Chapter 1
Winter’s stain stretched across the sky, a pale and distant light filtering through the frost-laced window. Snowflakes, weightless and fleeting, perched momentarily on the willow branches before surrendering to gravity’s pull. Sohl Han stood by the window, his gaze distant, his thoughts tangled in the remnants of a dream that clung to him like damp mist.
In the dream, he had wandered through an endless sandstorm, the world erased into a swirl of golden dust. The wind howled, its sharp teeth biting at his skin, and then came the sting – a venomous bite searing through his veins. Just as darkness threatened to consume him, a willow tree appeared, its branches bending but unbroken, a strange sanctuary in the storm. And then, like a whisper of salvation, a rainbow arched across the sky, its colours bleeding into the dunes. He had followed it, chasing something just out of reach, something that might disappear if he dared to touch it.
This life isn’t even cruel enough to break me, so why do I fear losing it so much? Even in my own dream, I’m too cautious to be brave. How laughably light I must be, a man so fragile he fears even the wind. The thought slipped through his mind like a fish in dark water. Sohl felt pickled in solitude, sealed in a tin can, waiting to be consumed. Someone surely intended him harm; there was no other explanation. Otherwise, none of this could be real.
At thirty-three, his eyes still held a boy’s curiosity, though time had begun etching fine lines around them. He owned Radio Hut, a small repair shop clinging to its past like an old melody stuck in the grooves of a fading record. The Han family had been in the business for three generations. His grandfather had passed it to his father, Sa-Pok (沙暴), and now it was Sohl’s. The lifespan of lightbulbs had lengthened, umbrellas were no longer repaired, and people tossed away radios the moment they stopped working. Sohl had not foreseen the day umbrella repairmen would vanish, nor that their disappearance would foreshadow his own fate.
On winter mornings, he would light the stove in the shop, watching the flames flicker behind the iron grate. His father once told him, watching fire is when the soul rests. Sohl repeated the words in his mind as steam curled from the kettle and he poured himself a cup of tea. Mornings belonged to books and tea. If a thought worth keeping surfaced, he would jot it down in the old leather ledger. Today, as he read the thought ‘The life before us,’ his pencil scratched against the page.
‘Love your neighbour.’
He chewed on the words, staring at them as though they might change if he looked long enough. Outside, the city hummed with the quiet sounds of people living laughter, footsteps, the rustle of newspapers. His stomach growled, bringing him back to the ordinary. He pulled out a biscuit, smeared it with butter and jam, and took a bite. Something was missing. He chased the sweetness with a sip of tea, and a fleeting satisfaction settled over him. Yes. The world should taste like this.
With a mouthful of biscuit, he reached for an old LP and set it on the turntable. Static crackled, then warm, vintage jazz filled the shop, mingling with the scent of tea and the wintry and pale light slanting through the window. Sohl leaned his chair back, eyes half-closed, savouring the moment. Then, the telephone rang, splintering the delicate quiet.
‘Honey, I miss you.’
Jin’s voice carried through the receiver, soft yet laced with exhaustion. Lately, her moods had been shifting like tides, perhaps because the baby’s arrival was drawing near. She sighed. ‘When is the landlord coming?’
The question brought a fresh weight to his chest. The rent. He had an appointment to meet the landlady today, but neither of them had settled on a time. He hung up, suddenly irritated by the jazz, and turned off the turntable. The music grated against his thoughts.
Opening the ledger, he traced the inked numbers with a tired gaze. Six months behind. Loans maxed out. No room left to manoeuvre. His fingers skimmed over a list of clients who owed him money.
‘This family is struggling with college tuition… this grandmother has dementia… this guy has cancer… they just had a baby the other day…’
There was no one to call. His own situation was dire, but how could he demand money from those drowning in their own storms? And yet, he had to think of the baby.
At noon, the shop’s door creaked open, and Jin stepped inside, a white butterfly hairpin securing her dark hair. She had worn it ever since the day her parents passed, when a white butterfly had landed on her head, a silent farewell. She looked, at a glance, like any other housewife from the market, yet there was a quiet strength in her presence. She carried a lunch box of onigiri wrapped in pickled herring, setting it on the counter. As she unwrapped it, her words came swift and scolding, her concern woven into every syllable.
Sohl barely listened. His hands reached for her belly, pressing gently. ‘Cutie Maemi, stay close to your mother on the way home.’
Maemi – the baby’s prenatal name, meaning cicada. He had chosen it, wishing their child would cling to its mother as fiercely as a cicada clings to a tree. Jin had skipped breakfast in order to prepare lunch, but before she could sit, the door burst open.
Her brother, Wyll stood in the doorway, his monk’s robes soaked from the snow, his eyes trembling with tears. He had left home after high school to join a monastery, visiting only once or twice a year, but for the past two years, he had vanished entirely. Seeing him now, gaunt and shivering, Jin froze, unsure whether to scold or embrace him. Sohl, still holding his chopsticks, simply stared, speechless. Wyll took a faltering step forward, his voice breaking as he whispered, “Sister…”
That night, back home, Wyll lay in bed, listening to Jin wash dishes. The sound of running water reminded him of the stream beside the temple. How wonderful it would be, he thought, if his sister could wash away the memories of that place as easily as the soap rinsing from her hands. The soft scent of the blanket wrapped around him, pulling him in to sleep.
Later, as dinner simmered on the stove, Sohl nudged Jin. ‘Why was Wyll crying?’
She shook her head. ‘Ask him yourself.’
Wyll joined them at the table. As Jin placed a plate of ribs in front of him, he softly murmured a mantra.
‘Om migymi migyamigi sabaha…’
The words coiled through the air like incense smoke. Sohl hesitated, chopsticks frozen in hand.
‘Slow down, bro.’
Jin piled more meat onto Wyll’s plate, then sniffed. Something smelled off. Her gaze darted to Wyll’s feet. ‘Wash them first.’ Not bothered by his feet, Wyll tore into his food, hunger overriding decorum. Sohl picked up his chopsticks and watched, realising Wyll was eating as if he hadn’t in days.
After dinner, Sohl and Wyll sat at a food truck, drinking soju. As warmth seeped into their bones, Sohl finally asked, ‘Why did you show up out of nowhere, crying?’
Wyll hesitated, his fingers tightening around his glass. ‘There was a fire at the temple.’
Sohl’s stomach dropped. ‘What happened?’
Wyll exhaled slowly. ‘I fell asleep while reading. A candle tipped over.’
Sohl shut his eyes, running a hand through his hair. The weight of it all settled in. For the first time, Wyll looked afraid. Sohl sighed, forcing a reassuring smile as he patted his shoulder.
‘Our house is your home.’
Yet, even as he spoke, anxiety bloomed within him. With Wyll expelled from the temple and the baby due to arrive soon, he couldn’t help but quietly panic. Their home was already too small, too crowded, and now another mouth to feed and another bed to find. The gentle comfort he’d offered felt suddenly heavy, like a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep.
Under the dim glow of streetlights, leaving the food truck behind, they walked home side by side, the night stretching out endlessly ahead, filled with uncertainty.
