the brine. You remember the ratios we practised?"
"Coarse salt at six per cent weight," Seo-yeon recited, and Yujin rewarded her with a brief, proud smile.
The cabbage field bordered a patch of pine wood, just beyond the last corrugated rooftop. Dew soaked the cuffs of Seo-yeon's jeans as she followed the line of workers into furrowed rows where pale globes squatted like obedient moons. The earth breathed mist; overturned leaves revealed green-white hearts streaked with faint lilac.
Kang Madam's voice cracked like a whip. "Cut, shake, pass!" Knives flashed. Thick ribs snapped. Dew and soil spattered aprons in a painter's frenzy. Seo-yeon stooped for the first head, but her healing arch twinged beneath the weight. Ha-eun's whisper curved through her spine—Shift load, keep core steady.
She pivoted tasks without breaking rhythm, climbing onto the tractor-bed to stack crates. Years of balancing ledgers guided her hands: heavy heads on the outer rim, lighter ones at centre, two layers bound with hemp twine. She chalked weight totals on each crate's side—40 kg, 37 kg—fast, legible, efficient.
The town aunties perched on adjacent boxes like small owls, gossip fluttering between them.
"Calculator Seoul moves quick," one murmured.
"Better than my nephew—lazy boy only taps phone," the second cackled.
Seo-yeon caught their gaze and offered a shy nod. No scowls met her, only curious amusement. Something inside her chest unclenched another notch.
By 06:40 sweat dampened the crown of Min-ji's head despite the morning chill. She flopped onto an overturned crate and thrust a steaming thermos toward Seo-yeon.
"Barley tea. Doctor's orders," she said, mimicking Yujin's crisp tone.
Steam unfurled between them. Seo-yeon sipped, surprised at the subtle toastiness, and flexed numb fingers. "In Seoul I only saw cabbages shredded into garnish for fried chicken."
"That's sacrilege." Min-ji clicked her tongue. "You'll see a cabbage's true soul after today."
Seo-yeon laughed, the sound lighter than the steam rising from the cup. The Auntie Network paused long enough to exchange glances, then one called out, "Hey, Cabbage Seoul, don't drink it all! We're parched too."
Seo-yeon blinked. The nickname settled on her shoulders like a knitted shawl—scratchy, homespun, unexpectedly warm.
Wheelbarrows squeaked through muddy ruts as the procession wound back toward town. An auntie struck the rim of her barrow with a harvesting knife, ching-ching, setting a rhythm. A work-song tumbled from her lips, a variant of Jeongseon Arirang carried on alto grit. Min-ji joined next, then the third auntie, and finally Seo-yeon, shy at first, offering the second verse she had practised on the bus ride north.
Arirang, arirang, arariyo…
Her voice found its place beneath theirs—steady, mid-range, true. Inside, Ha-eun laced a harmony no human ear could catch, but Seo-yeon felt the resonance bloom in her chest, vibrating through the wheelbarrow handles and into the chilled air. The tune rose over tin roofs and fluttered birds from the telephone lines.
In the café courtyard, sunlight finally crested the eastern ridge, gilding the salt barrels that waited like squat sentinels. Crates clattered into place; scissors snapped twine; a salty tang already flavored the morning breeze. Kang Madam surveyed the tower of green and white, then clapped once—a single sharp note of satisfaction.
"Brining starts at nine. Two hours' rest. Café opens on schedule."
She plucked an apron from a peg—stained deep chili red, hem frayed by years of kimchi splatter—and tossed it to Seo-yeon. "If you wear town colours, you work like town folk."
Seo-yeon stroked the stiff fabric, a little breathless. The colour, the weight, the lingering scent of gochugaru and dish soap—it was no silk scarf, but it felt infinitely more valuable. She tied it around her waist, the knot familiar yet brand new.
07:30 crept close. Inside the dish-pit, plates awaited their baptism, and the first customer's shadow hovered beyond the frosted door. Seo-yeon dipped blistered palms into cold water laced with vinegar and sea salt. Pain flared, then receded.
Hands can count cabbages too, she wrote in her small notebook with the twin-colour pen, blue ink today.
