The following day, in the cozy living room of Nari’s apartment, the soft scratch of charcoal against paper filled the air, mingling with the music playing from a speaker.
Nari sat cross-legged on the floor, a large canvas propped up on an easel before her.
Bold streaks of color adorned the surface, each brushstroke deliberate yet brimming with spontaneity.
The sound of the door creaking open and the shuffle of footsteps broke the quiet rhythm of her work.
Sara appeared in the doorway, her face drawn from the weariness of travel but her eyes glinting with something different.
‘How was the island?’ Nari asked without turning, her brush dancing across the canvas.
Her tone was light, yet her curiosity was evident in the careful way she dabbed a shade of cobalt blue into the painting.
‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ Sara dropped her bag near the door and leaned against the back of the couch, letting out a soft laugh.
‘Yes,’ she said and with mystery she added ‘and also what I wasn’t looking for.’ Nari paused, her hand hovering over the palette.
She turned her head slightly, just enough to glance at Sara.
‘What do you mean?’ A faint smile tugged at Sara’s lips, a smile that felt like the outline of an unfinished sketch—suggestive but incomplete.
‘We need time, pajamas, and beer for that story.’ Nari’s gaze lingered on her for a moment before she turned back to her painting, her brush moving more slowly now, as if the intrigue had seeped into her strokes.
‘I have to head to college now,’ she said, adding a streak of crimson to the canvas.
‘Will you tell me tonight?’ ‘Sure,’ Sara said, her tone teasing, as though her stories were treasures to be unveiled at the perfect moment.
… Sara boarded the bus and found a window seat, stowed her bag overhead, and nestled into her place as if she were fitting herself into a warm coat.
In the past few days, she had been constantly on the move, doing and seeing so much.
Now, she longed for a few hours of quiet solitude, passively watching the shifting landscape of Seoul’s outskirts.
She sipped her tea, its warmth mingling with the chill of the glass against her cheek, and watched the cityscape dissolve into fields and distant hills.
In her aunt’s home, time seemed to flow at a different pace, as if the house existed in a quiet place of the world where the clock ticked more slowly.
The wooden floor, polished to a soft sheen, bore the faintest creak underfoot, a familiar song Sara hadn’t heard in years.
The walls were lined with faded floral wallpaper, its pastel hues softened with age, and small framed photographs hung in neat rows.
A low wooden table stood at the center of the main room, its surface worn smooth by decades of use.
On it sat a teapot and two cups, their quiet presence more than functional—tangible proof of rituals that had outlived countless conversations.
The teapot’s once-bright glaze had dulled, but the intricate patterns of plum blossoms etched into its surface remained steadfast.
Almost nothing had changed in the ten years since Sara had last been here.
The lace curtains, once white but now tinged a soft cream, still framed the windows, filtering sunlight.
The only hint that time had moved forward was the presence of a large, state-of-the-art television, standing in quiet contrast to the home’s otherwise timeless ambiance.
It felt as though the house had been preserved in amber, every object left exactly as it had been.
Even the faint scent of dried herbs and rice that lingered in the air seemed unchanged, conjuring memories of family dinners and quiet nights spent listening to the chirp of cicadas.
Sara’s gaze wandered over the familiar details.
The weight of nostalgia settled heavily on her chest.
Her aunt broke the silence with her warm voice.
‘Your father’s years go by, but he’s always the same.’ ‘Aunt,’ Sara replied softly, ‘you too.’ Her aunt’s eyes sparkled with unspoken stories, and her hands moved with the grace of someone accustomed to mending both cloth and people.
‘You should have been here these days,’ she continued, ‘but I understand you want to stay in Seoul.
How long has it been since you came to Korea?
I can’t even remember.’ Sara paused, the weight of years pressing against her words.
‘It was the year after Grandma’s death.’ Her aunt nodded slowly, her eyes clouded with memory.
‘That’s right.
After that, every year, your father had a different excuse not to come.
He said you were traveling with college friends in the summer and didn’t want to come anymore.’ Sara frowned slightly in frustration.
‘It’s true that I started traveling, but it’s not that I didn’t want to come here.
It was my father who didn’t want to.’ She hesitated before continuing, as if piecing together a puzzle.
‘I’ve never understood his relationship with Korea.
He loves it so much, but every time we came here, it felt like he was in a hurry to leave.’ Her aunt sighed, the weight of years etched into her voice.
‘Life hasn’t been easy for us.
Losing our father so young made everything harder.
Your father… he was a real fighter, you know.
Getting an engineering degree under those conditions…
you can’t imagine what it took.’ Sara nodded.
‘No, I can’t imagine.
My father and I are very close, but it’s like he keeps this wall when it comes to talking about his time here.
I think Korea reminds him too much of my mother.’ Her aunt’s gaze softened with a mix of empathy and nostalgia.
‘Theirs was a very special love.
No one could have separated them…’ Sara tilted her head, a question lingering in her tone.
‘And why would anyone have had to?’ Her aunt faltered, her composure slipping for just a moment.
‘What?
Oh, nothing…
it was just a figure of speech,’ she said evasively, quickly looking down at her cup.
Sara leaned forward slightly, her curiosity unrelenting.
‘After Mom died, every time I asked about their life together in Korea, he avoided it.
I think it still hurts him.
That’s why I wanted to ask you—do you remember where my mother lived in Seoul?’ Her aunt’s fingers trembled slightly as she set down her cup.
‘I… I don’t remember.
It’s been thirty years…’ she replied with nervousness.
‘Why are you looking for it?’ Sara shrugged, her tone light but her expression serious.
‘For nothing, really.
Just sentimentality.
I wanted to see where she lived when she was young, like when I come here and see my father’s house.
If my mother had family here, it would have been easier…’ Her aunt’s face softened, and she reached across the table to touch Sara’s hand.
‘Dear, family isn’t something we choose.
We have the one we’re given.
Your mother wasn’t very lucky, losing everything.
But even with that, you had a small family filled with love.’ Sara nodded.
‘I know.
We’re lucky.’ Her aunt’s eyes twinkled, a bittersweet warmth filling them.
‘And then Alejandra… she was another angel who came into your lives.’ ‘That’s true.
At first, I didn’t make things easy for her.
I blamed her for having to leave Italy… but she had this incredible patience.
She knew how to win me over.’ Her aunt smiled knowingly.
‘Your father is a lucky man.’ Sara chuckled, standing up to embrace her aunt warmly.
‘I always tell him that.’