SEOUL-BCN Nari sat at her desk, wrapped in a warm sweater over her pajamas.
Her attention was fixed on the computer screen.
Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, there was Sara waiting for the call.
When their screens flickered to life, there was a moment of shared silence, a fragile thread connecting two worlds.
After their first shy greetings, Nari asked, “Are you… Korean?” Her voice wavered—a blend of surprise and curiosity as she took in her interlocutor’s distinctly Oriental features.
‘Yes,’ Sara answered.
‘Well, I was born in Korea.
But don’t worry—I speak Spanish perfectly!’ Nari’s eyes widened, her apprehension blooming under the weight of Sara’s confidence.
Sara mistook her hesitation as reluctance, her tone quickening in reassurance.
‘I’ve been in Spain for sixteen years,’ she added.
‘Before that, I lived in Italy.
So if you prefer, we can also speak Italian.’ A soft sigh escaped Nari’s lips, releasing the tension coiled within her.
‘What a relief,’ she murmured.
‘What?’ Sara tilted her head astonished.
‘I was worried my Spanish would be too poor for us to understand each other…
but you speak Korean.’ As Kim Nari’s face lit up with a tentative smile, Sara leaned closer to the screen, sensing a fast connection.
‘Yes’ she said carefully.
‘You can even correct me when I say something wrong in Spanish,’ Nari added.
‘Of course!’ Sara replied, teasing.
‘I used to be a very stern teacher.
So prepare yourself!’ Laughter spilled into the room, dissolving the remnants of awkwardness.
‘Your name is…
Ramyeon?’ Nari asked.
Sara laughed heartily.
‘No!
I wrote that name on the exchange website so the whole world wouldn’t know my real name.’ ‘Ah, that’s why I put my initials: KSN.’ ‘Do you want to know my real name?’ Sara asked cautiously.
Nari raised a hand to stop Sara, her words coming through warmly.
‘Wait.
Why don’t we wait to get to know each other better?
I like calling you Ramyeon.’ ‘That sounds good to me,’ Sara said, grinning.
‘But KSN?
It sounds like the name of a radio broadcast.’ ‘You can call me Dali,’ she said assured.
‘Like the painter?’ Sara raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
‘Yes,’ Nari replied simply, as if daring her new acquaintance to question the choice.
Sara chuckled.
‘Dali…
it suits you.
A good choice.’ … SEOUL After his father passed away, Seon-woo had to assume responsibility for managing the publishing house, despite his youth reminding him of his limited experience.
His mother, Kim Jin-na, could have taken over the management as she always had.
However, something told her that if she delayed on giving him control, Seon-woo´s tendency to procrastinate would take over, and months would stretch into years.
Although he had always been an exemplary student and considered books his closest companions, he initially struggled to find his footing, grappling with the shift from reading for pleasure to reading as a duty.
Seon-woo sat at the head of a long table.
Beside him were members of his management team.
They prepared for their meeting, the usual chatter filling the room.
Kim Jun-ho glanced at his watch, a low grumble escaping his lips.
‘Yoon Ji-ha is missing…
again.
We always have to wait for her.’ Tae-ri glanced at her watch, unimpressed.
‘Actually, there are three minutes left until 11 a.m.
She’s not late.’ She was the most precise of his collaborators, Seon-woo trusted her blindly and for this reason he had also entrusted her with the legal management of the company.
Before the conversation could escalate, the door swung open, and Yoon Ji-ha entered with unhurried grace, carrying an armful of coffee cups.
Her cheerful demeanor seemed almost out of place amidst the palpable impatience in the room.
‘Hello.
I brought coffee for everyone!’ She placed carefully chosen cups in front of her colleagues.
‘Look at the packaging—don’t you think it’s beautiful?’ Jun-ho’s exasperation grew.
‘Can we start the meeting?’ Ji-ha was unfazed, gesturing to the intricate coffee packaging.
‘I got these from a new café.
It’s vintage and charming, even the bathroom tiles are beautiful!’ The team reached for the coffee, only for their faces to twist in simultaneous dismay.
‘This coffee tastes like evil,’ muttered So Ji-on.
Tae-ri chimed in.
‘I warned you that place isn’t good.’ Ji-ha remained unfazed.
‘The coffee isn’t great, but the atmosphere makes up for it.’ Seon-woo, visibly impatient, call everyone’s attention.
‘Are we talking about cafés or having a meeting?’ The room quieted, and Tae-ri quickly shifted the topic.