A bell above the entrance jingled—high, bright, impatient. She wiped her hands, squared her new apron, and stepped toward the café floor, the echo of wheelbarrow songs still rolling in her ribcage like distant thunder promising rain.
Chapter 76: Salted Rivers
The courtyard behind Mount Valley Café smelled of wet burlap and the sea long before the hose was uncoiled. Dawn's clean chill still clung to the roof tiles, yet a low, metallic sky warned that the afternoon would belong to rain. Three bulging sacks of coarse Shinan salt—each stamped with blue wave patterns—waited like sandbags beside two waist-high, blue plastic vats. When the clock on the kitchen wall clicked to 08:55, Kang Madam shoved the back door open with her hip and barked, "Move, girls—water first!"
Seo-yeon tightened the crimson apron she had earned only an hour earlier. The fabric still smelled of yesterday's gochugaru, vinegar, and steam. She grabbed the hose, thumbed the brass valve, and let a pressurised arc of mountain water thump into the empty vat. Droplets ricocheted, glittering in the pale light. Under the apron, her blistered hands stung, but Ha-eun's murmur steadied the rhythm of her fingers around the rubber grip—In two three four, out two three four.
Min-ji dragged the second vat into position, her sneakers grating over salt crystals that had already begun to crunch underfoot. "Who needs a gym?" she wheezed, tossing her long fringe out of her face.
"We do," Seo-yeon said, winding the hose toward the next container. A grin flickered between them—quick, conspiratorial—before Kang Madam's voice split the air again.
"Cabbages here in two minutes. Salt open!"
The washing station was nothing more than four pallets balanced over the drainage gutter, but by 09:05 it thrummed like a factory line. Min-ji cleaved thick outer leaves, tossing mud-streaked ribs aside for compost. Ms. Lee and Ms. Oh, sleeves rolled past their elbows, rinsed grit from the exposed hearts. Seo-yeon planted herself atop an overturned crate to ferry the cleaned heads to the brining vat—thump, twist, settle, thump—her foot protesting each pivot. The hose hissed, water foamed, and the courtyard filled with the peppery, almost sweet scent of freshly cut cabbage.
She was halfway through the first stack when a thin tremor fluttered down her right forearm, disturbingly familiar. The crate blurred for a breath. Sugar drop, Ha-eun cautioned, voice a silver thread under the din.
"Hold this," Seo-yeon whispered, sliding a half-washed head to Min-ji before stepping back. As if summoned, Yujin pushed through the gate, windbreaker already dotted with mist. She handed over a discreet foil sachet.
"Electrolyte—orange flavour," she murmured, eyes scanning Seo-yeon's fingertips. "Empty it under your tongue. No one will notice."
The powder fizzed bitter-sweet against her palate; the tremor ebbed by the time she swallowed. She thanked Yujin with a silent nod and returned to the line, shoulders squared.
By 09:20 the real salting began. Kang Madam sliced each cabbage lengthwise, opening it like a book. Seo-yeon lifted the halves into the vat, leaves fanning wide, and rained coarse crystals between every pale layer with a precision that felt oddly financial: left leaf, debit; right leaf, credit; balance achieved in brine.
Auntie Oh cackled. "Look at our Cabbage Accountant—salting ledgers now!" Laughter rippled down the row, warm as barley tea. Granules flashed in the thin sun, dusting hair and aprons with white specks that would soon melt to brine.
Ha-eun rode the rhythm of Seo-yeon's shoulders, adjusting posture each time soreness flared. Salt dust clung to their shared lashes, sparkling each time she blinked. Sweat too, already, though the day's heat had barely woken.
At 10:10 gossip sifted into the air as steadily as the salt. Ms. Han leaned over a crate, voice pitched just low enough to feel secret. "Saw a headline last winter—big banking scandal girl looked just like our new helper."
The words struck like a pebble in a pond; ripples of curiosity raced outward. Seo-yeon's hands froze, salt spilling in a crooked line. Her heart spiked so hard the apron's knot seemed to cinch around her ribs.
