After Mr. Park left in high spirits, Han-gyeol placed the fake blue-and-white porcelain jar in the center of the workshop's most visible display case. The ornate but lifeless shell would stand firm like a sentry, issuing a silent warning to the countless shadows of desire that would come to Lee Family Workshop.
Several days passed.
A steady drizzle began falling in the morning. The stream of people who had flocked there dreaming of striking it rich only days earlier had ceased altogether, leaving the rhythmic patter of raindrops against the floor-to-ceiling window to fill the workshop.
Han-gyeol gazed out the window with a cup of freshly brewed coffee in hand. The earthy scent of rain and the bitter aroma of coffee seemed to settle his mind.
Jingle—
Just then, the wind chime on the door rang.
"Welcome."
Han-gyeol turned and greeted the visitor. The man who stepped through the door was a middle-aged gentleman in a dark gray trench coat. After carefully folding his long black umbrella and shaking off the rainwater, he slowly looked around the workshop.
His graying hair was neatly combed back, his eyes were deep-set with heavy shadows beneath them, and most of all, his face looked familiar.
"Is this Lee Family Workshop?"
The voice was low and husky.
Only after hearing it did Han-gyeol realize who the man was.
It was K, the novelist and bestselling author who had once sold millions of copies and left an indelible mark on Korean literature.
At some point, he had seemingly announced his sudden retirement from writing and vanished from public view.
"Yes, it is. The rain has made it chilly today, so please have a seat over here."
But Han-gyeol made no show of recognizing him as a famous novelist.
The man removed his wet coat, hung it on a rack, and sat at the reception table. Then he carefully took a worn, well-handled leather pouch from inside his clothes and set it on the table.
"May I see what you've brought?"
At Han-gyeol's words, he swallowed dryly, unzipped the pouch, and drew out a heavy black fountain pen.
A white six-pointed star logo was clearly set into the top of the cap. Yet its condition was so wretched that it made a mockery of the luxury name it bore.
Han-gyeol carefully put on gloves and picked up the fountain pen.
The barrel had endured decades of handling, its original luster worn away into a cloudy finish, while stubborn remnants of ink had hardened around the grip section.
When he unscrewed the cap, an 18K gold nib came into view.
The nib had apparently struck the floor or suffered a heavy impact, leaving it hideously bent to one side. Its slit had split wide open, the tines were severely misaligned, and ancient dried ink had fossilized between the comb-like fins of the feed, clogging them completely.
At this level of damage, an ordinary fountain pen repair shop would refuse the job, while an official service center would undoubtedly tell him to pay a fortune to replace the entire nib.
"It's in very poor condition. It looks as though it suffered a hard impact."
"Yes. It was exactly three years ago."
At Han-gyeol's diagnosis, he lowered his head and rubbed both hands over his face.
"I make my living by writing, so I needed to write, but for some strange reason, not a single word came to me that day. I was in such anguish that I accidentally dropped the pen, and of all things, it landed nib-first."
He gazed sadly at the fountain pen.
"The moment I saw the crushed nib, it felt as if something inside me snapped along with it. And since that day...... I haven't been able to write a single line."
"Did you try taking it to an official service center? Replacing the nib with a new one shouldn't have been difficult."
At Han-gyeol's question, he shook his head vehemently.
"I went to several places, but they all said the same thing. Replace the whole nib. But if I replace it with a new one, only the shell will be the same. It will no longer be my pen. I would sooner give up writing than replace it with something new."
For some reason, Han-gyeol could understand that fierce stubbornness. So he asked no more questions and slowly removed his gloves.
There was no point merely assessing the fountain pen's condition. He needed to read the man's heart and understand why he was so attached to it.
Han-gyeol wrapped his bare hand around the cold barrel of the fountain pen.
Whirr—
With a faint ringing in his ears, his vision inverted into black and white. The workshop's rain faded into the distance, and air thick with acrid cigarette smoke and the musty stench of mold rushed deep into Han-gyeol's lungs.
Before him was a cheap motel room with yellowed wallpaper.
On the small floor desk in the center of the room, cigarette butts overflowing from an ashtray and crumpled manuscript pages formed small mountains.
And seated before that desk was the younger K, his hair greasy from days without washing and his eyes bloodshot.
Back when he was poor and unknown, he filled page after page despite being rejected countless times by publishers.
The fountain pen was in his hand. Perhaps he had bought it secondhand, because it was already covered in fine scratches even then.
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
Han-gyeol's gaze fixed on the fingertips holding the fountain pen.
Writing was demanding physical labor. When K wrote, he held his pen at a subtly lower angle than most people, and the pressure he drove into the manuscript paper was as heavy as if he were carving stone.
The tip that had slowly worn down alongside him through all those years of obscurity was the only one of its kind in the world.
After surviving those brutal years together, replacing the nib would mean denying everything that had made him who he was today.
The sound of rain in the workshop settled over Han-gyeol's ears once more.
He opened his eyes, tightening his hand lightly around the fountain pen.
"This fountain pen is your life itself, sir."
