When the Han River Sleeps
Scent of 떡볶이 and Spring
Yuna balanced two trays in the busy café, steam fogging her glasses. The sharp, sweet tang of 떡볶이 wafted over sun-dappled tables, tugging at her memory of late-night cravings and laughter with Ah-reum. Outside, spring deepened—the city awash with pink, hope blooming across every cracked sidewalk.
By noon, Yuna’s stomach rumbled. Ah-reum waved her over, mischievous. “Your mysterious river boy came by,” she teased, eyes bright. “He left this.” On the counter sat a folded napkin, a few stray music notes scribbled in ink, and beside it, a slice of honeyed sweet potato toast.
Yuna’s cheeks flushed, hesitation flickering through every movement. She pocketed the napkin, feeling suddenly less tired.
After her shift, Yuna wandered toward the Han. The city was wide awake vendors calling across bridges, bikes rattling past, children darting between kites and cotton candy. She found Jihoon under the same lamp post, guitar balanced on his knee, nervousness hidden beneath an easy smile.
“I brought something,” he called, holding out a tiny box. “It’s nothing special.”
Inside, two skewers of 떡볶이, warm and spicy, nestled on wax paper. Yuna’s eyes widened. “You remembered.”
Jihoon shrugged, a little sheepish. “Everyone deserves a taste of happiness now and then, right?”
She laughed, the sound soft and full, and they shared bites while the city pulsed with weekend life around them. Between tangy heat and giggles, Yuna felt her heart loosen—the world briefly simple, tender, and bright with possibility.
As clouds drifted past and dusk folded quietly over the river, Yuna leaned back, letting herself believe in new beginnings, the promise of spring, and the sweetness of being seen.