Min-ji straightened to her full height—modest, but bolstered by fury. "That 'helper' has shifted more heads than the rest of us combined. Headlines don't grow kimchi, halmeoni." Her dialect sharpened the rebuke.
For a blink the courtyard held its breath. Then Ms. Han shrugged, a palm up in surrender. "Works hard, that's sure." Curiosity ebbed; the work song resumed. Seo-yeon exhaled a shaky breath, resumed salting, and whispered "Thank you" that only Min-ji and the guardian heard.
An hour later, tarpaulin sheets were strung over the cinder-block railings, and workers ducked beneath to escape the strengthening sun. Warm makgeolli foamed in plastic cups. Seo-yeon accepted barley tea instead, the steam scented with toasted rice. Ms. Oh watched her turn down the wine and grunted approval. "Good head on her shoulders. Kimjang isn't for drunk fingers."
Over the rim of her cup, Seo-yeon spotted bruise-grey clouds gathering beyond the ridge—rain ahead of schedule. The courtyard's chatter dimmed as everyone else followed her gaze. Kang Madam clapped once, loud enough to crack the tension. "Rain by two. Covers ready?"
A chorus of Ne, ne! answered.
By 12:30 the cabbages had soaked until their ribs flexed like softened bamboo. Time to flip. Seo-yeon demonstrated a slick pivot grip she had learned from late-night farming videos: thumbs on the heart, fingers spread under the leaves, half-turn, settle. It shaved seconds from each head, and soon the whole line copied her.
Kang Madam wiped sweat with the heel of her hand and called, "Smart hands, city brain!"—loud enough for the Auntie Network to overhear. Pride warmed Seo-yeon's cheeks more fiercely than the midday sun.
At 13:45 a wind-gust hurled itself over the garden wall, ripping two leaves from a heap and sending them cartwheeling across the yard. The first raindrops slapped the tarps like thrown pebbles.
"Tie-downs—now!" Min-ji shouted.
Chaos bloomed. Workers scrambled, boots skidding on wet salt. Seo-yeon vaulted onto the crate stack, tugging the nearest rope. Ha-eun anchored her hips with silent corrections, guiding each knot into a sailor's hold. Raindrops turned to a thin curtain; steam hissed where they hit the brine, but the tarps held. When the last corner was cinched, the whole group leaned back against crates and gasped as one—rain drumming overhead, laughter bubbling between breaths.
"Saved the salt, saved the day," Ms. Oh declared, elbowing Seo-yeon as if they had always been comrades.
By 14:10 only a polite drizzle remained, tapping the plastic covers like distant drums. The vats stood secure, six hours of quiet fermentation ahead of them. Seo-yeon knelt by the gutter, wrists submerged in the cool runoff. Pain ebbed beneath the chill, replaced by the faint, warm glow of endurance well spent. Inside, Ha-eun hummed a lullaby in time with the rain—soft, uninsistent, proud.
Auntie Oh shuffled over, palm cupped around a tiny tin of dark oil. "Sesame balm," she said, pressing it into Seo-yeon's damp hands. "For our Cabbage Accountant's blisters—can't have smart fingers ruined."
The gift smelled of roasted seeds and earth; acceptance, distilled. Seo-yeon bowed her head, throat too tight for words.
Thunder rumbled farther off, rolling toward the sea. The rain would stop soon; dusk would bring the chilli barrels, the knives, and the paste that would stain every apron a deeper crimson. Seo-yeon slipped the balm into her notebook pocket, flexed her salt-pruned fingers, and rose to meet the next labour waiting just beyond the quiet.
Chapter 77: Harvest of Hands
The drizzle thins to a muslin mist as we pull the tarps back. Brined cabbages—forty pale-green hearts—glisten on the bamboo racks like rows of sleeping swans, their leaves limp from six hours of salt. Steam rises from the nearby tubs where red-pepper mash is warming over a low propane ring, sweetening the air with pepper sugar and something darker—anchovy sauce laid open to the shy sun.
