Chapter 2 — Woman of Autumn Days - 1 (2)

“The teahouse’s called Riverside, but I don’t see any river?”

“There has to be a river at a riverside teahouse. Just behind this shop…”

“Ah, so it was blocked from view by the building itself.”

“If you go behind the shop, there’s a ferry landing too.”

“A ferry landing? What does the boat shuttle back and forth to?”

“To Eulsukdo Reed Field.”

“Then there must be a ferryman as well?”

“Of course. A deaf old man, but such a magnificent grandfather he is.”

I tried speaking with her like this, but still, my memories did not return.

Anyway, I fell for her that day. Her cool gaze carrying the scent of autumn, her even, white teeth, her slightly angular jawline that somehow made her look more intelligent, her low-toned voice laced with a touch of nasality yet incredibly clear—these things pulled me in completely.

After that day, I visited the ‘Riverside Teahouse’ every single day. And each time I went, I passed by the ramen shop along the footpath. But I could never get to eat the ‘Ho-ho Ramen.’

“You said you don’t serve Ho-ho Ramen to solo customers. Just give me plain ramen then…”

James Han turned me away every single time.

One day, I arrived earlier than usual at the ‘Riverside Teahouse.’ It was a morning thick with autumn fog. The teahouse sat quietly wrapped in low-hanging mist, serene and still.

She wasn’t there. I pushed open the door and stepped inside. Her five-year-old son sat on the floor, absorbed in playing with toys.

“Where’s your mom?”

“She’s… painting.”

“Painting? Where?”

The boy turned his head, jutted his chin forward, and pointed behind him, muttering, “Over there.”

I walked to the back of the shop. There she was, seated on a short stool in front of an easel, brush in hand, painting.

I didn’t make a sound. I wanted to watch her like this for a long while. A woman painting, shrouded in mist—this was an image I had occasionally pictured in my mind, beautiful and fleeting. Though the reeds of Eulsukdo were hidden beneath the dense fog, her canvas was slowly filling with the very same reed field veiled in mist.

“You’re painting something you can’t even see… So is this an imagined scene?”

“Oh! You startled me… When did you get here? So early in the morning…”

I didn’t answer her question. Instead, I kept mine going.

“Is it imagined, then?”

“No. It’s realism.”

“But the reeds are hidden by the fog. How can it be realistic?”

“All paintings contain imagination. Without imagination, it wouldn’t be a painting—it would just be a photograph.”

“That’s true enough. But if you’re painting from imagination anyway, couldn’t you do it inside the shop?”

“There’s no fog inside the shop, is there? I need to feel the mist on my skin to capture the feeling of it…”

“I see. Just like a screenwriter experiencing a scene to write it truthfully.”