SEOUL The restaurant was a haven of subdued elegance, its clear wood surfaces and muted whity light giving the illusion that time itself had slowed.
Kim Jin-na sat alone at a corner table, her posture regal as though carved from the same marble of ancient sculptures.
At fifty-eight, she was the kind of woman whose very presence conjured respect, she exuded an air of cultivated elegance that turned heads, even in a room filled with sophistication.
She glanced at her phone, though her thoughts wandered elsewhere, settling on the small cracks in her perfectly controlled world.
The door opened with a soft chime, and her daughter Kim Nari stepped in.
The younger woman mirroring her mother’s grace, though her expression held a calm that her mother did not possess.
Nari carried herself with a deliberate elegance, her demeanor was calm but sometimes she betrayed uncertainty in front of a mother so sure of herself.
‘You’re here,’ Jin-na said, placing her phone down with an unhurried motion.
‘Hello, Mom.
How are you?’ Nari replied, taking her seat.
Jin-na waved a hand as if brushing away an irrelevant detail.
‘Oh, you know me—always busy with a million things.’ Nari tilted her head, a faint smile playing on her lips.
‘You always complain about that, yet you’re not even working anymore.
How did you manage before—with a job, two small children, and all those activities that still keep you so busy?’ Jin-na’s eyes gleamed with nostalgia, though it was tempered by a certain pride.
‘It was easy.
I was as organized as a general leading troops across the Siberian steppe.
Don’t forget, I only worked part-time in publishing.
But, truthfully, it wasn’t the job.
It was the control—over your father, over the company.
That was my real work.’ Nari laughed softly, shaking her head.
‘Of course.
It’s always about control with you.
But didn’t you feel proud of yourself for working back then, when so many women stopped after having children?’ ‘To be honest, that wasn’t my motivation,’ Jin-na said.
‘Being a working woman didn’t matter much to me.
But control?
That mattered.
Staying home would have been like relinquishing a kingdom.’ ‘Mom,’ Nari said, ‘have you ever thought about letting go of that kingdom?’ Jin-na’s laugh was light.
‘Why should I?
I’m good at it.
It’s how I help you and your brother—by making your lives easier.’ A flicker of something passed over Nari’s face, something akin to both amusement and frustration.
‘Have you ever considered whether WE want our lives to be easier?
Whether we’d prefer our decisions to be our own, even if they come with a little more struggle?’ ‘What nonsense,’ Jin-na said, her tone dismissive but not unkind.
‘I make your worries disappear.’ The tension lingered for a moment.
Then Jin-na waved her hand again, her smile returning as she deftly steered the conversation to safer waters.
‘Enough of that.
Let’s change the subject.
I’ve already ordered for both of us.’ ‘Of course,’ Nari replied, her tone tinged with resigned amusement.
Jin-na leaned back, her eyes glinting with a story waiting to be told.
‘The other day, I ran into Nam Ji-yeon.
Do you remember her?’ Nari exhaled, her patience thinning.
‘Yes, don’t tell me more…
your trip to Japan about 30 years ago…
I remember it’ ‘Don’t be so impatient,’ Jin-na chided.
‘I was just setting the stage.
Ji-yeon mentioned that her son is returning to Korea.
After so many years abroad, he hardly knows anyone here.’ ‘What am I supposed to do?’ Nari asked, her tone sharp.
‘Befriend him?
Play tour guide?
How old is this ‘young pearl’?
Twenty-four?
Twenty-five?’ ‘Thirty-one,’ Jin-na corrected, her voice triumphant.
‘Just one year younger than you.’ Nari raised an eyebrow, her voice tinged with exasperation.
‘Let me guess.
Another thinly veiled attempt to set me up with someone?’ ‘Absolutely not!’ Jin-na replied, her indignation half-feigned.
‘This young man is practically a stranger in his own country.
I thought you could introduce him to your friends.’ ‘What friends?’ Nari said with a smirk.
‘I have three.’ ‘Three is better than none,’ Jin-na countered.
‘You’d be doing him a kindness, and it would reflect well on me to help Ji-yeon.’ ‘Ah,’ Nari said.
‘So this is about making you look good’ Jin-na’s expression turned sly.
‘I’m doing you a favor too.
Didn’t you just admit you only have three friends?’ Nari shook her head, laughing despite herself.