I flex my taped wrists. Auntie Oh's sesame balm has already sunk deep, leaving only a pleasant warmth. In my pocket sits the dog-eared worksheet I scribbled during lunch: gochugaru : anchovy sauce : garlic : ginger = 5 : 3 : 1 : ½. A neat grid of kilograms and millilitres—numbers soothing as chilled barley tea.
Kang Madam claps once. "Heads down, gloves on!"
Crimson, elbow-length gloves bloom up and down the yard. Min-ji snaps hers, laughing as the rubber pops. "Ready to paint the town red, eonni?"
"Only if we finish by sunset," I answer, sliding my notebook onto a dry table. Left brain, right hands, Ha-eun hums, a pine-scented exhale beneath my sternum.
Auntie Han leans over the spice tubs, worry etching her brow. "Aigo, we're short—three kilos of pepper at least."
A ripple of dismay passes through plastic sleeves. The chili mound is high, but not high enough. Rain has thieved weight; I can smell the damp at the edges, faint but treacherous.
Before doubt can throw its hook, I flip open the worksheet, pencil flying. "If we lose three kilos of pepper, we drop anchovy sauce by one-point-eight and add four-hundred grams extra sea salt to keep the brine ratio. Yield stays two percent shy—still safe."
Heads turn. Auntie Han's eyes widen, then soften into grudging respect. "Listen to our Cabbage Accountant," she says, voice half-tease, half-command. Laughter pops like sesame seeds in oil; tension drains away.
Pride is allowed, Ha-eun whispers, just hold it lightly.
We form a rough circle around the largest tub. Gloves plunge into the scarlet sea with a communal hiss. I call the rhythm.
"하나—"
"둘—"
"셋—"
Knead. Fold. Scoop and squeeze until pepper paste seeps into every ruffled leaf. The sound is a farmhouse percussion: wet squelches, plastic creaks, occasional gasps when chili dust tickles throats. Min-ji balances her phone on a crate, livestreaming a ten-second burst. Comments ping across the glass—City girl gone farm boss!—before she winks and shoves the device back into her pocket.
Steam beads on my fringe; pepper oils nip the inside of my nostrils. But my wrists move cleanly, no stutter, no slip.
The anchovy-sauce bucket weighs fifteen litres, and halfway through the lift my right hand spasms. Chili slops over the rim, splattering my apron in red commas. I stagger.
Three quick taps on my thigh—Help.
Hold breath two beats, Ha-eun instructs, a silver ribbon winding through the roar in my ears. Now exhale.
Strength steadies inside the tremor. We ease the bucket onto the table. Only Min-ji notices; her grin dims to concern.
"Low battery, eonni?" she asks.
Yujin glides in from the alley like a cool breeze, pH strips in one fist and a silver pouch in the other. "Electrolyte gel, 50 ml—science-flavoured," she whispers. I tear it open, swallow sour citrus, and chase it with a gulp of rain-cold air. The tremor coils smaller, then smaller still, and I nod my thanks.
Work resumes before anyone else registers a glitch.
A new squall sweeps across the ridge, peppering the yard with sudden needles of rain. Almost simultaneously the propane flame gutters and dies, leaving the rice-gruel burner hissing uselessly.
"Gas is empty!" Min-ji yells.
Kang Madam groans, hands on hips. "We need that gruel or the paste goes bitter."
The café's back gate bangs open. Yang Joon-woo steps through, shoulders broad beneath a navy coverall, a full propane tank balanced on one arm as though it weighs no more than a basket of radishes. Grease smudges his cheek; his gaze finds mine, question and smile intertwined.
"Delivery?" he says.
"Yes, perfect timing," I answer, voice steadier than my pulse. "Tank hooks there—Min-ji, line up the hose. Auntie Oh, pull the tarp higher so the flame stays dry."
We move like a drilled unit: ropes tightened, burner relit, blue flame flaring back to life with a satisfying woof. Rain eases as quickly as it arrived, leaving the air smelling of wet soil and diesel.
Auntie Oh chuckles, elbowing Ms. Lee. "Our Seoul daughter even summons men like that."
Heat floods my cheeks hotter than the propane flame. Joon-woo tips an imaginary cap and backs out through the gate, leaving a wake of amused giggles.
