The dream was just getting good—something involving a handsome stranger and a beach at sunset—when her alarm clock screamed her back to reality.
Ha-neul groaned, slapped the snooze button, and burrowed deeper into her pillow. Seven AM. Why had she thought opening a store at nine was a good idea? In Seoul, she never started work before ten. In Seoul, she had coffee delivered and meetings scheduled and a life that made sense.
In Seoul, she also had no life at all, but that was a different problem.
She lay in bed for exactly four more minutes—she counted—before forcing herself upright. The room was grey with early morning light. Through her window, she could see the tiled roofs of the village below, the square just visible between them, and beyond that, the sea.
And next to the square, barely visible from here, the small traditional building that housed Jiwon's Table.
She couldn't smell anything from this distance. The air carried only the faint salt of the sea and the green smell of the hillside. But she could imagine the smells—garlic and sesame and simmering stock—and her stomach growled in protest.
Breakfast, she thought. I need breakfast. And then I need to open my store.
She could make something at home. Her mother always left rice in the cooker and side dishes in the fridge. It would be fine. It would be practical. It would be the sensible thing to do.
But as she pulled on clothes and stumbled downstairs, as she passed through the kitchen and saw the perfectly adequate breakfast her mother had prepared, as she walked out the front door and started down the path toward the square...
Her feet made the decision for her.
They carried her past the old well, past the zelkova tree, past the stone wall where she used to sit as a teenager. They carried her across the square, past her own dark storefront, and stopped directly in front of Jiwon's Table.
The door was closed. But through the window, she could see movement. A figure behind the counter. Steam rising from pots. The warm glow of lights against the morning grey.
This is ridiculous, she told herself. You can't just show up for breakfast every day. You have a store to run. You have rice at home. You're being—
The door opened.
Ji-won stood there, towel in hand, one eyebrow slightly raised. He looked at her standing frozen on his doorstep, and something like amusement flickered in his eyes.
"The smell," Ha-neul blurted out. "I couldn't—I mean, I was walking by, and I thought—" She stopped, took a breath. "Do you serve breakfast?"
His mouth twitched. "I do."
"Good. Great. That's—that's what I'm here for. Breakfast. As a customer. A paying customer." She was rambling and she knew it. "Can I come in?"
He stepped aside, gesturing toward the counter. "Always."
She walked past him into the warmth, and the smell hit her properly for the first time—garlic and sesame and something rich and deep that she couldn't identify. It wrapped around her like a blanket, and she knew, with absolute certainty, that she had made exactly the right decision.
Behind her, Ji-won closed the door and returned to his stove.
And the day began.
"What do you recommend?" she asked.
"Today's breakfast is simple." He was already moving, pulling ingredients from shelves. "Rice porridge with abalone. It's good for the stomach, good for the soul. My grandmother used to say it could cure anything except a broken heart."
Ha-neul laughed. "Does it cure broken businesses?"
Something flickered in his eyes—sympathy, maybe, or recognition. "It can't hurt."
She watched him cook.
The abalone came from a small bowl of saltwater, still alive, its foot clinging to the ceramic. Ji-won handled it with the same reverence he gave all his ingredients—quick, precise, almost surgical. A small knife slid between shell and meat, separating them in one smooth motion. He trimmed the viscera, rinsed the meat, and sliced it into thin pieces that curled at the edges.
While the abalone rested, he turned to the rice.
It had been soaking since last night—short-grain white rice, plump and ready. He drained it, added it to a heavy pot with sesame oil, and stirred. The rice crackled and toasted, releasing a nutty aroma that made Ha-neul's mouth water. When each grain was coated and glistening, he added water—not tap water, but the kelp stock from the back burner, rich and clear.
Then the abalone went in. Then a splash of rice wine. Then a pinch of salt so small she almost missed it.
"Now we wait," he said. "Twenty minutes. The rice needs to break down slowly."
The fishermen finished their meals and left, nodding at Ji-won as they passed. Mr. Ahn turned a page of his newspaper. The pot bubbled softly, filling the small space with warmth and steam.
Ha-neul realized she was completely relaxed for the first time in months.
It wasn't just the food—though the food was obviously part of it. It was the atmosphere. The quiet. The way Ji-won moved through his space like he belonged there, like he had always belonged there, like nothing outside these walls could touch him.
"Can I ask you something?" she said.
He glanced up from the pot. "You can ask."
"Does it ever get lonely? Working alone, living alone, cooking for other people all day?"
The question hung in the air. For a moment, she thought he wouldn't answer. His face had gone still, that guarded look slipping into place.
But then something shifted. His shoulders relaxed, just slightly.