‘It’s incredible how you always twist things to your advantage.’ ‘Who, me?’ Jin-na said, her smile unrepentant.
‘You make it sound like it’s a bad thing.
It’s a skill.’ But the lightness in her tone faded as she leaned forward, her gaze softening.
‘Anyway, about this young man.
I won’t push you, but you should start thinking about your biological clock ticking.
Tick tock..Tick tock.’ Nari crossed her arms, her expression unimpressed.
‘And what does my ‘ticking clock’ have to do with this man?’ Nari asked, her voice cool.
‘Nari, you’re already thirty-two.
It’s time to think about settling down.’ ‘Mom,’ Nari said betraying indignation, ‘times have changed.
Women can do so much independently now.’ ‘For women, it’s different,’ Jin-na explained, her tone edging into earnestness.
‘Biologically, we have a limited window to have children, especially with all the chemicals in food these days making it harder.’ ‘So, I should find a man just to have children?’ Nari challenged.
‘Not just to have children,’ Jin-na replied quickly.
‘To build a family.’ ‘I could have a child on my own and still build a family,’ Nari said firmly.
‘But raising a child alone?’ Jin-na pressed.
‘You have no idea how hard it is to raise a child,’ Jin-na countered.
‘And even more so alone.’ she sighed, shaking her head.
‘What you’re saying doesn’t make sense.
You have such artistic ideals, but the real world is different.’ The air between them grew heavier, the weight of different generations pressing in.
Jin-na sighed again, a practiced gesture to diffuse tension.
‘Will you help Ji-yeon’s son, at least?’ Nari stared at her mother for a long moment before relenting.
‘I’ll help him—not for you, but because I’d want someone to help me if I were in his shoes.
You always get your way, don’t you?’ Jin-na’s smile returned, sly and triumphant.
‘Of course.’ … When Seon-woo stepped through the door´s apartment, the weight of the day lifted from his shoulders.
For once, he had finished work early—a rare luxury in his tightly packed schedule.
He placed his suitcase down as though relinquishing a part of himself, then set the crisp, new sport shoes he had impulsively purchased at the end onto the sofa.
They were a quiet reward to himself, a promise of leisure in a life dictated by deadlines.
Seon-woo’s gaze drifted to his bonsai plants, lined up like loyal guards by the window.
Their tiny, intricate branches required meticulous care—a hobby that mirrored his own penchant for precision.
He crouched down to inspect them, running a gentle finger along the leaves of his favorite tree, a miniature twisted juniper that had stubbornly refused to grow symmetrically despite his best efforts.
Satisfied with his brief inspection, he allowed himself a rare moment of indulgence, sinking into the sofa.
The shoes sat beside him like an invitation to adventure, but his stomach growled, pulling him from his reverie.
He rose reluctantly and opened the fridge with the optimism of someone who hadn’t been home for days.
Its bare interior standing as a demonstration to his neglect of domestic duties.
The barren shelves stared back at him, offering nothing but the faint hum of the appliance.
With a sigh, he pulled out his phone, dialing the one person he could count on without warning.
‘Hey, Sang-in, how are you?’ Seon-woo asked, his tone of someone easing in his house.
There was a brief pause, followed by the familiar chatter of his friend on the other end.
‘Yeah,’ Seon-woo replied, ‘I wrapped up work early and even managed to reschedule my return.
Thought we could grab something to eat.
What do you think?’ As Sang-in responded, Seon-woo chuckled.
‘No, I haven’t seen the match yet.
I was tied up with work.
Don’t spoil it for me; I’ll watch it tonight.’ Sang-in kept teasing him, prompting Seon-woo to interject firmly.
‘I’ve told you before, no spoilers.
Shall we meet at Cha-Yong’s restaurant in half an hour?’ The answer came quickly, and Seon-woo smiled.
‘OK, see you there.’ Hanging up, he glanced at his watch, calculating the time it would take to reach the restaurant.
He looked around his quiet apartment once more before heading out, the new shoes a forgotten promise on the sofa, waiting for a different day.
… The small Cha-Yong’s restaurant was a sanctuary of stillness amid the restless heart of Seoul, seemed suspended in a time where things were done calmly, with the hands.
