The bus rattled as it rolled over the worn-out road, winding through the countryside. Im Minsu leaned against the window, watching the blurred scenery pass by—dense forests, distant mountains, and the occasional glimpse of small farms. The city was far behind her now.
She had spent four years struggling through university, juggling assignments, part-time jobs, and endless late nights. And yet, when the results came out, one word shattered everything.
FAIL.
Her grip tightened on the strap of her backpack. She had barely told anyone—what was there to say? That she had wasted four years of her life? That she had no degree, no job, no future?
The bus hit a pothole, jolting her thoughts. She sighed, resting her forehead against the cold glass. It wasn't like she had planned to come back to Hwayeon Village. But there was nowhere else to go.
Her old home—her hanok—was still there, standing at the edge of the village, untouched by time. It was supposed to be temporary, just until she figured things out.
And yet, as the bus rumbled deeper into the mountains, a quiet unease settled in her chest.
Something about going back felt wrong.
Like she was stepping into something she wasn't meant to.
The bus slowed as it neared the village. The steady rumble of its engine began to fade, replaced by the sound of crickets chirping in the warm evening air. The small rural town of Hwayeon Village lay ahead, surrounded by hills blanketed in green, their edges soft in the fading sunlight.
Minsu couldn't shake the feeling of being pulled back to a place she thought she had left behind. The old, crumbling stone wall at the edge of the village was the first thing she saw. Beyond that, the familiar paths that led her to the hanok, the small wooden house with the slanted roof that had been her home—a reminder of the past she had hoped to forget.
The bus creaked to a halt in front of the village square. The few remaining passengers disembarked, but Minsu lingered a moment longer. Her feet were heavy, as though the earth beneath her was trying to hold her back.
With a deep breath, she grabbed her bag and stepped off the bus, the warm breeze brushing past her like an old memory.
It had been years. She hadn't been back since she left, eager to escape the small village life and chase after big city dreams. And now, here she was, standing at the edge of everything she had tried to outrun.
The roads were quiet, as expected—peaceful, almost too peaceful. The village had a strange air to it, a stillness that felt too thick for comfort. She walked slowly, letting the path guide her back to where it all started.
As she turned onto the familiar dirt road that led to the hanok, she noticed a few villagers lingering outside their homes, casting curious glances at her. Some nodded in acknowledgment, others merely stared. It was as if she had never really left, as if the years had simply paused.
Her heart beat in her chest, louder now.
Finally, the hanok came into view. The wooden beams of the house stood tall, the paper lanterns on the porch swaying gently in the breeze. It looked just like it always had—both comforting and unsettling.
She hesitated at the gate, then pushed it open. The wooden door creaked as she stepped inside the courtyard, the familiar scent of old wood and the faint perfume of wildflowers wrapping around her.
Everything was still.
She expected something to have changed, but nothing had.
The house was empty—her aunt, who had raised her after her parents died, had long since left without a word. It was just her now, standing in the middle of this quiet, waiting space, unsure of what to do next.
The past felt like a weight on her shoulders, pressing down.
Minsu took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. She had no plan, no idea how to fix what had gone wrong. The city felt like a lifetime ago.
And yet, here she was. Back where it all began.
Minsu stood there for a moment, the cool evening air wrapping around her like an old, familiar cloak. She hadn't realized how much she missed the quiet of the countryside—the way the world felt slower, softer, almost as though time here moved differently. It wasn't the chaos of the city, with its constant rush and the ever-present pressure to succeed.
But then, the stillness in the air seemed to weigh heavily on her, pulling her deeper into the reality of why she had come back. She had failed, and now, in the only place she could think of to hide, she had to face what that failure really meant.
Her hands clenched at her sides, and she forced herself to step further into the house. The soft creak of the floorboards beneath her feet echoed, making her feel even more like a stranger in her own home. The place that once held so many memories now felt distant, almost like a faded picture she could no longer touch.
As she moved through the darkened rooms, Minsu glanced at the old furniture: the wooden table where they used to sit for meals, the small woven rug near the hearth. Everything was just as it had been when she left.
She made her way to the back room, the one where she used to sleep. The sliding door had a few scratches on it from years of use, but it still slid open with ease. The room was small, cozy—just big enough for a bed and a small dresser. The window overlooked the garden she and her aunt had tended together, though now the plants were overgrown and untended.
Minsu sat down on the edge of the bed, her gaze drifting to the garden outside. What had she been expecting, really? The city had consumed her with its dreams and promises, but here, in this small village, there were only memories of her childhood.
But it wasn't just about nostalgia. It was about failure. The truth was undeniable.
She couldn't help but think of the dreams that had seemed so close, so tangible, back when she was still a student. The city, the university—those were supposed to be her stepping stones, her way out. Now, she felt more like a ghost, haunting the place she had abandoned in search of something better.
The silence in the room felt oppressive, pressing against her chest.