Soo Young returned home last night after everyone had fallen asleep. She quietly lay on the mat, holding the notebook. She struggled to sleep as her thoughts were all over the place.
The next morning, the sun felt too bright.
Soo Young stepped outside, notebook pressed against her chest, squinting her eyes against the pale sunlight filtering through the yard. The air smelled of damp earth and boiled rice. Somewhere outside the fields, roosters were crowing, sharp and late. It was just another day, but everything inside her had changed.
She put the notebook into a drawer under a piece of cloth before anyone could notice.
At breakfast, her mother was quiet but mindful, serving soup into bowls with that same unwavering care she had always shown. Soo Young caught her gaze once, but neither of them said anything. It was a truce. A silent understanding that what had passed is no longer relevant and doesn't need to be discussed.
So Ra Soo Young's sister broke the silence, pointing at Soo Young's sleeves. "You still have the same coat from last year."
"It still fits," Soo Young said, softly tugging the damaged cuff. "That's what matters."
So Ra furrowed her nose. "But it smells like fish."
"Everything in this house smells like fish," Tae Soo muttered from across the table, receiving a smack on the back of the head from their mother.
Soo Young smiled unwillingly. The morning then moved forward in the usual routine; chopsticks tinkling, the radio fizzing faintly in the corner, the stove's heat warming the kitchen walls. But underneath the surface, something fragile and new had taken root.
Later, on the outskirts of the fields, Jun Ho found Soo Young sorting the dried seaweed bundles.
"You came back late last night," he said quietly.
"I had things to read," Soo Young replied, eyes on seaweed.
He hesitated before asking, "Did you find what you were looking for?"
She looked up. "Not exactly. But I found something worth holding onto."
Jun Ho didn't ask any more questions. Instead, he took the knife from her hand and started cutting through the twine binding the bundles. "You always try to carry too much by yourself."
"I'm used to it."
"You don't have to be."
The soft and honest words hung between them. She said nothing, but didn't flinch when his shoulder brushed hers.
By midday, the village was buzzing again. There was a wedding in the village, and so everyone was busy with the preparations near the old shrine. Carrying tables, de-feathering the chickens, assembling temporary ornaments from bright cloth and paper fans.
Soo Young helped set out the rice cake platters alongside the other women. Aunt Mi Ja winked as she placed a steaming bucket beside her.
"Heard you went walking under the moon last night," she said, voice low but teasing.
Soo Young stayed calm. "Just clearing my head."
"Mm-hm," Mi Ja said, not unkindly. "That head of yours has always been too full of questions."
As soon as the guests began to arrive, Soo Young left quietly. The burst of joyful sounds emerged from behind her as she walked toward the back of the shrine, where a woodlot of trees offered shade and silence.
There, she found her mother offering incense at the small stone shrine.
Her mother didn't look up, but said, "Your father used to bring me here when he felt lost. He'd pray to the spirits, not for answers, just for strength to do what was right."
Soo Young stood beside her. The smell of pine smoke swirled in the air.
"I met her," she said quietly.
Her mother's hand poised over the flame. "I know."
"She gave me his notebook."
A pause.
then her mother nodded. "He never could throw anything away."
"I used to think I knew him."
"And now?"
"I still do. Just… differently."
Then her mother turned to her, eyes full but steady. "He wasn't perfect, Soo Young. None of us is. But he loved you. Fiercely. In everything he did."
"I know."
They both stood there in silence for some time, two women related by blood, memory, and the man whose story was still unfolding.
When the wedding drums started beating again, Soo Young began walking back toward the sound. Jun Ho spotted her from across the yard and raised an eyebrow. She gave a small nod. Not a signal or a secret, just a simple acknowledgment that she is still here, and still walking forward.
At night, back in her room, Soo Young again opened the notebook.
She wrote one of the entries into her register, not for keeping, but for understanding. Those were not just her father's words. Those were the echoes of everyone who lived through the war, through hunger, silence, and survival. They were part of her now.
As she closed the notebook, So Ra waddled in with a pillow and a blanket.
"Can I sleep here tonight?" her little sister asked. "The wind sounds weird."
Soo Young nodded. "Of course."
So Ra huddled up on the floor, already drifting.
Soo Young watched her fall asleep, then turned off the lamp. The room grew silent.
Outside, the night wind rustled through the persimmon tree. Inside, Soo Young lay awake, listening, not to the wind, but to the rhythm of her sister's breathing, the muted creak of the house, the slow awakening of the world.
She still didn't have all the answers.
But she had the story now.
With each step, she was learning how to carry it not like a burden, but like a lantern lit from within.