Chapter 80: Frost Window
The chill wakes me before the rooster in the alley has cleared his throat. I puff a misty sigh into the dark attic and feel it settle on my cheeks like veil gauze. The tin roof above me clicks—slow, metallic contractions as the night's sleet retreats into brittle silence.
I shuffle across the creaking boards, quilt still caped over my shoulders, and wipe a crescent of breath-fog from the skylight. Frost feathers web the pane in delicate fronds; behind them the town has vanished, replaced by a single, infinite sheet of white. Snow. Real snow. Not Seoul's grubby December slush but powder light enough to soften rooftops and bury yesterday's boot prints in forgetfulness.
A laugh escapes, small and startled, as if the child I used to be has elbowed her way to the front of the line. Look, you made it to winter, she seems to say.
Sky's quiet forgiveness, Ha-eun murmurs inside my ribs, her voice rested, languid. Let it blanket your bones.
"No arguments here," I whisper. My toes protest against the icy floor, so I hop back to the mattress and tug on double layers of socks. The ₩15 000 bonus peeks from my journal on the nightstand, corners still crisp. I finger the bills, imagining them transformed into something with tread and insulation. Used boots are sold at Auntie Yun's stall; twelve thousand should convince her. The math clicks into place—choice made without guardian prodding. Progress, another quiet thrill.
Steam from the kettle ghosts the low ceiling while I wiggle into my thickest leggings. Through the crooked window I spot chimney smoke drifting sideways, slow as ancient dancers. I tell myself the colour is cedar, the smell future camp-fires.
Little crane, will you manage the streets alone? Ha-eun asks—not doubting, merely checking.
"I managed a night, didn't I? Snow can't bite harder than nightmares." I bite my lip while knotting my scarf. "Still, stay close enough to laugh if I fall."
I will watch. I will not steer.
Agreement settled, she fades into a silver hum, like a tuning fork set beside my heartbeat.
The café is already alight with smells that strip the chill from stone: seaweed broth, bubbling tofu, and the peppery tickle of perilla oil. Min-ji's ponytail bobs above a cauldron as she ladles emerald stew into insulated carriers.
"Morning, city bean sprout!" She points her ladle as if awarding a medal. "Ready to slip and slide?"
"Ready to glide," I retort, shucking my coat and accepting a steaming mug. Madam Kang appears long enough to press a mittened fist against my shoulder. "Stew duty today," she declares. "Grandpa Choi's lane is steep. Think you can tackle it?"
"I'll deliver," I answer before hesitation can thaw my courage. The older women exchange pleased looks. The praise feels warmer than the tea.
We clamp the lids; broth sloshes but stays obedient. Steel carriers, like small moon landers, wait by the door—weighty, but manageable.
Snow still sifts from an eggshell-blue sky when I duck beneath a sagging tarp strung with icicles. Auntie Yun, queen of third-hand treasures, stands guard over crates of rubber boots, each pair soldier-straight.
"Ho! Seoul eonni in need of country tyres?" She pats a navy pair flecked with white paint. "Only ₩18 000, but for kimchi hero—₩12 000."
Coins and bills change hands; Auntie stuffs yesterday's newspaper into the toes so they fit my smaller feet. "Extra insulation," she winks. Gossip flutters as quickly as the snow: talk of kimjang success, talk of my new nickname—Red-Hand Royalty. I leave with boots that squeak and soles that promise grip, even as I know today's ice will test that promise.
The mechanic's bay door rumbles upward, revealing Joon-woo crouched beside the café's battered delivery bike. He threads a chain around the rear tyre; diesel-and-pine scent radiates from his coat. Snowflakes fleck his hair like confetti he pretends not to notice.
I tug at a lace, testing boot tightness, and our eyes meet—only a second, but enough to send a pulse through my chest. He lifts something small and neon: a reflective armband. Wordless offering. I step forward, palms cupped, and he curls it into my hands. Metal kisses glove.
"Road's slick near the footbridge," he mutters, voice gravel and quiet concern. "Wear that."
"Thank you." Two words heavier than the band. He nods once, pulls the chain taut, and the bay door slides closed.
I choose the alley shortcut, where brick walls trap last night's cold like glass jars of sleet. Halfway through, a patch of pavement shines too slickly. My left boot lands, the sole skates, and gravity yanks my stomach toward my throat.
Heel down, hips square. Ha-eun's whisper arrives the instant panic sparks. Knees bend; arms windmill; the insulated carrier swings but holds. Boots scuff to a halt, scattering crystals that ring like broken glass on stone.
Breath heaves out in a fog. I press three fingers to my pulse—steady enough—and laugh, shaky but whole. "Not today," I tell the ice. It says nothing, but the warning gleams in its silence.
Min-ji waits beneath the awning, phone lifted. "Hold that pose!" she shouts over the clink of carriers as I strap one to the bike basket. Snow twirls around us, soft as sifted rice flour. "Perfect—first snow, first stew run!"
The shutter snaps. Somewhere in a cloud server the timestamp 08:04 is branded onto the pixels. I tighten the reflective armband on my bicep, sling the spare hot-pack into my coat, and mount the bike. Chains click, tyres bite, and the world feels both brand new and comfortably narrow—just twin tracks laid over fresh white.
Ha-eun hums approval, a silver chord low in my chest. I push off. Snowflakes burst against my cheeks, and the café recedes—a lantern of warmth I can carry with me but no longer need to live inside.