‘How was Taiwan?’ Seon-woo relaxed slightly, leaning back in his chair.
‘Fairly well.
I thought Nam Hwa-ran was behind on her book, but she seemed motivated.
She plans to deliver in three months.’ The team discussed sales, brainstormed ideas, and analyzed market trends.
Ji-ha, ever the dreamer, suggested, ‘Spring inspires artists; maybe we can leverage that for marketing.’ Tae-ri’s sarcasm cut through the room.
‘Is it realistic this time?’ Seon-woo defended Ji-ha.
‘Of the five ideas she proposes, only one is viable.
But we need creativity.’ Ji-ha smiled, grateful for his support.
Toward the meeting’s end, Ji-ha shared exciting news.
‘I read in Vogue that a production company wants to adapt one of our novels into a movie.’ The team debated the implications, but Seon-woo saw the potential.
‘If this is true, it’s a chance to boost sales for an older book.
Let’s confirm the news and prepare accordingly.’ As the meeting adjourned, Seon-woo checked his watch and gathered his papers.
‘If there’s nothing else, I have a lunch meeting.
Please continue with the other topics.’ He left the room imagining that after the meeting he could start trying on the sneakers he had bought.
He didn’t know why he was putting so much hope into simple shoes but the promise of new paths hovered in his fantasies.
… Nari’s hands trembled slightly as she wrapped her scarf around her neck.
It wasn’t particularly cold, but the weather was perfect for layering—something Nari found comfort in.
Today was one of those days where self-doubt crept in like an uninvited guest, whispering insecurities she thought she had long outgrown.
Whenever she felt this way, there was one place she always knew would bring her back to herself: his friend Yoo’s boutique.
Nari and Yoo had known each other since middle school.
Back then, Yoo had always been the bold one, unafraid to express himself with bright color´s clothes and provocative jokes, while Nari had been shy, hiding behind neutral dresses and second-guessing every choice she made.
Yet, they had clicked instantly, forming a bond that survived school projects, sentimental breakups, and the challenges of adult life.
Over the years their characters had been forged and in adult life the two friends could not be more different: he the example of brazen frankness, she of prudence and moderation.
Even as their paths diverged—Nari pursuing a university career and Yoo starting his fashion boutique—they had stayed in touch.
They were united by a passion for beauty and a subtle sense of irony which, even if in Nari’s case it was more hidden, meant that they spent hours talking or gossiping about everything.
Even when they had liked the same boy they had managed to maintain a calm complicity, with a rivalry so legitimate that it would have made the courtship of two nuns for the Pope’s attention envious.
The boutique was a reflection of Yoo himself: vibrant, sophisticated, with racks of meticulously curated clothing arranged by color and style.
Yoo, as always, was behind the counter, wearing a tailored white jumpsuit that seemed to radiate confidence.
Nari emerged from the fitting room like a reluctant butterfly, wrapped in a chic garment that clung to her figure with precision.
She hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of the fabric as though it might betray her, and cast a cautious glance at Yoo, whose sharp eyes surveyed her with the scrutiny of an artist before his masterpiece.
‘I think it makes me look a little fat,’ she muttered, tugging at the fabric.
Yoo arms crossed, with a small shake of his head, he responded sincerely, ‘You are splendid.
I wish all the women who tried on my designs had your figure.’ Nari frowned slightly, still unsure.
‘Maybe it’s too elegant.
I don’t like to draw attention to myself.’ ‘Honey,’ Yoo quipped, his voice lilting with a teasing edge, ‘then go buy clothes at the supermarket.
With my designs, you shine.’ A small, reluctant smile tugged at Nari’s lips.
‘Fine, I’ll keep it.
My cousin’s exhibition is next week.
I suppose this could work for that.’ ‘I’ll go too!’ Yoo said brightly.
‘We could go together.’ ‘It will be my pleasure,’ Nari replied.
But Yoo’s attention turned, as it often did, to a subject both dear and maddening.
‘Your brother will be there?’ Nari hesitated.
‘I think so, but I’m not sure.
He travels a lot.
Do you still have romantic thoughts about him?’ Yoo placed a dramatic hand over his heart.
‘Yes, I like impossible challenges.’ Nari gave him a look that was equal parts sympathy and amusement.
Yoo pressed on, his tone turning playfully theatrical.
‘He’s the man who rejected me most elegantly.
I already hate the bitch—I mean…the woman who catches him.’ Wanting to steer the conversation away, Nari said, ‘Do you have something more informal?’ ‘For what occasion?’ Yoo asked, tilting his head.
