At dawn, the morning air and the scent of the sea hugged sweaty and heavy Soo Young. Last night's rain had made Ganhwa's narrow roads dirty and slippery, and each step Soo Young took sent a soft squelch into the quiet. Her worn-out shoes, sewn up at the toes, were drenched, almost instantly, but she didn't notice.
In her arms, she held a handful of rice, packed in brown paper. She tightly held the bag as the wind picked up, tugging her faded skirt and tousling her hair across her face.
Slowly, the island was waking up. At a distance, roosters were crowning, females had started preparing meals for their families, fishermen were preparing their boats for work, and Seagulls' low and piercing keow echoed the sky. Everything felt so familiar it might as well have been deeply ingrained in Soo Young's heart — the scent of salt and wet soil, light peeking through heavy clouds, and the ceaseless murmur of the waves pulling in and out like a breathing thing.
She shifted the bag of rice to one arm and used the free hand to push hair away from her eyes. She was heading home — a ramshackle old house located at the edge of the village, where a mother and two younger siblings were waiting. Soo Young was experiencing faint hunger pangs, but she hurried as she knew she wasn't the only one hungry.
As she crossed by the School, she slowed down, watching the boys and girls behind the iron gate, of her age, wearing bright and crisp uniforms, laughing and chattering as they gathered in lines on the damp field for assembly. Their voices carried by the air, light, and carelessly.
She stood there for a moment, a freezing sensation in her naked ankles, while watching her dreams and life that she once had, now belonged to someone else. She held the rice bag tightly against her chest and walked away.
A low, countless murmur, at a distance, the sea whispered again, as if her back to the path, she no longer had the luxury to stray from.
The curved road to home had crooked stone walls, half consumed by feral grass. As she was walking, the bag of rice was growing heavier in her arms, and her mind was getting occupied by thoughts she was trying hard not to think about.
Just two years ago, near the window on a wooden desk, a 14-year-old girl with bright and shining eyes was sitting, sketching the shapes of letters with her calloused fingers, dreaming about the day when she could pull her family beyond the reach of hunger. She had once belonged to the school behind the iron gates.
But the first things to be traded were her dreams when the firewood ran low, the roof started leaking, and the little ones cried through the night due to an empty stomach.
Soo Young had left school with zero complaints and no farewell. Her teacher gently placed a hand on her shoulder, told her to return when things were going well. Soo Young had nodded, but deep in her heart, she knew she was never coming back.
The winter before last, Soo Young's father passed away, taken by a fever that no doctor, no medicine, and no prayer could cure. The family buried him on a hill facing the sea; his grave was a simple mound of stones, indicating the place where a stronger man had once stood.
After he died, days blurred into each other. Soo Young's mother, who was once a proud and full-of-life woman, shrank as seasons passed, her hands quivering more often now as she mended and sewed for fellow villagers. Her life became challenging overnight, and every stitch became a fight against hunger, against time, against the silence and the slowly sinking despair that had settled in the corners of their house.
Soo Young gazed up at the sky. The sky was thick with clouds, of the same colour as her worn skirt. She tightly held the bag of rice with both her arms to feel its comforting weight. It wasn't much, but it was something, and this something was enough for her family.
The house was nearby now. A wispy cloud of smoke was rising from the chimney, forming a brittle thread in the gray sky. As her shoe's soles were smacking against the unpaved and muddy track, Soo Young moved faster, while the whispers of the sea faded behind her.
Just a few minutes away from home, Soo Young slowed down.
Two women were standing by the well, their water buckets resting on the muddy ground, voices quiet and gentle. Soo Young recognized them — neighbours from next door and she instinctively dropped her gaze, hoping the two women wouldn't notice her.
"She's working herself to the bone, that one," one woman whispered. "But with a sickly mother and three mouths to feed... How long can they last?"
"Poor children," the other woman said. "Especially the eldest. Such a shame for a girl her age to be burdened like that. If only her father had lived..."
Soo Young wrapped her fingers tightly around the bag of rice, crumpling the brown paper. With a blank face and even steps, she kept walking. But something inside her trembled.
Soo Young wasn't resentful of the women. They were not cruel, but perhaps had pity. However, their words weighed down on her little shoulders, just like the humid sky above, heavy and familiar.
Everyone in the village understands their situation and knows how they were struggling day and night. They were aware of the nights when she didn't eat, so her brother and sister could. About the time her mother spent on stitching worn clothes and patching fish nets for a few pennies. And how their shutters rattle when it becomes too windy because they don't have the money to repair them.
Soo Young kept walking with her head down until she couldn't hear the voices, swallowed by the breeze.
She had no place for resentment. She knew feelings of resentment would not fill their rice jars. It would not mend her mother's achy and sore hands.
At the top of the hill, she stopped to catch her breath. From here, she could see her tiny house with an uneven thatched roof, and a hanging wooden door slightly open. Smoke from the fireside snuggled weakly into the sky.
It was not a lot. Hanging on by a thread. But it was a house.
Soo Young stood erect and walked on, the weight of the bag of rice dug into her arms, but the weight of the hidden responsibilities dug even deeper into her heart.
The front door rattled as Soo Young pushed it with her shoulder.
The warmth of her house, thin and delicate, welcomed her with open arms. The scent of wood burning at the back, boiling water, and the whiff of radish filled the tiny house.
Soo Young looked at her mother, who was sitting by the hearth, along with her sewing machine, and her glasses, which perched low on her nose. A stack of neatly folded mended clothes was lying beside her. She never stopped moving her hands, even when she greeted Soo Young with a tired smile.
"You're back," her mother said, with a scratchy voice due to the lingering cough.
Soo Young nodded and carefully kept the bag of rice on the wooden table, as if it were some sacred treasure trove. Her brother and sister, no more than six and eight, rushed from the back room, their faces smiling brightly at the sight of her.
"Unni! Did you bring something to eat?" her sister started crying, clenching the hem of Soo Young's skirt.
She smiled and tousled her sister's tangled hair. "A little rice. Enough for porridge."
The kids started clapping out of happiness, and even their mother took a breath of relief as if some invisible string around her neck had loosened.
Soo Young then quickly lit a small fire under the pot, poured water, and the precious grains of rice. Looking at how efficiently she was working, it seemed like she had learned long ago that moments of joy are created, not found.
As the water started bubbling and rice turning into porridge, Soo Young looked around the room. Mended walls, chipped floorboards, the shabby blankets piled up neatly in the corner, every ounce of this house endured their hardships, their misery, but also their strong-willed nature to survive.
The porridge was ready, and she ladled it into the bowls, serving larger portions to the younger ones. Her mother concealed her cough with her sleeve but smiled softly upon receiving her share.
They were eating quietly, with the only sounds of spoons clicking against the wood and the soft sizzle of fire.
Outside, the wind started blowing more strongly, banging the windows. Somewhere distant, the sea whispered again, unwavering and steadfast.
Soo Young sat down with her half-empty bowl and looked at her family, her mother's wrinkled face, her siblings' thin shoulders hunching over their meal.
She felt this ache in her chest that was familiar, yearning for something calm, something gentle. But she also felt something else, something heavier, heartier.
A promise.
Despite how hard the wind blows, despite how high the tides rise, Soo Young will not break. She will hold this weak world together with her own little hands, stitch by stitch, step by step.
Because even after everything they had lost, there was still something worth protecting.
There was still home.