Tyres carve parallel lines through pristine powder, leading up the hill toward Grandpa Choi's waiting bowl and whatever test the road has plotted two bends beyond. Behind me Min-ji's cheer fades, replaced by the hush of winter's first breath. I pedal into it, heart bright, guardian watching, morning wide open.
Chapter 81: Stew Delivery
The café's courtyard is a miniature snow globe when I wheel the delivery bike under the awning. Breath plumes from Min-ji's lips as she lowers a gleaming carrier into the front basket. Three litres of tofu-miyeok stew slosh behind its steel walls, carrying the perfume of seaweed and white pepper.
"Grandpa Choi likes it lava-hot," she reminds me, cinching the strap. "Map's in the pocket. Two clicks on the lid if you need to let steam out."
I tug my new navy boots higher over my calves. Newspaper wadded in the toes makes them snug, and the reflective armband Joon-woo gave me blinks a shy stripe of neon whenever it catches morning light. Min-ji raises her phone. Click. Snowflakes glitter in the flash.
"Evidence you actually started," she teases. "City bean sprout on hero duty."
"Just keep the stew warm down here," I shoot back, easing the bike toward the gate. The front tyre bites into powder and leaves a crisp, scalloped track that feels both fragile and triumphant.
The climb begins where the asphalt tilts beyond the last row of shopfronts. Snowflakes have fattened into soft coins, spinning slowly through an air that tastes of iron and pine. I settle into a steady rhythm—push, glide, push—while counting Ha-eun's four-beat breath in my head.
In … two … three … four. Out … two … three … four.
Calves burn under borrowed thermal leggings; the insulated carrier tugs at the handlebars like an impatient child. Halfway up the first hill a temple bell tolls, its bronze note rolling across rooftops and disappearing into the white. The town behind me already looks like an ink-wash painting—grays and quiet shadows bleeding into snow.
A metallic clink-clink cuts through the hush. Joon-woo crouches beside his pickup, looping snow chains around each tyre with practiced flicks of the wrist. Diesel and pine resin coil together in the air around him.
He stands when he spots me, brushing frost from his gloves. Without a word he extends a collapsible trekking pole—aluminium shaft, carbide tip, bright orange strap.
"Road's slick past the quarry," he says, voice low enough that I lean in to catch it. "Pole's lighter than a broken leg."
I laugh, though heat skitters up my neck. "I'll bring it back intact."
Our eyes meet across a breath cloud. He nods once, then crouches again, the bay door rumbling down like a curtain between acts.
Pole in hand, I push on, boots crunching with new confidence.
At the alley mouth Duri and Seul-ki have built a snow fox, its pebble eyes bright against a porcelain coat. When they see me they erupt in cheers.
"Eonni! Shortcut stairs are clear, but ice like glass," Duri warns, sliding a mittened palm across invisible slick. "Take small steps."
I fish a steamed-bun coupon from my apron pocket and tuck it into the fox's mouth. "Payment for the weather report."
They giggle and bow, then collapse giggling into the snow, their laughter rising like startled birds. I shoulder the pole and turn onto the narrow stairway carved between stone walls. Half the steps are hidden beneath wind-packed drifts; the rest gleam with a thin glaze. Good thing about the pole, I think, testing the metal tip on each riser.
The stairs spill onto a switchback path edged by skeletal pines. Snow muffles every sound except my heartbeat, which drums inside my ears like a distant festival gone underground. The grade steepens; the carrier's strap gnaws at my shoulder.
Light … dark … breathe … release, Ha-eun hums, her presence a faint warmth along my spine.
A flash memory strikes—steel railing, Han River, the moment gravity beckoned. For half a breath my lungs panic. I squeeze the trekking pole, dig boot soles into fresh powder, and speak aloud: "Seat 27. First snow. Warm stew." Anchor words. The panic ebbs, taken by the hush of the forest.
Your breath carries warmth now, Ha-eun whispers, proud.
Tin wind chimes jingle when I tap the wooden gate. It opens a crack to reveal Grandpa Choi—stooped frame, oxygen tube trailing from his nostrils to a small tank belted at his waist. He props himself with a vintage ski-pole whose lacquer has long since faded.
"Delivery?" His voice is the rustle of old newspapers.
"Tofu-miyeok, extra seaweed, one miracle paste," I announce.
His eyes crease. "Miracle girl, more like. Come in, out of the wind."
Inside, the ondol floor radiates gentle heat through patched quilts. A battery heater hums in the corner while a trot song crackles from a transistor radio. I pop the carrier lid; soy-garlic steam unfurls, filling the one-room house with something that smells suspiciously like hope. He insists I share a bowl, so we perch at a low table while he ladles broth, his hands trembling but accurate.
"Used to haul twice your weight of coal," he says between spoonfuls. "Now I can't cross the yard without this contraption." He taps the oxygen tank, but his smile stays bright. "Seeing you climb that hill—makes the snow feel lighter."
I flush. "These boots did most of the work."
"Boots don't walk themselves. You're a new cabbage flower, blooming in frost." He rummages beside the heater, producing a cellophane packet of peppermint candies. "Fuel for your descent."
The candy smells of childhood bus rides and mouthwash. I tuck it into my coat with a bow.
When I rise to leave, Grandpa Choi lifts his ski-pole off the wall. Metal tip glints, worn smooth. "Take this," he says. "Stair ice is a jealous beast. Bring it back when the thaw comes."