The tasting leaf is a ritual older than surnames. Kang Madam tears a bite-sized piece from the largest cabbage, swirls it through the glowing red paste, and places it on her tongue. The yard falls silent except for the distant drip of water from tarps and the hum of cicadas waking early.
She chews once. Twice. Swallows. A long heartbeat stretches.
"Five seasons," she declares, wiping her mouth. "Haven't had balance like this in five seasons."
A roar of approval rises—gloved hands slap my shoulders, leaving crimson handprints like medals. Auntie Han whoops, "Master Accountant!" The new title sticks, rippling outward until even Yujin repeats it, laughing.
Tears blur the sunset around the edges; I blame the chili heat and no one questions it.
Sunlight tilts golden, flooding the yard. We strip off stained gloves and sluice buckets clean, the runoff swirling ruby before vanishing down the gutter—little salted rivers singing the day good-bye. My hands, raw but steady, rest on the rim of the last tub. No tremor hides beneath the skin.
Min-ji bumps her shoulder into mine. "Not bad for your first kimjang, Seoul eonni."
"Not bad for year twenty-four either," I shoot back, earning her snort.
Across the yard the Auntie Network lines up for a commemorative selfie, red aprons blazing against the evening sun. They wave me over; I jog—almost forgetting the old ache in my foot—and wedge myself between Ms. Oh and Ms. Lee. The phone clicks; the moment seals.
Dishes clatter inside the kitchen where tomorrow's dinner prep has begun, but the alley behind the café is quiet except for cicadas and the occasional drip from the eaves. I lean against the warm brick, unwrap the tin of sesame balm, and massage it into each throbbing wrist. The oil smells nutty, grounding.
You steered the harvest, Ha-eun whispers, voice a hush of alpine wind.
"We did," I answer aloud, letting the plural ring true for the first time.
In the kitchen window, cabbages stacked like green boulders wait for their overnight rest. Beyond them lie jars, laughter, and the slow magic of fermentation—Chapter 78's promise already rising like steam into the dusk.
A chorus of Aunties calls my name—dinner service beckons. I pocket the balm, square my shoulders, and push off the wall, carrying the day's earned belonging into the amber glow of evening.
Chapter 78: Fermenting Joy
The drizzle has retreated to the eaves, leaving the café yard rinsed and gleaming in the tangerine wash of sunset. Tarps that once shielded brining tubs are folded away, and a neat double-row of onggi squats on the flagstones—round-bellied clay jars waiting like patient cooks. Their interiors glimmer with a thin coat of sea salt that sparkles whenever the light tilts.
Kang Madam plants her hands on her hips. "All right, Master Accountant—honour's yours." She thrusts a broad-handled ladle into my gloved grip and points at Jar Number One. The Auntie Network breaks into applause that rustles like newspaper caught by wind.
I breathe in the pepper-garlic perfume rising from the vat beside me—sweet, smoky, faintly oceanic from the anchovy sauce—and slide the ladle through the crimson slurry. It moves with the resistance of wet velvet. One measured scoop, warm and heavy, lifts clear; flecks of gochugaru glitter like garnets in the bowl.
Steady, counts the part of me that once tracked basis-point swings on a trading floor. Fold, press, tuck. I tip the paste into the jar's dark mouth. It drops with a satisfying thup, spattering the base in a starburst pattern that will soon cling to every cabbage leaf. Behind me, Min-ji hoots. "The first jar of the season—sealed by Seoul royalty!"
Heat blooms in my cheeks warmer than the sunset. I am never going back to that skyline throne, and still the praise feels good. Pride is allowed, Ha-eun whispers, pine-cool in the corridor of my chest, so long as you breathe with it. I do.
A humming assembly line unfurls down two battered trestle tables. Auntie Han passes halved cabbages to me; I cradle each head, smear paste between every pale rib, then hand it to Auntie Lee for the tight fold that will lock flavour into heart-leaf. The rhythm grows musical—shlup, squelch, press, tuck—until our gloves beat the tempo like an improvised drumline.
