When the Han River Sleeps
Echoes and Unspoken Words
The morning light was soft, but Jihoon’s thoughts throbbed with restless shadows. His small apartment smelled faintly of old sheet music and the faint bitterness of black coffee left too long. He toyed with a new composition, each note hesitant, searching for something he couldn’t name.
His phone buzzed—a message from Yuna. “Meet me at the 새벽시장, let’s talk.”
His heart skipped, a silent melody playing just for him.
At the 새벽시장 (dawn market), the world was just waking. Vendors arranged trays of glistening fish cakes and fragrant dumplings, the air thick with sizzling sounds and spicy aromas. Yuna waited by the lantern-lit stalls, a wool scarf wrapped tight, cheeks flushed from the crisp air.
Jihoon approached quietly, meeting her gaze with a tentative smile. Neither spoke at first: the buzz of the market filling the space between them. Finally, Yuna’s voice broke through. “Why do you hide your music away? It’s beautiful, but you never seem to share it.”
Jihoon looked away, jaw tight. “Sometimes, the past is too loud in the quiet.”
Her eyes softened. “Your music doesn’t have to carry your silence alone.” She reached out, fingers brushing his sleeve. “Maybe we both need to stop hiding.”
A breeze stirred the paper lanterns, casting dancing shadows over their hands. Around them, the market pulsed with life—voices, laughter, the clinking of coins—all blending with the river’s distant murmur.
Jihoon nodded slowly, feeling the weight in his chest shift. For the first time in a long while, the night’s music felt like it might become a shared song.