The pole's wood is warm from the heater; the leather wrist loop smells faintly of camphor. "I'll guard it with my life," I promise, meaning every word.
Outside, wind has picked up, combing the treetops and driving flurries sideways. I adjust the reflective band, tighten my hat, and start down the path, stew carrier now empty but heart heavier with gratitude.
At a break in the pines the valley ripples below, rooftops sugared white, smoke swirling like lazy dragons. Twin tyre tracks from my ascent stitch the main road, proof that I can leave a mark without breaking anything.
"I carried warmth uphill and received more," I breathe to the wind.
A drift of pine scent brushes my senses; I imagine Ha-eun nodding. Even embers grow on a cold trail, she answers.
Shortcut stairs beckon beneath a canopy of bare branches. The first shadowed step is slick, darker than the rest. I plant Grandpa's pole, hear the metal tip crunch through the crust, and shift my weight. Boot rubber skids but holds.
Snow hushes the world; even the crow perched on the power line mutters only once before falling silent. My leg quivers from earlier exertion, but pride pushes me forward.
"One step," I murmur, piercing the silence with determination.
Pole, boot, breath. The journey home stretches below, white and waiting, and somewhere beyond the bend a patch of ice already dreams of testing my resolve.
Chapter 82: Winter's Edge
The shortcut plunges into the hillside like a ribbon of pale glass. Only the fresh dusting of snow distinguishes path from slope; beneath the powder, black ice lies in ambush.
Seo-yeon pauses at the first bend, lungs tapping against her ribs like a cautious drummer. The vintage ski-pole Grandpa Choi lent her sinks into a drift with a soft pluff. A single peppermint candy clicks between her teeth—sharp, sweet menthol that clears the last trace of stew from her breath.
Carry warmth downhill, she reminds herself, tightening the reflective armband on her coat. The band winks neon under the pewter sky, a lone ember in the muted morning.
A sleety wind threads through naked branches, rattling ice crystals from twigs. She plants the pole, tests the next step. Boots crunch… then skitter. Ha-eun's voice rises, a pine-scented hush inside her skull.
Weight low, little crane. Small steps. Four beats in, four beats out.
Seo-yeon nods, though no one can see, and continues her measured descent.
The trail narrows where an outcrop forces the path against a retaining wall of frozen earth. Sleet halos her field of vision. She angles the pole, metal tip searching for purchase—but the spike skids across an invisible film. Her heel follows, sliding forward as though courted by gravity itself.
Crack.
The wooden cane shrieks and snaps at the ferrule. For one impossible heartbeat Seo-yeon balances on nothing more substantial than panic. Empty stew carrier somersaults from her shoulder, skates down the incline, and vanishes into a bank of snow.
Exhale. Tuck. Ha-eun's command arrives in a voice both urgent and strangely calm.
Seo-yeon twists, elbow bent, shoulders rounding. The world decelerates into painted frames: flecks of sleet suspended mid-air; a crow flapping away in offended silence; the reflective band casting a final fractured beam of light.
Impact steals sound first. Ice punches her hip, then her right wrist, then the tender bones of her ankle. Pain blooms white-hot, fades to electric buzzing. The shattered cane clatters somewhere unseen.
A gasp catches in her throat. The crow lands again beyond the switchback, head cocked—as though waiting to see if she will move.
Breath returns in ragged pieces. She drags snow-numb fingers beneath her coat, tapping thigh—one, two, three. Consent signal: Help.
Ha-eun answers by turning the roaring static of pain into dull, surf-like waves. Pulse steady. Panic passing.
But muscles will not obey. When she tries to stand a firebolt races up her ankle, dropping her back onto the ice. Tears spring, half pain, half fury. "Not again," she whispers, voice feather-thin. "I won't be helpless."
Wind swallows the declaration. Nothing but the distant growl of an engine answers.
She cups her hands around her mouth. "Hallo—!" The call breaks, no louder than the chime of the chimes above Grandpa's gate. Sleet thins her voice, smears it across the valley.
Then—a diesel rumble closer, tires worrying snow. Seo-yeon lifts her arm. The reflective strip flares as the hidden sun finds it and tosses its light up the slope.
Moments later an indigo pickup noses onto the service road above. Chains grind, engine idling like a patient animal. The cab door swings open and Yang Joon-woo appears, rope slung over shoulder, eyes already scanning the embankment.
He spots the flash of neon, then the dark figure at its center. "Hang on!" he calls, voice carrying down the white corridor.
Relief knocks the breath from her again—but this time it feels like mercy.
Joon-woo chooses a line of exposed roots, descending with the sure-footed grace of someone born to hillsides. He drives a carabiner into a stump, loops the rope through, and edges onto the ice. Snow crunches beneath his boots; fine crystals plume with every step. When he kneels beside her the air fills with the scent of diesel and pine resin, comforting and unhurried.
"You're hurt," he states, not asks—eyes flicking from her twisted ankle to the blossoming bruise on her wrist.
"Sprain, maybe." She forces a laugh that crackles like frost. "Cane didn't survive the winter."
Bits of the broken pole jut from the snow. He retrieves the longer half, pats his pockets, and produces a length of gaffer tape—the universal mechanic's offering. In deft motions he braces her ankle against the splintered shaft, wrapping tape snug but not cruel.
"It'll hold for the ride," he murmurs, gloved fingers gentle through the layers of sock and denim. "Ready?"