"Sometimes," he said quietly. "But loneliness is different from being alone. I was lonely for many years, even when I was surrounded by people. Here..." He looked around the small restaurant, at the worn counter and the empty stools and the steam rising from the pot. "Here, I'm alone. But I'm not lonely. The village makes sure of that."
It was the most personal thing he had ever said to her. She wanted to ask more, to dig deeper, to understand what kind of life left a person lonely in a crowd.
But the pot demanded his attention, and the moment passed.
He ladled the porridge into a large ceramic bowl. It was beautiful—creamy and thick, the abalone pieces scattered through it like treasures, a sprinkle of chopped green onion on top, a drizzle of sesame oil that caught the light.
"Careful," he said, placing it in front of her. "It's hot."
She blew on a spoonful and tasted it.
The world stopped.
It was the creamiest thing she had ever eaten, the rice broken down into something almost like pudding but somehow still substantial. The abalone was tender, slightly chewy, with a sweetness that balanced the savory broth. The sesame oil added richness. The green onion added freshness. Every spoonful was perfect.
"This is—" She couldn't find words. "This is incredible."
Ji-won's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. "Eat. You have a store to open."
She ate. And while she ate, she watched him work—cleaning the kitchen, preparing for the lunch rush, moving through his morning routine with the same quiet grace she was beginning to recognize as simply who he was.
By the time she finished, the bowl was empty and her soul felt almost healed.
"How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching for her wallet.
He shook his head. "First breakfast is free. It's a rule."
"I don't think that's a rule."
"It's my rule." He met her eyes, and there was something in his gaze that made her chest warm. "You worked hard yesterday. You deserved a good meal. Come back for lunch and I'll charge you double."
She laughed. "Deal."
---
The day passed in its own rhythm.
Ha-neul's store saw more customers than yesterday—fifteen by her count, including Kang Mija, who spent twenty minutes examining every item on the shelves before buying a single pack of ramen and promising to come back "when you have better selection."
Her mother stopped by at noon with kimbap. Her father stopped by at three to check on her. The afternoon sun slanted through the windows, warming the concrete floor, and for the first time since returning to Hado-gae, Ha-neul felt something like peace.
Through the window, she could see Ji-won's restaurant. Customers came and went. The door opened and closed. Once, she saw him step outside to adjust his chalkboard, and for a moment, their eyes met across the square. He nodded. She nodded back. Nothing more.
But somehow, it was enough.
At six, she closed the store. At seven, she ate dinner with her parents. At eight, she was back in her room, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about a man who ran on beaches and fought shadows and made food that tasted like magic.
At nine, she gave up.
She walked across the square. The restaurant was dark—he closed at eight, she remembered. But a light was on in the back, the small room where he lived. She knocked on the restaurant door anyway, feeling foolish.
The door opened.
Ji-won stood there in civilian clothes—a simple t-shirt and worn jeans, his hair slightly damp from a shower. He looked different like this. Softer. More human.
"Ha-neul-ssi." His eyebrows rose. "Is something wrong?"
"No. Nothing's wrong. I just—" She took a breath. "Do you drink?"
He blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Alcohol. Do you drink alcohol? I bought soju. From my own store. It felt wrong not to. And I don't want to drink alone, and my parents are asleep, and you're—" She stopped herself before she said the only person I want to talk to. "You're next door. So. Want to drink with me?"
For a long moment, he just looked at her. Then, slowly, something like amusement crossed his face.
"Give me five minutes," he said.
---
They sat on the small deck behind his restaurant, looking out at the dark square and the darker sea beyond. Two plastic chairs that had seen better decades. A small table between them. And on the table, three bottles of soju that Ha-neul had grabbed from her store.
"You know these are cheap, right?" she said, handing him a bottle. "Like, the cheapest soju in existence. My store isn't exactly high-end yet."
Ji-won examined the bottle. "It's soju. It all tastes the same after the first bottle."
"Spoken like someone who's had a lot of first bottles."
He didn't answer. Just poured himself a shot, raised it slightly in her direction, and drank.
She matched him.
The soju burned going down—the cheap kind always did—but it was a good burn. The kind that meant you were doing something, feeling something, living something.
They drank in silence for a while. The moon was rising, smaller now, past full. The sea whispered its endless whisper. Somewhere in the village, a dog barked once and fell silent.
"Thanks for this morning," Ha-neul said finally. "The porridge. It really helped."
"You're welcome."
"And thanks for... you know. Not running away when I showed up at your door with soju."
His mouth twitched again—that almost-smile. "It's hard to run from someone who lives next door."
"Fair point."
She poured another shot. Drank it. Poured another.
