Path Of The Wind

Part 2:《Down town》

Eunseo

Chungju (충주), 6 A.M

While fresh flowers were made to admire, an unconditional sentiment may just be found in those preserved ones, like the one pressed between the pages of the old books I had and that later served as a bookmark for the book I was currently reading, titled The White Book written by Kang Han.

I closed the book and stepped off the train too quickly, like an escape. Chungju was the last station before the train would head back to Seoul.

The random quote from page 26 I read before closing the book got me thinking a lot: "The boundaries that separate old from new, the seams bearing witness to the destruction, lie conspicuously exposed."

And while I was lost in those thoughts, I bumped into a few people who glared at me annoyingly. I lacked so much spatial awareness around people who didn't care to dodge either.

I lifted my gaze from the ground and looked everywhere like some sort of tourist who landed on some exotic island for vacation, trying to fill my eyes with pretty things, new things—except it wasn't new.

It was pretty much the same. I came to realize that what I left behind wasn't washed out by time, because six years weren't maybe enough for a change.

The narrow streets, paved with sleek stone and flanked by rows of houses stripped of any particular architectural style, remained etched in my memory like a treasure map.

The secret corners I used to hide in as a kid, places I ran to when we played hide and seek, were still there, waiting. Even now, I still played that game in my own way, though the stakes had changed.

Seoul was much like a maze of distractions rather than a temple of my dreams. It was an admiration that didn't last long.

I traded precious people for some superficial love, empty opportunities, and nothing else worth looking back at.

I was happy to come back again, to see my mom's face after so long, so it didn't matter how mad I was anymore. The decision she made one year ago now became very much acceptable.

She had chosen to have a spouse, someone who supported her when I couldn't, someone who guided her through the bad and good and brought her happiness. These were the words she said to me, as if trying to make me feel guilt and shame.

I couldn't show any joy for Mom's decision nor keep on hating that forever.

As a little girl, I spent only ten years of my life with my father before he passed away from lung cancer, a tragic result of his excessive smoking. It turned out to be ironic to me the way it was played out by life, especially since a gifted curse was passed down to me—a curse I blamed on him, even though he no longer existed to carry its burden with him. I unluckily developed asthma a year after his death, which affected me greatly.

I was better off with no father around.

The idea of a stepfather seemed even more foreign, unnecessary. But it wasn't about what I wanted; it was about what she needed. And that, too, I came to accept.

Dragging my suitcase down the familiar road, the sound of its tiny wheels echoed against the rough pavement. When I reached our door, I hesitated for a moment before pressing the doorbell.

Coming this close, I couldn't help but ask myself: would my own mother even be able to recognize me now?

I'd spent six years deleting myself—bit by bit, almost entirely. Not out of shame, and not out of rebellion. It was more of a new beginning theme that made perfect sense to me back then.

My hair, once dyed to hide its natural shade, had begun to grow out, its true color reappearing at the roots, leaving only the mid-lengths still tinted. My clothing style had shifted completely; I had traded pants for dresses, and backpacks for cute purses. The phone had also been upgraded—from a Galaxy S5 to a Galaxy S8. The thing was, while I had thrown away every old item I owned, exceptionally, the phone I had kept in a box that I left shut most of the time. And even though my plan was to throw everything old I had, something was telling me not to.

I also dropped from 65 to 55 kilos—at 170 cm, that made a difference. My face got sharper. The baby cheeks vanished. People started to look at me more. And my eyes? Well, I got them fixed. Surgically. Nothing dramatic—just enough to look like someone who belonged in Seoul, and that somehow got me so many compliments, especially from the classmates I went to university with.

Even the jewelry I wore—subtle, expensive-looking without being too obvious—wasn't mine. None of it was, really.

Funny thing is, I can't even remember paying for any of it.

Everything was a gift. Or maybe a transaction I forgot I made.

The door opened to reveal a man in his late thirties, his expression warm and welcoming.

"Eunseo!" he exclaimed, pulling me into an unexpected hug. "You look just like your mom, Hae-young!" It was the kind of lie people tell during first meetings. Harmless. And he probably thought I'd smile at the comparison. I didn't.

Awkward and overwhelmed, I managed a polite bow as he stepped aside to let me in. The house felt different. Little changes stood out—a new rug, a rearranged shelf, the faint scent of lavender.

My mother appeared moments later, her face lighting up as soon as she saw me. She embraced me tightly, her warmth erasing much of the tension I'd carried with me.

"Welcome home, sweetheart," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "It's been too long."

"I'll make breakfast," she offered.

In the kitchen, I found traces of her new life—a set of matching mugs, a collection of spices I didn't recognize. As she cooked, the three of us gradually immersed into an easy conversation. Her husband shared stories about their community work and how they had started volunteering at a local shelter. It wasn't the life I had envisioned for her, but it was one she seemed to cherish.

Later, as I left to my room, I was greeted by the sight of my purple dreamcatcher swaying gently in the breeze. I did remember that each one of us had one. Mirae's was pink, and Adem's was blue—each one represented dreams we had once shared together.

I dialed Mirae's number several times, but I couldn't reach it. Adem's response to my message was brief and took him around one minute of not hesitating at all: "Don't ever reach out to me again."

The distance between us wasn't their fault; it was mine. I had been the one to leave, the one who let silence grow between us. But regret followed me like a shadow.

The blessings I had never thought of as blessings before were the most precious. The count was decreasing every time. Yet, as I lay on my childhood bed, listening to the breeze outside and the faint hum of life in the house, I realized there was still time to reclaim what mattered.

Once, I thought there was nothing more to lose.

It was the old, sweet life that I wanted back.