Seo-yeon hesitates, pride hissing like escaping air. Then she remembers the Han's cold mouth, the taxi driver's polite indifference, and how refusing help once almost cost her everything. "Yes," she says, and means it.
He turns, crouches. "Arms round my shoulders."
When she settles against his back she feels the solid width of him, the slow certainty of his breathing. Her cheek brushes wool rough from workshop dust. Snowmelt beads on his collar, carrying the faintest aroma of engine oil—a strangely pleasant warmth.
He rises, rope in one hand for balance, her weight in the other. Each step grinds the chains on his boots into ice, anchoring them both. She counts his strides the way Ha-eun counts breaths: One … two … steady … safe.
Carrier reclaimed, they reach the truck in less than two minutes, though time expands with the rhythm of their shared heartbeat.
The heater roars as the doors slam shut. Warm air tumbles across Seo-yeon's face, smelling of vinyl and peppermint—the scent escaping her own pocket. She fumbles the candy wrapper, offering it. "For interest on the rescue."
Joon-woo accepts with a ghost of a smile, tucks it behind the steering wheel, and shifts the truck into gear. "Roads bite first snow," he says. "You don't owe me anything."
"I owe you a walking pole," she counters, flexing her bruised wrist as circulation returns. Pain radiates but remains tolerable—contained, not conquering.
Outside, the world blurs into soft charcoal strokes. Snowflakes splatter against the windshield, smearing into quicksilver under the wipers. A K-indie ballad plays low on the radio—acoustic guitar and a voice full of mountain wind.
Ha-eun retreats like tide leaving smooth sand, her final whisper a smile in soundless words: Borrow strength; give thanks.
Seo-yeon unwraps another peppermint, presses it to her tongue, and lets coolness bloom through chest and spine. For the first time in memory she allows herself to rest against another human without bracing for retraction.
Through the thickening flurries the sign appears: YANG AUTO—white Hangul letters against cobalt tin. Fluorescent light spills from the open bay, painting the snow in stripes of gold and shadow.
The pickup eases to a halt. Diesel clatter fades into a satisfied idle.
"Coffee's hot," Joon-woo says, turning off the ignition. His voice is tentative, yet hopeful, as if offering more than caffeine. "Bench inside. We'll wrap that ankle properly."
Seo-yeon covers the peppermint smile with her palm but cannot hide its echo in her eyes. Outside, sleet ticks on the windshield—an impatient metronome for the next beat of the story.
"I'd like that," she replies.
She reaches for the door handle, knowing the real descent—the one into trust—has only just begun.
Chapter 83 – Coffee in the Garage
The pickup growled up the short incline and rolled beneath the corrugated awning of Yang Auto, its chains rasping like a zipper being closed against the cold. When Joon-woo killed the ignition, the world outside shrank to a muffled hush of falling snow and distant temple bells. He reached for the overhead cord; the bay door rattled down, and daylight narrowed to a silver line before vanishing altogether.
Inside, a skeletal space heater exhaled over the concrete, stirring the smells of grease, pine-sawdust, and old diesel into something strangely comforting—like campfire smoke trapped in an engine block.
"Bench is clear," Joon-woo said, sweeping a rag across a metal stool already spotless. His voice was gentle, but it carried the low resonance of tools being set in their rightful place.
Seo-yeon slipped off the passenger seat, testing her wrapped ankle. The joint protested with a live-wire twinge, yet the elastic bandage held steady. She limped the few steps to the bench, cheeks prickling with windburn and a lingering embarrassment that flushed warmer than the heater. The insulated stew carrier—rescued and now empty—rested against her hip like a loyal dog that had seen too much adventure.
Joon-woo disappeared into a back room and returned with a dented first-aid box in one hand and an electric kettle in the other. He set both on a scarred worktable beside a tray littered with instant-coffee sachets, paper cups, and a chipped mug bearing the faded logo of a defunct tire company.
"Let me look?" he asked, nodding toward her ankle.
She inhaled the tang of liniment that already seeped from the kit. "Only if you promise not to invoice me."
The corner of his mouth curved. "Labour's on the house."
He knelt, rolling up the cuff of her jeans with deliberate care. Warm palms bracketed her calf, and for one startled heartbeat she felt the intimacy of a pulse other than her own—steady, confident, entirely present. Under the hood of her skull Ha-eun observed in contented silence.
Swelling had spread like pale ink around the ankle bone. Joon-woo applied a cool compress, then massaged a thin film of herbal liniment that smelled of wintergreen and pine needles. The heat of it seeped through skin into tendon, chasing pain to the edges.
"Not broken," he pronounced. "But she'll complain for a few days."
"She?" Seo-yeon echoed, trying to disguise a wince as he tightened the fresh wrap.
"Ankles are stubborn ladies." He tore the tape with his teeth and smoothed the final strip of cloth. "Best friends when you treat them right, merciless when you don't."
A laugh escaped her—thin, surprised, but real. Good, Ha-eun whispered, the single word brushing her thoughts like a feather and retreating.
Steam began to rattle inside the kettle. Joon-woo rose, flexing numb fingers, and tore open two coffee sachets. Powder drifted into the cups like fine cocoa dust on first snow. Next, he shredded the wrapper of her last peppermint, crushed the candy between folded paper towels, and tipped the shards into one cup. A shy sideways glance explained the alchemy.