The clinking of utensils and the occasional murmur of conversation punctuated the soft melodies that curled through the air like the lingering scent of soy, garlic and onions.
Jang Sang-in sat in a corner.
His hand rested lightly on the sweating glass of beer, his eyes fixed on the phone looking for the last news on technology.
When Kim Seon-woo entered, the door’s bell tinkling softly, Sang-in’s lips curled into a familiar smile.
¨Hi, how are you?
Seon-woo returned the greeting with a casual nod and slipped into the seat opposite.
‘Hi.’ ‘Beer?’ Sang-in offered, raising his hand toward the waiter before the answer came.
‘Yes, thanks.
And something to eat—I’m starving.’ The waiter approached with the brisk yet unobtrusive manner of someone who had long since become invisible to the patrons he served.
Sang-in gestured without ceremony.
‘Excuse me, can we get another beer and two bowls of jajangmyeon, please?’ The waiter nodded.
Seon-woo glanced up, his curiosity momentarily diverted.
‘It’s quiet today, isn’t it?’ ‘For a Thursday, unusually so,’ he replied, his voice bearing the monotony of too many quiet Thursdays.
As the waiter disappeared, Seon-woo settled into his chair with a sigh.
‘So,’ Sang-in began, his voice light, ‘how was Taiwan?
Did you get what I asked for?’ Without a word, Seon-woo produced a small package from his bag and slid it across the table.
Sang-in accepted it with the reverence of a monk receiving a sacred relic, though he left it unopened beside his beer.
‘Thank you.
This will be a big help.’ Seon-woo smirked, his brow quirking with playful judgment.
‘You’re such a geek.
Don’t you ever read a book?’ Sang-in feigned offense, his tone light.
‘Do manhwa count?’ The response earned an exasperated shake of the head from Seon-woo.
‘If you just tried one, you’d see how enjoyable reading can be.
And it might even help your work.
Didn’t you say critics want more passion in your songs?
Books are full of it.’ Sang-in leaned forward, his face suddenly animated.
‘I don’t seek passion in books—I seek it in life.
I want to fall in love again, to suffer like I did with Eun-soo.
That was the last time I felt truly inspired.
For a week, I wrote nothing but songs, all painfully sad.’ Seon-woo’s laugh was soft, edged with a knowing irony.
‘From the way you talk, it sounds like you want heartbreak just to write better songs.’ Sang-in’s expression turned earnest.
‘Love is a gamble; don’t you see?
You can’t enter it thinking you’ll only win.
Of course, there’s loss.
But the good times—the memories—they make it worth it.
There are people who, when they have troubles with their relationship or breakup, cry and say that if they had known before, they would not have started it.
They often forget the good times and dwell only on the bad.
When you start a love story, you have to understand this: happiness and sadness come hand in hand.
You just have to decide if you’re willing to play the game.’ Seon-woo shook his head, unconvinced.
‘Why start something if you know it’ll end badly?’ ‘Because if it doesn’t hurt, you didn’t care enough,’ Sang-in shot back, his voice rising with conviction.
‘If seeing her with someone else after a breakup doesn’t feel like a punch in the stomach, then you never really cared.’ Seon-woo’s brows furrowed, his disagreement plain.
‘You can love someone without all that…
drama.
Love can be simpler.
Easier.’ ‘Easier?’ Sang-in scoffed.
‘Then you’ve never truly loved.
Real love, in its early years, is anything but peaceful.
All the books you read—don’t they teach you that?’ Seon-woo laughed, his tone laced with condescension.
‘That they’re books.
Real life is different’ ‘But people write those books,’ Sang-in countered, his voice softening but losing none of its intensity.
‘And every great work—books, songs, movies—would be poorer if they depicted love as simple.’ ‘You’re a romantic,’ Seon-woo said, his voice half-admiring, half-accusing.
Sang-in leaned back with a sly grin.
‘Me?
No, my friend, you’re the romantic.
You seek in books what you can’t find in your own life.
Do you know what happens to people like you when they fall in love?
They can’t stop.
It consumes them.’ Seon-woo shook his head, laughing despite himself.
‘Oh, between you and the Taiwanese child, it’s sermon day.’ Sang-in tilted his head with curiosity.
‘What child?’ But Seon-woo did not answer.
The question hung between them, unresolved, as the steaming bowls of jajangmyeon arrived.