"Sync to four!" I call, numeric reflex chiming. "One—two—three—fold!"
Min-ji balances her phone on a spice tin, recording slow-motion shots while overlaying a cheery K-pop hook. "#KimjangTok is going to melt tonight," she cackles, spinning to film Auntie Oh's shimmy.
Garlic sting pricks my nostrils; red paste stripes my forearms like war paint. I grin into the mess, drunk on salt and camaraderie rather than soju. The nickname Master Accountant ricochets from mouth to mouth, losing its edge with every repetition until it sounds less like past satire and more like future promise.
A shift in the breeze carries a coil of burner smoke across the yard—sharp with singed rice hull. The world tilts. Clay jars blur, and my knees dip as though the flagstones have softened. I press three quick taps against my thigh. Help.
The silver-pine warmth of Ha-eun floods my spine, straightening it. Two breaths, she murmurs. I draw them slowly; the smoke's edge recedes, the ground re-solidifies. She relinquishes control as gently as a mother sets down a sleeping child. No one notices—though Min-ji's lens winks in my direction with quiet curiosity before swivelling back to Auntie Han's dance steps.
Confidence surges. The crisis was a ripple, nothing more. My hands return to the paste, moving with the certainty of muscle memory I earned only hours ago.
"Break time!" Kang Madam announces, swinging open the café door with a theatrical flourish. On a lacquered tray lie neat squares of yaksik—glutinous rice dark with jujube syrup, studded with chestnuts and pine kernels. Behind her, Elder Choi uncaps two earthen bottles of makgeolli; the milky froth climbs the necks like eager tidewater.
She pours generous cups for the Aunties, then hands me a steaming tumbler of roasted-barley tea. No one comments on the substitution. Instead they raise their drinks as one.
"건배!"
The toast rings against the tiled walls, and I clink ceramic rim to ceramic rim without shame. Sweet rice steam swirls around my face, mingling with the earthy perfume of the tea. I sip—hot, nutty, perfect—and laughter burrows into every gap solitude once claimed.
Light has gone violet when the Auntie Network ignites into song. The first notes of Jeongseon Arirang rise unbidden, rough and bright like a rooster heralding dawn. One Auntie begins a high verse, another harmonises beneath, and soon the chorus fills the courtyard in three-part mountain harmony.
Men from the neighbouring garages lever jars into the shallow pit near the persimmon tree, timing their grunts with the music. Min-ji waves her phone flashlight overhead like a concert light-stick, illuminating pepper-stained gloves that flash red-white-red in time with the beat. I mouth silent lyrics until courage gathers, then join on the third chorus—my voice, unused for song since childhood, scratches but does not break. A surprised hush ripples, followed by an even louder refrain. We belong to the song; the song belongs to us.
Earthy loam rises as shovels push soil against the jar bellies. The ground accepts each vessel with a soft sigh, a promise to keep its contents through winter.
The last jar is the heaviest and, predictably, the most stubborn. I squat to guide its rim but the clay slips against my glove. A grease-smudged hand closes over the opposite handle, muscles flexing beneath a navy sleeve. Joon-woo's eyes—night-pond dark—meet mine over the jar's mouth. Neither of us speaks. Together we settle the vessel onto its quilt of straw. His palm lingers a breath longer than balance requires before he wipes it on a rag, leaving a scarlet streak across the grey fabric.
"Strong backs find strong hearts," Kang Madam calls from the stoop, earning chorused Oho-ho! from the Aunties. I laugh—light, startled—and Joon-woo's answering grin flickers shyly before he returns to the propane tank, unseen by most but not by me.
Jar surfaces cleaned of stray paste, I knot thick hemp rope around each lid in a practiced loop, brushing loose chili from the rims with a straw whisk. Kang Madam crouches to chalk today's date—11-25—on the pit's timber lid and adds a flourish: "새 시대 김치 (New-Era Kimchi)."
Yujin strides in, lab coat flapping, pH test strips fanned like playing cards. She dips one into the final jar's shoulder liquid, watches it tint to the perfect blush of 4.3, then beams. "Sanitary queen," she declares, sidling next to me for a selfie. The phone captures our flushed faces, red-streaked sleeves, and a backdrop of half-buried jars glowing in lantern light. The snap clicks; history seals.