"Army trick," he said. "Instant coffee, pinch of salt, something sweet. Keeps you awake on night patrol."
He added a shake of coarse sea salt from a jar labeled 니가가라, 하와이!—the sort of slogan sold to tourists who never made it to the islands. Boiling water hissed over the mixture, blooming bittersweet aroma under the tin roof.
In the rising steam, the cracked window fogged, diffusing the hard edges of tool racks and piston heads into watercolor shapes. Snow tapped the metal sheets above in a patient rhythm, as if the sky practiced Morse code no one had learned in years.
He handed her the candy-laced cup. Their fingers brushed—warm glove against cold wrist wrap—and both pretended not to notice the jolt.
She inhaled. The peppermint altered the coffee's scent, turning it into something brisk and unexpected—mountain air swirling through a city alley. She sipped, blinked. "That could wake the dead."
"Needs a better name than 'field coffee,' then."
"How about carburettor revival blend?"
Joon-woo laughed, a sound like low gears engaging smoothly. Snowlight caught in the faint dimples at either side of his mouth; she filed them away with ridiculous precision, as though they were vital coordinates on a map she might need later.
Conversation meandered the way country rivers do—slow bends through weather reports, the upcoming O-il-jang market, and whether the new chains would hold on the quarry slope. Words were sparse, but each found its place.
At a lull, the radio—left at a courteous murmur—slipped into a nineties ballad. Strings swelled; a singer crooned about lights in the harbor and promises kept until spring. The music filled the spaces they didn't need to fill themselves.
Seo-yeon leaned back, paper cup cradled between both palms, and let her heartbeat settle to the tempo of the song. She realized, with mild amazement, that she felt safe—and, stranger still, seen. Not as #EnvyMadeFlesh, not as a charity case wobbling on borrowed courage, but as a human being who could bleed, laugh, and drink questionable coffee in a sleepy garage.
A warmth—not quite liniment, not quite caffeine—spread from chest to fingertips. For once she did not chase it away.
Her phone buzzed against the metal bench. BOSS LADY collided across the cracked screen.
"Go ahead," Joon-woo said, sorting wrenches by size while pretending not to eavesdrop.
"M-Madam Kang? Yes, I'm okay—carrier's with me." She glanced at the insulated container on the shelf. "Running a little late, but I'll be back before prep."
Through the speaker, kitchen clatter formed a tinny backdrop. "Good. Lunch crowd's light—snow keeps tourists away. Just don't hobble yourself useless, got it?"
"I'm in capable hands," Seo-yeon assured, eyes flicking to Joon-woo's broad back.
"Capable hands better put you in proper shoes," Madam Kang grumbled, then softened. "Soup's on when you arrive."
Call ended with a click, severing the last strand of obligation tight-roping her nerves. She exhaled, turning the phone over until the cracked glass faced down.
Time nudged them forward—snow thickening beyond the windows, shadows shifting as the heater's coil dimmed and brightened.
Joon-woo fastened the stew carrier's straps, then slipped the broken halves of the ski-pole cane into the truck bed, their splintered ends bandaged by fresh tape to prevent further fraying.
"Souvenir?" she asked.
"Evidence," he corrected. "Hill path's dangerous; I'll patch it when the thaw comes."
She opened her hand, revealing half of another peppermint—crushed edges glinting like frost. She set it on the workbench near the socket set. "Down payment on the repair."
His gaze lingered on the candy a heartbeat longer than necessary, but he only nodded, cheeks tinting the faintest rose under workshop grime.
Outside, he raised the bay door; daylight flooded the concrete in a single, clean sweep. Snowflakes whirled in the opening like startled moths, then calmed. The village lane beyond lay blank and inviting, unmarred tire tracks promising a fresh route home.
"Truck's warm," he said, holding the passenger door. "If it's alright… I'll drive you back."
The old Seo-yeon might have deflected—insisting she could limp, that no one should go out of their way. Instead, she gathered her courage like a fleece against the cold and simply answered, "Thank you."
She climbed in, placing the carrier between her boots. Joon-woo rounded to the driver's side, and as he started the engine she glanced back. The peppermint shard caught a shard of sunlight on the bench, winking emerald and white—a tiny beacon she had left behind without fear of owing anything in return.
The pickup rolled forward. The garage shrank in the side mirror, tin roof gleaming under steady snowfall. Ahead, the main road curved toward the café and, not far beyond, the delivery bicycle she knew was missing a spoke.
Trust, she realized, is quieter than gratitude, but it leaves tracks just as definite in fresh snow.
The tires found their rhythm on the packed slush, and the chapter of morning closed with the soft click of the heater dial and the promise of another cup of coffee—soon, warmer, and perhaps shared beneath an easier sky.
Chapter 84: Fixed Bicycle
Snow sifted through the alley behind Mount Valley Café like flour shaken over a wooden board, softening the clang of pots that floated from the kitchen vents. Madam Kang's breath puffed into the morning chill as she wheeled the ancient delivery bicycle out of its lean-to shed. Rust freckled the frame; the chain drooped like a broken necklace.
"City bean sprout, this thing's on its last gasp," she huffed, wiping slush from the front basket. A sudden metallic ping answered her—one final protest as the chain snapped and curled onto the snow. She scowled, then spotted the pickup idling at the curb. "Good timing. Mechanic's here."