A faint ripple passed through the man's clouded eyes. The young appraiser before him had instantly seen through the seemingly eccentric stubbornness that no one else had understood.
Han-gyeol carefully carried the fountain pen to his workbench. Then he spoke.
"I'll restore it without replacing the nib."
It was precision work on an entirely different level from repairing the gears of a watch or joining pieces of pottery.
Han-gyeol immediately prepared his repair tools. A fine burnisher used in metalwork, a wooden nib block, and an ultrasonic cleaner were arranged neatly across the workbench.
The first task was to reopen the clogged path for the ink.
The feed was the heart of a fountain pen. Over three long years, the dried black ink had hardened like cement in the narrow gaps between its comb-like fins. Trying to scrape it out by force risked mangling the plastic feed.
Han-gyeol filled a beaker with distilled water and mixed in a tiny amount of special solution capable of dissolving old ink. Then he separated the feed and nib assembly, submerged them in the solution, and switched on the ultrasonic cleaner.
Humm—
Fine vibrations traveled through the water and began tapping at the gaps in the feed.
Before long, the hardened ink began spreading through the water like black blood being released. After three changes of solution and three rounds of cleaning, the feed's comb-like fins regained their original smooth appearance.
Now only the most important and dangerous task remained: correcting the nib.
Because the nib was made of soft 18K gold, it bent easily. Conversely, applying force incorrectly while returning it to its original angle could accumulate metal fatigue and snap it completely.
Han-gyeol put on magnifying glasses and carefully laid the bent nib atop the wooden nib block.
It was a taut stretch of concentration in which even the sound of breathing felt intrusive.
Holding a smooth, round-tipped burnisher, Han-gyeol began applying minute pressure along the grain of the bent metal. It was an advanced technique that coaxed the metal back into place by soothing its natural elasticity.
He pressed gently, pushed outward, then checked the alignment again.
The slit that had yawned open on both sides gradually began to narrow. He formed a perfectly parallel gap like the number 11 to maximize the capillary action that drew ink down the nib. Then, working in increments of one-hundredth of a millimeter, he finely adjusted the iridium tip knocked askew by the impact until it sat level.
By the time the bead of sweat on Han-gyeol's forehead ran down his chin, the nib had finally regained its original graceful shape, smooth as a crane's beak.
"Whew."
Han-gyeol released the breath he had been holding and set down the burnisher.
He placed the nib over the thoroughly cleaned feed and fitted them into the grip section. Every part came together perfectly, without the slightest misalignment.
Only the final step remained.
From a drawer in the workbench, Han-gyeol took out a luxurious glass bottle filled with deep black ink. When he opened the lid, ink's distinctive cool, heavy scent spread through the air.
He immersed the fountain pen's nib deep in the ink bottle and slowly turned the piston at the end.
After wiping the ink from the nib with a soft cloth, Han-gyeol took out the thick paper pad he had prepared for testing.
He gripped the pen and began drawing smooth lines across the paper.
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
The ink never skipped, nor did the nib scratch. Its flawless, water-smooth flow proved that the repair was complete.
Han-gyeol put the pen down and turned toward the man who had been waiting.
"Sir, your pen is ready."
He drew a trembling breath and rose from his seat. With careful steps, he approached the workbench.
Han-gyeol placed the restored fountain pen in his hand.
The moment his fingers closed around the grip, the pen's center of balance settled against the callus on his middle finger as perfectly as if it had never left. The complete sense of unity from those nights spent at his desk three years ago, utterly familiar, raced from his skin throughout his body in a thrilling wave.
His eyes reddened in an instant.
Han-gyeol quietly slid a stack of two-hundred-character manuscript paper from one side of the table toward him.
The man brought the nib to the manuscript paper. It was the heaviest yet lightest movement in the world, opening a heart that had remained sealed for three years.
His wrist moved, and the iridium tip glided softly into the first square of the manuscript paper.
Scratch, scratch.
The sentence he wrote across the first line was not long.
[The rain stopped, and sunlight streamed through the workshop window.]
After completing the sentence, he raised his head with the pen still in hand and looked out the workshop window. The rain that had fallen steadily all morning had stopped as if by magic, and clear late-autumn sunlight spilled dazzlingly through the heavy clouds and bathed the workshop in warmth.
The sentence he had just written on the manuscript paper overlapped perfectly with the scene in reality.
The deep shadows that had filled his face softly scattered as if melting in the sunlight. For the first time in a very long while, a bright, innocent smile like a boy's spread across his lips.
"Thank you."
He looked at Han-gyeol and bowed deeply.
"Truly, thank you from the bottom of my heart. Thanks to you, Master...... I think I can begin again."
Han-gyeol answered his gratitude with a smile.
He had not restored some magnificent cultural artifact worth billions of won, like Chairman Kang's incense burner. In terms of market value, he had merely repaired a worn secondhand fountain pen worth a few hundred thousand won.
Yet the swelling sense of fulfillment in Han-gyeol's chest was deeper and warmer than it had been after completing any grand commission.
The brilliant sunlight pouring through the window gently caressed the first sentence on the manuscript paper before its ink had dried.