Darkness settles cool and clean. We sluice the yard with a hose, red-flecked water swirling down the drain with soft, satisfied gurgles. Min-ji plants a citronella candle on a crate; its flame carves tall jar silhouettes against the café wall, giants keeping watch.
Aunties drift inside for late-night dishwashing or buses home. The burner sputters out, leaving just cicadas and a dog barking somewhere across the paddies. I kneel by the nearest jar, fingers tracing the coarse hemp knot. Warmth still radiates from the day's labour.
"Thank you," I whisper to the clay, to the cabbages sleeping beneath soil, to the hands that trusted mine.
We—Ha-eun's voice is barely more than a breath—made room for the winter and were welcomed into it.
I close my eyes. For the first time since a voice stopped me above the Han, I feel her recede not out of worry but out of confidence, as though she is folding into a well-earned nap at the edge of my thoughts.
The candle sputters, sending a spiral of citrus smoke into the night. I rise, stretch aching shoulders, and follow the glow of kitchen light where Min-ji's laughter and the clatter of tin bowls promise one last mug of barley tea before bed. Tomorrow's chapter—Sleep without Watcher—waits on the other side of that doorway, but tonight the yard is quiet, the jars are sealed, and my heart is a vessel finally ready to ferment its own joy.
Chapter 79: Sleep without Watcher
The streetlamp at the foot of the karaoke stairs throws a soft copper halo over the mist. Min-ji and I linger inside it, breath pluming like twin ghosts. Kimjang laughter still vibrates in my ribs, though only the distant wail of a drunk ballad seeps through the noraebang walls now.
Min-ji presses a microwavable barley-seed pack into my hands. "For your toes—tonight's forecast says the temperature will nosedive," she warns, rolling her eyes toward the tin roof overhead. From her coat pocket she fishes a tiny foil pouch of neon-orange ear-plugs. "And these, unless you enjoy three a.m. trot classics."
The seed pack smells faintly of roasted grain and comfort. I tuck it beneath one arm and give her shoulder a squeeze. "You saved my sanity twice today," I say.
"Make it three and buy me ramyeon tomorrow," she shoots back, then hugs me so quickly the motion blur feels like a camera glitch. Her phone is out before we part—one last wide-angle of the café yard now dark, jars sleeping under new earth. "Red-hand royalty, signing off," she teases, and darts into the night.
I climb the exterior staircase, iron treads groaning under weary ankles, and pause on the landing. The cold carries a trace of the sea, crisp and briny, as if it has travelled downhill to congratulate us on a day well spent. Behind that scent lies silence—no guardian murmur, just wind nudging my hood. I unlock the attic door.
The room greets me with plaster dust and a bass thump leaking from the karaoke parlour below—muted enough to feel like a heartbeat under the floorboards. I flick on the single bulb above the kitchenette. On the table rests an envelope flecked with chili fingerprints. Seo-yeon is scrawled across it in Kang Madam's bold brush stroke.
Inside: three crisp ₩5 000 notes and a sticky note bearing a smiley face crowned by the words For miracle paste — K. A laugh escapes me, light and slightly shaky. I log the sum in my sobriety journal—ink still red from the afternoon. Date 11-25: Bonus 15 000, no soju temptations, community trust deposits +1. I wedge the notes into the jar labelled winter boots, then set water to boil.
The kettle wheezes, candle-small flame licking its belly. Sweet-nut steam coils from the barley-tea sachet as I settle the seed pack in the microwave. While it hums, I stretch my stained sleeves toward the ceiling, feeling muscles along my spine loosen one satisfying notch at a time.
I sit cross-legged on the cot beneath the slanted roof. Candlelight from the desk trembles over warped boards and highlights the guardian's silver thread motif on my inner vision—though she is almost silent.
Little crane, Ha-eun whispers, voice dwindling like reverb at a concert's end, the jar sings. I, too, will rest.
"Rest?" The word tastes foreign. "You've never—"
One night.