Yang Joon-woo stepped from the driver's seat, parka peppered with grease maps and melting snowflakes. He nodded a silent greeting to Seo-yeon, who eased out on her wrapped ankle, cheeks still pink from heater warmth and shy memory of last night's coffee. Without asking, he lifted the bike by the handlebars and rested it in the truck bed.
"I'll have it back before lunch rush," he said.
Madam Kang folded her arms but the corner of her mouth twitched. "Make it sing, Mr. Fix-Everything. And you—" she aimed the spatula in her hand at Seo-yeon—"don't be late for chopping scallions."
"Yes, ma'am," Seo-yeon answered, but Joon-woo was already gesturing toward the passenger door. She climbed in, stew carrier rattling on the floorboard as the truck rumbled toward Yang Auto.
The garage forecourt smelled of diesel and pine sawdust, the two scents wrestling in the thawing air. Joon-woo backed the truck under a cracked skylight, its glass frosted like spun sugar. He lowered the tailgate and hoisted the bicycle onto a repair stand—chainless, wheel wobbling with every shift of weight.
"Flashlight?" he asked.
Seo-yeon perched on a crate, ankle elevated, and snapped on the slim torch he handed her. Its beam carved bright tunnels through dust motes while he loosened bolts with quick, sure twists of his wrist. Metal clinks echoed against the corrugated walls.
"Wall Street never required this much grease," she quipped, offering a rag as he pulled the ruined chain free.
He chuckled—low, surprised. "Spreadsheets don't care if your hands shake in the cold." He measured a replacement link by eye, fingers steady despite the icy bite of the wrenches.
Light pooled across his profile: the faint scar at his temple, the soot that curled along his knuckles. Engines might not gossip, Seo-yeon thought, but they certainly left stories on a man's skin.
When he popped the rear wheel free to true the spokes, conversation slowed to a gentle rhythm. The creak of the spoke key punctuated their words.
"After my last engineering tour," he said, eyes on the rim, "fixing things was the only way to quiet the noise. Machines are honest—you listen, they tell you what hurts."
She nodded, remembering floors of glass offices where honesty was rarer than fresh air. "Numbers did that for me once. Until they turned carnivorous."
Their gazes met—his warm, hers wry. No judgment, only recognition.
Outside, the sun inched above the pharmacy roof, sliding pale gold through the skylight and warming the back of her neck. She hadn't felt direct sunlight in weeks without calculating UV damage or stock prices.
With the rim straight, he snapped the wheel in place and looped the new chain over the sprockets. A drop of lubricant shone like honey at each joint. He wiped his hands while she stared at the bicycle's transformation: the tired frame still bore rust freckles, but it suddenly looked eager—an old dog that had remembered how to wag.
"Ready to test?" Joon-woo asked.
Seo-yeon set the flashlight aside, tightened the brace on her ankle, and swung a cautious leg over the saddle. The seat was icy through her jeans. She pushed off; pedals turned smoothly beneath her boots. Three meters across the yard, she squeezed the front brake—too hard. The caliper bit, the wheel stalled, and momentum lurched her forward. For one breath she hovered over the handlebars, balance teetering.
I have you, Ha-eun whispered—italic—a feather-light nudge inside her muscles. Seo-yeon's body corrected, foot bracing on packed snow rather than falling into it.
Heart hammering, she wheeled back. Joon-woo was already loosening the brake cable, smile tugging at his lips. "Prototype glitch," he said. "Again?"
"Again," she agreed, cheeks hot.
The second ride was slower, tyres crunching over powder. Frozen air sharpened her breath yet didn't bite as deeply; confidence, small but bright, glowed in her sternum. She circled once, rang the tinny bell, and coasted to a steady stop.
Phone vibration buzzed in her pocket: Tourist lunch run in 20—ready? Madam Kang. Stakes re-established.
Joon-woo tied a narrow scrap of crimson rag around the handlebar stem. "Lucky flag," he explained. "Keeps wheels true."
"Mechanic superstition?" she teased.
"Proof tested," he countered, mock-solemn.
She rummaged in her coat, producing a small waxed bundle—the last of her homemade peppermint toffee, cracked from the morning chill. "Emergency fuel," she said, offering it. Their fingers brushed; warmth sparked even through sugared paper.
He accepted with a grin. "Barter economy works fine here."
Outside the garage, light powder snow drifted across the lane, swirling around her tyres like playful ghosts. She mounted the bike, ankle twinging but obedient, and pushed off. The red rag fluttered in the corner of her eye—cheery, defiant. Behind her, Joon-woo lifted a hand in wordless farewell; grease smeared across his parka sleeve like a badge.
She pedalled toward the main street, each revolution cutting fresh arcs in the snow, each breath drawing in a future that smelled less of regret and more of pine and possibility. The café roof came into view beyond the roofs, smoke curling from its vent in a tidy spiral. Ride safe, city bean sprout, Madam Kang texted a moment later. Seo-yeon answered with a photo of the lucky rag snapping in the wind.
Her pulse settled into the cadence of the wheels—steady, sure, her own. Ahead, shopkeepers pinned old calendars to their doors, ready to tear away the year's final leaf. She smiled into the crisp air, already feeling the tug of tomorrow's tasks waiting on those blank, promising pages. Bicycle bell chiming once, she rolled on.
