When the Han River Sleeps
Beneath the Lantern Light
The soft glow of paper lanterns swayed gently over the 새벽시장, casting a warm amber hue that softened the night’s chill. The market hummed with quiet energy—the clatter of bowls, the fragrant steam of simmering broths, and the gentle murmur of whispered conversations.
Yuna arrived early, clutching her sketchbook close against the cool breeze. The market at dawn was a different world—one of first light and fresh dreams, where the city’s heartbeat slowed just enough for moments to unfold quietly, like petals opening after a long winter.
Jihoon was already there, leaning against a stall stacked with glistening fish cakes and fragrant rice cakes. His eyes met hers with a quiet expectation that sent warmth unfurling through her chest.
“You came early,” she said, a teasing smile touching her lips.
He shrugged, threading his fingers through his dark hair. “I wanted to make sure I caught the best quiet before the dawn rush.”
She laughed softly, watching as his gaze flicked around the colorful stalls. At that moment, Jihoon seemed less like the reserved composer she had first met and more like a man woven from the city’s very soul—complex and searching, but fiercely alive.
They wandered together, tasting the sweet, spicy tang of 순대 and sharing bits of chewy 호떡. Yuna’s sketches captured fleeting moments—the crinkled smile of an elderly vendor, the steam rising in lazy spirals, and the way lantern light caught in Jihoon’s eyes.
Between sips of warm 유자차, the conversation deepened.
“Do you ever think about leaving Seoul?” Yuna asked, watching a pair of children chase each other near the stalls, their laughter carefree and bright.
Jihoon’s expression grew distant. “Sometimes. But whenever I imagine somewhere else… it never feels quite like home. Like the river, you know? Maybe no matter where I go, the memories flow with me.”
Her heart thudded softly. “I feel the same. No matter how far I wander with my pencil, some part of me always sketches this city’s light and shadow.”
The night aged around them, the market’s rhythm slowing to a gentle hum. They found a quiet bench beneath blooming cherry trees, petals drifting down like whispered secrets. Jihoon reached into his guitar case and began to play—a melody both tender and hesitant, weaving the city’s breath into song.
Yuna’s fingers traced the worn edges of her sketchbook as she listened, the river of notes flowing through her, stirring memories she had long kept tucked away. In that fragile moment, two souls met beneath the lantern light—each note, each stroke, a testament to the quiet hope that their paths had crossed at exactly the right time.
As the last petal fluttered down onto the cobblestones, Yuna whispered, “Maybe some songs don’t have endings yet.”
Jihoon smiled, eyes reflecting the lantern’s glow. “Or maybe they’re just waiting for the right hands to finish them.”