By Ji-eun
Serving coffee is easy.
Settling property disputes is difficult.
But figuring out if you'll have a place to serve coffee tomorrow?
That's impossible.
I'm trying to brew tea for a customer with a hazy aura—probably a mild changgwi causing insomnia—but my mind is elsewhere.
On the envelope in my bag.
On the meeting scheduled with the Jinyang Development representative tomorrow.
On the question that won't leave my mind:
How do you prove a coffee shop has existed for over 40 years…
if all the documents have been lost?
—
Min-jae helped me search.
Nothing in the public records.
The land is listed as "unregistered," which, according to him, is strange.
As if it had been intentionally erased.
"You need a living witness," he said.
"Someone who remembers your grandmother. Someone who can confirm that the coffee shop has always existed."
I went looking.
I spoke with three long-time neighbors.
Two are in nursing homes, confused, repeating the wrong names.
One died last month.
I called a former employee who worked here in the 90s.
His daughter answered.
"My father has Alzheimer's. He thinks it's still 1985."
—
Then I went to the Jinyang office.
A glass building in the center of Gangnam. Cold walls. Reception area smelling of new plastic. Men in gray suits who don't even blink. I spoke with the regional manager, a certain Park Seung-ho, in his early 40s, with the look of someone who has seen a thousand cafes close.
"Miss Ji-eun," he said, without taking his eyes off the tablet. "We offer a fair price. The location is valuable. The neighborhood is developing."
"It's a historic cafe," I said.
"My grandmother opened it in 1983. There are photos. Customers who remember."
He smiled. Not with malice. With indifference.
"History isn't a legal document.
If it's not registered, it has no rights.
And if it doesn't leave voluntarily…
we'll go through official channels."
"Do you know what happens to people who lose their homes?" "I know." He stood up. "They find other places."
I left without an answer. Without hope. Angry. And with one certainty: They don't see the café as a home. They see it as an empty space.
I return to the Lost Hunters' Café with a heavy heart.
There's a new case.
A woman came in crying. She says her husband has been acting "strange" since he returned from a trip. He talks to himself. He draws symbols on the walls. And he hates sunlight.
"He was so kind…," she says, holding a handkerchief.
"What happened?"
I look at him.
He's sitting in the corner.
He doesn't blink.
His aura… is gray with black cracks.
Mild possession.
Probably the spirit of a lost traveler, feeding on loneliness.
I prepare a simple tea: chamomile + diluted brine.
I talk to him.
I discover he went to an abandoned temple on Mount Bukhan.
He found an altar with a baduk board covered in dust.
"I played a game… just to pass the time," he says, his voice hoarse.
"But when I won… I heard a laugh."
Ah.
Classic.
Spirits love games.
Especially baduk.
It's a silent battlefield.
I apply the tea.
The man coughs.
The shadow in his eyes disappears.
— "Thank you," he whispers.
"I felt so heavy…"
The wife cries with relief.
She gives me a hug.
She leaves a generous tip.
But as I clear the table, I think:
I saved a man today.
But I can't save my own home.
—
That's when he enters.
An old man.
Over 80. Slow gait.
Worn coat.
But sharp eyes.
"Black coffee," he orders.
"And a piece of gingerbread, if they still make it."
"We do," I say, surprised.
As I prepare it, he looks at me.
"You're Sun-ja's granddaughter, aren't you?"
I stop. "— "Did you know my grandmother?"
"I knew her… a little."
He takes a sip.
"She used to come here on Thursdays.
She'd sit over there."
He points to the corner where Dok-hee always sits.
"She played baduk with a man in a hat."
— "A man in a hat?"
— "I never knew his name.
But they said he was the guardian of something.
She called it an 'agreement.'
She said that if the café were ever in danger…
I should tell you: 'Go to Old Han's Baduk Shop.'"
My heart races.
"Where is that?"
"It'll close soon.
But it's still open at night.
Near the Namdaemun market.
Number 23-B.
They say he plays with shadows."
Before I can ask more…
He finishes his coffee. He leaves an old coin on the table—the same one as the dokkaebi's.
And leaves.
Without looking back.
—
I take a sip of my tea.
I wake Min-jae on the intercom.
"I need you to search: Old Han's Baduk Shop. Namdaemun Market. 23-B."
"I'm already searching," he replies.
Hae-jun enters.
"Are you alright? You look pale."
"I think I found a clue about the café.
About an agreement.
About why this place was never registered."
— "Sounds epic," he says, smiling.
"Can I go with you?"
— "Tomorrow," I promise.
"I still have a case to handle tonight. A gwisin prowling an alley near the station."
—
I grab my backpack.
The kettle.
The Diary.
— "I'll be back in two hours," I tell Suah, who is wiping down the counter.
She nods.
— "Lock it up after you leave?"
— "Of course."
—
I leave the café.
The night is damp.
The sky is cloudy.
The alley isn't far.
But when I take five steps…
I hear a noise.
A sharp crack.
Of glass breaking.
I turn around.
The café window.
Shattered.
Curtains flying in the wind.
I run back.
Inside, everything is intact.
No one entered.
But on the ground, where the window broke…
A stone.
Tied with a piece of paper.
I open it.
It's written in mechanical handwriting, as if printed:
"The next one will be inside."
—
I stand still. In the middle of the street. With the stone in my hand. The wounded coffee behind me. And for the first time…
I don't know if I'm being hunted by spirits. Or by humans.