Chapter 85: Old Calendar Pages
Frost flowers webbed across the attic window when Seo-yeon sat up in the narrow bed, her breath haloing the glass before vanishing like a shy ghost. She rubbed warmth into her ankle—still bandaged but no longer throbbing—and opened the pocket calendar she kept beneath her pillow. With the stub of a pencil she drew a single line through 30 DEC. The next square—31 DEC—stared back, blank and expectant. She lowered the pencil and let the book close without marking the final day. Not yet, she thought. Let the page breathe.
Downstairs, pans clashed in the pre-dawn hush, followed by Madam Kang's unmistakable bark, "City bean sprout, bring your mittens—smoke waits for no one!"
Snow powdered the cobblestones like sifted rice flour. At the centre of the yard an old oil drum stood sentinel, its sides blistered by years of coal fires. Madam Kang slapped a gloved palm against the metal; a dull gong answered.
"Every end of year, the miners burned persimmon leaves to chase bad luck and coal stink," she said, hefting a bundle of crinkled, sun-bleached leaves. "We'll keep the flame alive—even if the mine is gone and the leaves come from my rooftop rack."
She winked, the gesture half mischief, half challenge.
Seo-yeon grinned, rubbing her palms for heat. The air smelled faintly of smoked fruit and iron—nostalgia she had never earned yet already treasured.
Min-ji emerged from the kitchen, arms stacked with curled wall calendars—espresso promotions, last year's K-pop idols, a tyre-shop cheesecake model. "Out with the expired eye-candy," she announced, tearing January free with theatrical flair. Paper crackled like dry snow.
Inside the café the two women stripped each calendar from greasy nails. Min-ji tossed pages across the counter; Seo-yeon folded them into neat accordion fans, one for every month. The rhythm soothed her: crease, flatten, turn—twelve months, twelve breaths. Somewhere in the folds Ha-eun's pine-bright scent drifted, and a whisper followed, Twelve circles inside a larger one.
Seo-yeon brushed a knuckle over the last fan—December's face of a grinning latte—and slipped a narrow plastic band from her coat pocket: the white hospital bracelet printed SEO-YEON, LEE 29/F, 04 : 19 a.m. It had lived there since the Mapo Bridge night, quiet as a thorn. She placed it atop December's page without ceremony.
Min-ji caught the movement but said nothing, only offered an encouraging arch of brow.
Snowflakes drifted sideways when Madam struck her match. Flame licked the kindling, coughed, then whooshed up the oil drum's throat in a blue-orange roar. Heat pushed against their shins; sparks spiralled into the still-dark sky.
"First bundle," Madam ordered.
Seo-yeon dropped the fan of pages and the bracelet together. Paper curled instantly, ink blistering into unreadable bubbles. The plastic band twisted, flashed, and collapsed into a silver thread before crumbling black. A burst of sweet-charred persimmon swept past her face, stinging her eyes.
Time used to be a noose of quarterly targets, she confessed inwardly.
Circles remember what ledgers erase, Ha-eun replied, voice soft as falling ash.
The words felt too precious to cage, so Seo-yeon tried them aloud. "Circles remember what ledgers erase."
Min-ji, tossing March into the drum, laughed. "Poetic. Put it on next year's menu board."
By mid-morning pale sun glazed the courtyard. Park Yujin arrived first, snow creaking beneath sensible boots. She slipped a parcel of mugwort salve into Seo-yeon's pocket, then checked pulse and pupil with brisk fingers.
"Steady rhythm, brighter eyes," the pharmacist pronounced. "We'll do a full check-in after Seollal."
Madam Kang harrumphed approvingly and fed another armful of leaves to the blaze.
Minutes later Joon-woo's truck rattled through the gate, back-firing like a celebratory drum. He unloaded a refurbished kerosene heater, enamel sides polished to mirror sheen, and nudged it next to the brazier to test its hiss. Without comment he also unscrewed the oil drum's warped grate and swapped it for a new one he'd fashioned from spare rebar.
Seo-yeon caught his eye over the rising warmth. He lifted one grease-smudged hand in greeting, and she answered with a small bow, cheeks pinking faster than the fire.
Steam soon spiralled from a stockpot of yuzu-honey tea Madam carried out on a wooden board. The group circled the drum, tin cups thawing their fingers. Citrus perfumed the courtyard, mingling with smoky fruit and cold metal.
Seo-yeon sipped, expecting a pinch of craving where liquor used to live. Nothing answered—only the bright bite of yuzu on her tongue and a hush of gratitude humming in her ribs. She made a mental note in invisible ink: zero cravings, 07 days.
Snow kept drifting, soft as salt over soup. They talked about tyre chains and the upcoming New-Year concert. Min-ji teased Joon-woo about singing baritone; he coloured, muttering something about "engines only talk in C-major." Laughter rose, fused with crackles of burning leaves.
Daylight slid toward rose-gold. The final bundle—persimmon stems tied with raffia—vanished into cinders. Seo-yeon scooped a tin can of warm ash, its grey swirl glinting with ember seeds, and scattered it across the untouched snow at the yard's edge. Ash settled in a smoky ellipse, like ink beginning a story on white paper.
She exhaled, watching her breath merge with the plume. "I'll write tomorrow in circles," she whispered to the quiet, to Ha-eun, to anyone listening.
Then let's begin a new line together, the guardian answered, no longer a directive but an invitation.
Inside the café, the repaired heater ticked to life with a mellow whumpf, promising soft warmth for the night to come. Behind Seo-yeon the oil drum sighed, its work finished, a hollow shell ready to cool.
