Dreams of soaring to America, dreams of crossing the waters to Japan—such ambitions belonged to another world, a distant horizon that seemed perpetually out of reach. For me, the desire was simpler, humbler: I wanted only to write. Words, those delicate filigrees of thought, called to me with an irresistible allure.
As the summer break drew to its inevitable close, I embarked on a journey I had carefully planned since spring: a visit to my grandmother’s house in Jangchung-dong. The word "literature" alone was enough to send a thrill through me. Those were days when I devoured every scrap of writing I could lay my hands on, whether newspapers or magazines, losing myself in their pages until the hours blurred into nothingness.
Mother, however, did not share my enthusiasm. She often scolded me for neglecting my chores, her disapproval manifesting in tasks thrust upon me to keep my hands busy and my eyes away from my books. At times, I resisted, clutching a needle as if about to sew, but my rebellion never lasted long. When she left the room, I would push the fabric aside, retrieving my book with guilty glee. On days when she busied herself weaving straw mats in another room, I would lie down openly with my book, secure in my stolen moments of freedom.
Now in my second year of middle school, I yearned to escape the confines of home under the guise of expanding my education. A stay at my grandmother’s, I reasoned, would not only grant me this reprieve but also allow me to immerse myself in my fledgling literary world. The journey to her house required a four-hour express bus ride from Busan—a stretch of road that promised both distance and possibility.
The bus had scarcely left the terminal when a tall young man, clad in a jumper, came sprinting toward it, his arms flailing like windmills. With a leap that seemed both reckless and agile, he boarded the bus and, without hesitation, dropped into the seat beside me.
At that moment, I was busy tucking two stout, hardcover books into the netted pocket of the seat in front of me. The young man observed me for a moment, his gaze curious, before he asked with casual boldness,
“Are those new?”
“No, I bought them cheap at a secondhand bookstore,” I replied, my initial embarrassment replaced by a surge of pride as I held up the books for him to see.
He nodded thoughtfully, glancing briefly at the book he carried in his own hands before asking again,
“What kind of books are they?”
“A collection of novels and a study guide,” I answered simply.
“A literary maiden, are we?” he teased, his voice tinged with amusement. Then, with a playful grin, he added,
“But you talk without even a smile.”
His words took me aback. Was smiling truly a requirement for conversation?
“Must I?” I retorted, my tone edged with skepticism.
“Not at all,” he said, his voice now softer, almost philosophical. “But a smile has a way of beautifying human interactions, wouldn’t you agree?”
I met his gaze squarely, my resolve firm. “Perhaps,” I said, “but I have no desire to share a smile with a man I’ve only just met.”
For a moment, he seemed startled, then broke into a quiet laugh, muttering something about his plans to complete high school and eventually pursue university. Soon after, he leaned back in his seat and appeared lost in thought, his head bowed as though in sleep.