"I was in love once," she said.
The words came out of nowhere. She hadn't planned to say them. Hadn't even known they were in her. But the soju was doing its work, loosening the locks on all the doors she kept closed.
Ji-won didn't react. Just waited.
"His name was Jun-ho. We were together for three years. He was... he was everything I thought I wanted. Handsome. Ambitious. We were going to build something together, you know? A life. A future." She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Turns out he was building a future with someone else. My business partner. While I was working eighteen-hour days to keep the cafés afloat, they were—" She stopped. Swallowed. "Yeah."
The silence stretched. Ji-won refilled her glass.
"The business fell apart after that," she continued. "I couldn't focus. Couldn't trust anyone. Made stupid decisions. Lost money. Lost suppliers. Lost everything, basically." She drank. "So I came home. Thirty-four years old, no money, no future, living in my childhood bedroom. Pretty pathetic, right?"
"I don't think it's pathetic."
"You don't think anything is pathetic. You're too busy being mysterious and perfect."
The word hung in the air. Perfect. She hadn't meant to say that either.
Ji-won's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes shifted. "I'm not perfect."
"No one is." She leaned forward, suddenly intense. "That's my point. No one is perfect. Everyone has a past. Everyone has things they don't talk about. And you—" She pointed at him with the hand holding her glass. "You have more past than anyone I've ever met. And I want to know it."
He was quiet for a long moment. The sea filled the silence.
"Why?" he asked finally.
"Because I told you mine. That's how it works. You share, I share. It's called conversation."
"That's not why."
She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. Because he was right. It wasn't just about fairness. It was about him. About the way he looked at the sea like it held answers. About the way he moved in the kitchen like cooking was prayer. About the way he had stood on the beach last night, alone with the water, and said there's no one between me and the sea.
"I don't know," she admitted. "Maybe because you're the only person here who feels like an outsider too. Everyone else—they've been here forever. They belong. But you and me? We're different. We don't quite fit." She drank. "And I want to know why."
Ji-won looked at her for a long time. The moon caught his face, highlighting the lines around his eyes, the slight shadow on his jaw. He looked tired, she realized. Tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.
"There are things," he said slowly, "that are hard to talk about."
"So talk about them anyway." Her words were starting to slur, just slightly. "I'm a good listener. Ask anyone. Well, don't ask anyone, because no one knows me here, but back in Seoul, people said I was a good listener. Before everything fell apart. Before Jun-ho. Before—" She waved her hand vaguely. "All of it."
"You're drunk."
"I'm not drunk. I'm... emotionally available. There's a difference."
He almost smiled. Almost. "You should drink some water."
"After you tell me something." She set down her glass with exaggerated precision. "One thing. Just one thing about your past. Where you came from. What you did. Why you're here. One thing, and I'll drink all the water you want."
The silence stretched. The sea whispered. The moon watched.
Ji-won took a breath. Opened his mouth.
And Ha-neul's head hit the table with a soft thunk.
She was out. Completely, utterly, spectacularly unconscious, her cheek pressed against the cheap plastic tabletop, her mouth slightly open, snoring with the gentle regularity of someone who had consumed three bottles of soju on an empty stomach.
Ji-won stared at her.
For a long moment, he didn't move. Then, slowly, something extraordinary happened.
He laughed.
It wasn't loud—barely more than a breath, really. But it was real. Genuine. The kind of laugh that came from somewhere deep, somewhere that hadn't been touched in years.
"Ha-neul-ssi," he said softly. "You asked me to share. And then you fell asleep."
She snored in response.
He sat there for a while, looking at her. At the way her hair had fallen across her face. At the peaceful expression she wore in unconsciousness, so different from the worried, determined woman who had knocked on his door an hour ago.
Carefully, gently, he moved the bottles away from her head. Then he stood, walked into his room, and came back with a blanket.
He draped it over her shoulders. She didn't stir.
"Maybe tomorrow," he said quietly. "Or maybe never. But thank you for asking."
He sat back in his chair, looking out at the sea. The moon was high now, painting the water silver. Beside him, Ha-neul slept on, dreaming of who knew what.
And for the first time in three years, Seo Ji-won didn't feel quite so alone.
---
In the morning, Ha-neul woke with a headache the size of Seoul, a blanket that wasn't hers, and absolutely no memory of how she had gotten home.
She was in her own bed. Her shoes were neatly placed by the door. A glass of water and two painkillers sat on her nightstand.
And on her phone, a single text from an unknown number:
You fell asleep before I could answer. Maybe next time. — JW
She stared at the screen for a full minute.
Then she groaned, pulled the blanket over her head, and seriously considered never leaving her room again.