Snow began again—slow, deliberate flakes settling on fresh ash—erasing straight edges, softening everything into gentle arcs. She watched until the swirl blurred, then turned toward the glowing doorway and the unwritten evening waiting just beyond it.
Chapter 86: Night of Letters
The heater Joon-woo installed croons in the corner, a low metal lullaby that turns the attic's icicle breath into gentle fog. Lamplight puddles across cardboard boxes and a leaning stack of flour-sack pillows. I kneel on the splintery floorboards, sorting a year's worth of café receipts into neat pyramids: stew deliveries, kimchi jars, two emergency orders of gochugaru that doubled as snow fort walls during the last blizzard.
A brittle envelope, yellowed at the edges, slips from between the papers and skids to a halt against my bandaged ankle. On the flap someone—I—has written in fountain-pen ink:
Ledger Close — 31 / 12
My pulse stutters. The words tilt under the lamplight the way a ledge tilts before a drop. I have not seen this handwriting since the night neon dissolved into riverwater.
The heater sighs again, tin warping with heat. Outside, wind rattles the dormer window. Downstairs, karaoke bass thumps beneath Madam Kang's laughter as the year-end crowd belts off-key ballads. Every sound feels two rooms away.
Ready to read, or shall I hold? Ha-eun's voice brushes the inside of my ribs, pine-bright, gentle.
"I'll read," I whisper. My breath ghosts. I press a four-count—inhale, hold, exhale, empty—and slide a thumb beneath the seal.
Inside rests a single folded sheet, creased and water-speckled. I lower myself to the floor, knees to chest, the lamp casting an island of honey light around me. Paper smells of stale ink and something medicinal—perhaps the antiseptic from the ER that night. I unfold it.
Words lean across the page in my old decisive strokes:
I am a ghost wearing data points.
For every breath I owe a metric.
The Han is cleaner than bleach; it will balance the cells I have overdrawn.
My throat clicks shut. I press the sheet flat with trembling fingertips and read on.
Assets: 1 body, net negative.
Liabilities: 492 244 followers, 0 friends, 7 pending indictments.
Solution: liquidation at 04 : 20.
Liquidation— I remember choosing that word, neat as an audit bullet. A tremor cuffs my wrist. I reach for the mechanical pencil lying beside the receipts and begin annotating the margin.
Followers ≠ creditors — not true now.
04 : 20 — I missed your deadline and kept breathing.
The pencil scratches like a cricket in a house of silence. Downstairs, someone launches into a screeching rendition of "My Way." I can't decide whether to laugh or vomit.
Ha-eun lets the silence stretch before she speaks. You wrote with a ledger's ink.
"I had nothing else," I say. "Numbers were the only sentences that didn't lie back then."
And now?
"Now I have circles." I tap the fresh ash swirl still smudged on my sleeve from this morning's brazier. "Circles remember what ledgers erase."
A pop from the heater punctuates the thought. Snow begins to tick against the roof, a slow metronome syncing to my blood.
I force my eyes lower on the page.
To whomever audits this remainder:
Retrieve the shoes, send back the bag, burn the rest.
Tell my mother it was a cost optimisation.
I underline the sentence, then scribble beside it:
Dear Auditor: She knows now it was grief, not optimisation.
Tears land, darkening the graphite. I taste iron and yuzu on the back of my tongue—this morning's tea turning to rust.
A knock snaps the attic air. I flinch, folding the letter into my palm.
"Unni, you decent?" Min-ji calls. The door creaks before I manage a reply, and she slides in sideways, cheeks flushed from the courtyard chill. Two glass bottles of plum soda clink in one hand; a cardboard sleeve of sparklers pokes from her coat pocket.
"Fireworks stash," she announces, then pauses when she sees my face. "Whoa—party of one up here?"
I scrub my cheeks with my sleeve. "Inventory night," I croak.
She eyes the crumpled letter peeking between my fingers but doesn't pry. Instead, she sets the soda on the floorboards and kneels to hug me with quick, sure arms that smell of fryer oil and shampoo. "Madam's murdering 'Love Battery' downstairs. Come down when you need off-key backup." She places the sparklers beside the heater like offerings and retreats, shutting the door with soft finality.
Fizz sizzles under the soda caps, filling the attic with sweet, fermented perfume. I breathe it in, waiting for the old craving to snarl. It doesn't.
The heater ticks; snow taps; karaoke wails. I unfold the letter one last time and read it through without stopping. The words feel foreign, the way a fever dream feels at breakfast—recognisable, but robbed of heat.
When I reach the signature—just my initials, L.S.Y.—I smooth the sheet against my thigh, then fold it into a neat rectangle. "It needs an answer," I tell the quiet. "Not fire."
Tomorrow's ink then, Ha-eun suggests. Write the circle.
"Tomorrow," I agree.
I slip the old letter into the inside pocket of my blank Wheel Journal. Paper kisses paper with a hushed promise. Beyond the dormer glass, a firework unfurls—green comet blossoming into red peonies—colour dancing over the frosted panes.
Downstairs the karaoke track changes; the first notes of a jaunty trot song bounce up the stairwell. I grin, cap a bottle of plum soda, and raise it toward the ceiling in silent toast.
"To midnight," I whisper, "and to ledgers becoming rings."
Snow keeps falling, cushioning the roof in white hush as December exhales its last hour. In the warm circle of lamplight the journal waits, page one glowing untouched—ready for tomorrow's ink, and whatever shape the next breath chooses to draw.