‘I have to guide someone around the city.’ ‘A tourist guide?
Who can afford a college art professor as a city guide?’ Yoo teased.
Nari rolled her eyes.
‘He’s the son of a friend of my mom.
He doesn’t know anyone in the city.’ ‘Your mother,’ Yoo said with an affectionate scoff, ‘always finding ways to keep you busy.’ ‘I’ll meet him on Saturday.
A couple of times should be enough.
Unless he’s rude or unfriendly—then even less.’ Yoo chuckled.
‘I like you being a little bad, even if it takes effort.’ Nari smirked.
‘Maybe you should invite me to eat so I can learn more from the expert.’ … BCN Sara’s connection to her mother was as thick and binding as the aroma of soup that clung to their kitchen walls.
The two of them, a pair of alchemists, had turned raw ingredients into nourishment and ritual, filling their home with the silent but eloquent poetry of food.
From the time she could barely see over the counter, Sara’s mother had guided her tiny hands, showing her the secrets hidden in the simplest of vegetables.
Artichokes, with their stubborn beards, required patience and care.
Potatoes, if left uncooked and exposed to air, would tarnish as though embarrassed by neglect.
Cutting meat was particularly special.
Her mother had taught her to do it with reverence, reminding her of the life that had been sacrificed so they could eat.
At first, Sara had approached it with trepidation, the rawness of the act making her squeamish.
But over time, it became a ritual she cherished.
She discovered a profound, almost spiritual joy in cutting meat, a joy she never shared with anyone.
The feel of a knife sliding through flesh gave her a satisfaction she couldn’t quite articulate.
It wasn’t just about precision; it felt like a thread connecting her to the ancient roots of humanity.
She imagined herself as a hunter in a distant past, providing for her family, carrying forward a sacred duty.
The thought both thrilled and comforted her, as if she were carrying the weight of generations in her hands.
Her mother’s own motivations were simpler.
To her, cooking was an act of protection, a shield against the world’s unsafety.
‘Food is how we take care of each other,’ she often said.
When Sara came home from school, teary-eyed from some childish slight, it was the smell of simmering broth or freshly pasta that first began to soothe her.
‘Nourishment,’ she would say, ‘is the first and last duty of love.’ Years later, after her mother was gone, Sara found herself turning to the kitchen as a refuge.
It was there, among the knives and cutting board, the pots and pans, that she felt closest to her.
The recipes her mother had taught her—spaghetti carbonara with its silken sauce, kimchi stew with its fiery tang—were more than instructions; they were memories made tangible.
Each dish was a conversation, a reminder of her mother’s hands guiding her own, her voice explaining the importance of seasoning at just the right moment.
On days when melancholy pressed down on her like a heavy fog, she would retreat to the counter and lose herself in the dishes her mother had taught her.
Sara’s kitchen became a place where time bent and memory bled into the present.
The steam rising from a pot was her mother’s breath; the crackle of frying onions, her voice.
Chopping onions, she’d think of her mother’s laugh, teasing her about her tears.
Rolling out dough, she’d hear her mother’s voice instructing her to use her palms, not her fingers, for the perfect texture.
Each meal she prepared was not just food but an incantation, a spell to call forth the past.
In those moments, standing alone in her kitchen, she felt the presence of her mother, her love and sacrifices carried forward in the language of food.
The dishes she created were both a refuge and an offering, a way of channeling her love and care into something tangible.
And though Sara could never quite explain it, she knew that in the act of cooking—the careful slicing of vegetables, the reverent preparation of meat—she was fulfilling not just her mother’s wishes but something far older, something that pulsed in her blood and sang in her hands.
Each meal she prepared was a legacy passed from mother to daughter.
And in those moments, standing in the kitchen with her hands dusted in flour or stained with tomato sauce, Sara felt a little less alone.
The aroma of kimchi fried rice wafted through the small kitchen.
She plated the food with care, leaving a note on one of the dishes for her roommate.
It read: ‘I cooked kimchi fried rice.
I know you like it a lot.
There’s something for Cat too.’ Later, as she retreated to her room, a quiet rustling drew her back.
From the hallway’s shadow, she saw Maria, her roommate, sneak out with the cat in tow, heading for the dining table.
Maria’s guilty glance dissolved into a sheepish smile as she started eating, sharing bites with the eager feline.
Watching Maria share the meal with the impatient feline brought Sara a quiet sense of contentment.