Nervous laughter bubbles up. "What if the nightmares crawl back?"
Your breath is stronger than their claws. Three taps and I return—but I believe you will not need me.
Trust feels heavier than responsibility, yet warmer too—like the barley seeds heating in my lap. "Okay," I say, surprised by the steadiness of my own voice. "Good night, Ha-eun."
Dream gently, driver.
Her presence settles deeper, soft as a blanket placed over fractured bones. And then the pine-silver scent ebbs until only tea steam and candle wax remain.
I pop in the neon ear-plugs, slide the hot pack to the end of the cot, and crawl beneath the quilt Madam loaned me. The cotton smells faintly of detergent and dried persimmon leaves. Tin roofing pings overhead—first scouts of the promised cold front.
Box breathing begins: in for four, hold for four, out for six. Light, dark, breathe, release. I scan down my body—jaw unclenches, shoulders sink, calves puddle into the mattress. Without thinking, I reach for Ha-eun's pine signature. It isn't there, and the absence startles me like an unexpected quiet after years beside an always-on fridge. I place a hand over my heart instead. Pulse steady, no tremor. That is enough.
A moon the colour of milk hovers above a cabbage field so wide the edges kiss stars. Frost glitters on the outer leaves, but the inner hearts pulse a gentle crimson. With each exhale the cabbages open and fold like accordion bellows, pumping a slow, harmonic sigh.
I walk between rows until the ground becomes a long slab of grey granite shaped into a piano. Keys are rough fieldstone, yet they depress beneath my fingertips with the buttery give of ivory. When I press a chord, the cabbages blush deeper, notes climbing into the night like lanterns.
The scene ripples; the cabbages blur into countless kimchi-red cranes perched along a railing that arcs over black water—the Mapo Bridge reborn. I expect fear, but none comes. Instead a tiger made of flickering paper lamps pads toward me across the stone piano. Its stripes glow vermilion and saffron; its eyes mirror the moon. At two paces it bows, lowering its great head until whiskers brush my knuckles. I strike a final chord and the tiger dissolves into sparks that drift upward, joining Orion.
Still no guardian voice, only wind ruffling feathers of cranes that do not fly away.
Thunder flattens the dream into darkness. I startle awake to the metallic rattle of sleet on tin. Ear-plugs muffle the storm, but vibration hums through the rafters. Automatic reflex reaches for pine scent—nothing. Panic stirs, a sleepy beast unsure where it belongs.
I lay a palm on my sternum, press thumb and middle finger together: three taps. I'm here, I tell myself, and rain is just rain. Box breathing again. In the hush created by cotton plugs I hear my heartbeat slowing, each beat an oar-stroke turning the night calm. The beast yawns and curls back to sleep; I follow.
Cold breath clouds silver in the pre-dawn gloom when my eyes open for the second time. Sleety pellets ping the roof in arrhythmic Morse, then taper to silence. Through the skylight a thin peach vein stretches along the eastern horizon—morning stitching itself open.
Dream well, driver, Ha-eun murmurs—returning, not to save me, but to share the quiet. I realise I have slept six unbroken hours. My throat tightens, but the tears that spill are light, not heavy.
I swing my feet to the floor. The barley-seed pack has cooled, yet it kept the numb away. I press it once to my chest in thanks, then set it aside.
Below the karaoke parlour stirs—speakers thumping awake for the breakfast crowd—but the sound is distant, almost polite. I tug the curtain, and pale light reveals the first filigree of frost feathering the window glass. A promise of snow lingers in the air.
"Morning," I whisper to the new day, and to the jars sleeping beneath fresh soil, and to the tiger-spark that now lives somewhere behind my ribs. Somewhere beyond the river of dreams, winter approaches—but for the first time I meet it on my own two steady feet.
Let's walk into it, I tell Ha-eun, tying the quilted coat around my waist, pocketing Madam's bonus.
Together, she agrees, already softer, already content to watch.
Outside, the sky exhales a single white flake that lands on the sill and melts—first scout of the season, welcoming Act X and the frost-bright window waiting just beyond the stair.