Chapter 1 — Woman of Autumn Days - 1 (1)

That footpath peeked out onto the main road. Suddenly, I felt curiosity stir within me—Where does this little path lead?

I stepped onto it. The trail was narrow, flanked by thick undergrowth. The foliage, just beginning to turn, shimmered in mottled reds and yellows, whispering the arrival of autumn.

After about ten minutes of walking, a clearing appeared—as if dozens of trees had been cleared away—and in its center stood a concrete building barely avoiding the label of eyesore.

A sign hung on the building: Ramen. It didn’t look like one made by a sign shop; the clumsy handwriting gave that away.

I pushed open the faded, painted-over door and entered. A room of about eight square meters greeted me. Only three or four tables confirmed this place was a restaurant.

In the middle of the tables sat a small stove—so tiny it looked no bigger than a rugby ball. It must have been installed last year and left untouched through spring and summer due to the owner’s laziness.

I sat on one of the chairs and looked around. There were no decorations. No posters from soju companies, which usually plaster every eatery.

The white-painted walls were entirely covered in graffiti. That was likely why the owner had repainted them white in the first place. Yet, right in the middle of the scribbles, two sheets of paper were taped up—one reading Ho-ho Ramen, the other Just Ramen.

"Just Ramen" was self-explanatory. But"Ho-ho Ramen"? I couldn’t even guess.

A moment later, a small door in the corner of the room opened, and a man walked in—the shop owner. He wore suspenders and tall boots, and his frame was enormous. His belly protruded noticeably.

He had a pipe clenched between his teeth. The contrast between his massive build and the comically tiny stove created an odd imbalance—one that strangely warmed my heart.

“You here for ramen?”

He spoke casually, using informal speech without hesitation. That too stirred a sense of familiarity.

“Yes, I’ll have Ho-ho Ramen, please.”

“We don’t sell Ho-ho Ramen to solo customers. Just Ramen only.”

I had no choice but to settle for Just Ramen.

“How much?”

“Two thousand won.”

“What? Why so expensive? Jajangmyeon is only a thousand won…”

“Ho-ho Ramen is cheap… only a thousand won…”

I paid for the ramen and scribbled on the wall:

Damn it. Doesn’t even sell Ho-ho Ramen. Stove smaller than a steel cock. Owner built like a gorilla. Still, I’ll come back.

Leaving those words behind, I stepped back onto the footpath. After another fifteen minutes or so, a small sign nailed to a tree caught my eye.

It read, in elegant script: Riverside Teahouse. Below it, an arrow pointed forward with the words: Just 500 meters more.

The graceful handwriting and gentle phrasing instantly suggested the sign was made by a woman.

So the end of this path is a woman-run teahouse… Not bad…

Muttering to myself, I began walking the remaining five hundred meters.

With about thirty or forty meters left, I glimpsed something through the trees. As I drew closer, it came into view—the “Riverside Teahouse.” A small, cozy wooden structure nestled in the woods.

A teahouse by the river in the forest…

I murmured this when a sound tickled my ears—a violin playing the melody of Humoresque.

Humoresque is a form of instrumental music, but Dvořák’s seventh Humoresque is so famous that many mistakenly believe “Humoresque” is simply the title of his composition. Originally written for piano, it shines most beautifully in violin renditions.

To this day, I still use Humoresque as my cellphone ringtone—I could never forget the feeling of that day.

The teahouse’s yard was covered in grass, enclosed by lush, unnamed trees forming a natural fence. Tables sat beneath their shade, and speakers were mounted on the trunks. The music flowed from them.

As I took a seat at one of the tables and glanced around, a woman approached me.

“Would you like coffee?”

“Anything besides coffee?”

“We only have coffee and milk here…”

“Alright… then yes, coffee please.”

But her face—her features—weren’t unfamiliar. I’d seen them somewhere before, often imagined in my mind. Yet I couldn’t recall when or where I’d actually met her. One thing was certain: it had been autumn. Her presence carried the deep, unmistakable scent of fall.

Trying to revive that memory, I spoke to her.