River sat in his empty restaurant until 3 AM, staring at the unwashed bowl from table eight. His phone had been buzzing all evening - calls from his business partner, his publicist, his investors. He ignored them all.
Finally, he picked up his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he found the number he was looking for. His finger hovered over his mother's name for a long moment before he pressed call.
The phone rang four times before she answered, her voice thick with sleep.
"River-ya? What's wrong? It's so late."
"Eomma," River said, his voice coming out smaller than he intended. "I'm sorry for waking you."
"Are you sick? You sound strange."
River almost laughed. Yes, he was sick. Sick of his life, sick of himself, sick of pretending to be happy.
"Eomma, do you remember when I was little and I used to help Halmoni in the kitchen?"
His mother was quiet for a moment. "Of course. You were always under her feet, asking her to teach you everything. She said you had magic hands for cooking."
"What happened to that boy?"
"What do you mean?"
River closed his eyes. "I made kimchi jjigae today. Real kimchi jjigae, like Halmoni used to make. And I remembered... I remembered why I loved cooking."
"River-ya, are you crying?"
River touched his face and was surprised to find it wet. He hadn't realized he was crying.
"I think I'm lost, Eomma."
His mother's voice became gentle, the way it used to be when he was small and had nightmares. "Where are you lost, my son?"
"In my own life. I have everything I thought I wanted, but I feel empty. I cook food that looks beautiful but has no soul. I live in a expensive apartment but I'm alone. I'm successful but I'm not happy."
"Then come home."
"What?"
"Come home to the village. Remember who you are."
River looked around his perfect restaurant - the crystal glasses, the expensive art on the walls, the city lights glittering outside the windows. All of it suddenly felt like a prison.
"I can't just leave, Eomma. I have responsibilities. Employees. Contracts."
"You have one life, River-ya. One heart. If you don't take care of them, who will?"
After he hung up, River sat in the silence for another hour. His mother's words echoed in his head: "Come home. Remember who you are."
But home felt like a foreign country now. River had lived in Seoul for so long that he couldn't even remember what quiet sounded like. What stars looked like without city lights washing them out. What air tasted like when it wasn't full of car exhaust and restaurant smoke.
River walked to his office and opened his laptop. He began typing an email to his business partner, then stopped. He tried to write a letter to his staff, then deleted it. How do you explain to people that you're drowning in your own success?
Finally, River wrote just one line: "I need time to think. I'll be in touch soon."
He sent the email to his business partner and closed his laptop.
River looked at his reflection in the dark computer screen. Tomorrow, his staff would arrive expecting their famous chef to lead them through another perfect service. His investors would expect their meetings. His customers would expect their Instagram-worthy meals.
But River Park, the celebrated chef, felt like he was fading away.
And maybe that wasn't such a bad thing.
Maybe it was time for River the person - the boy who used to cook with his grandmother, who used to believe food was love made visible - to find his way back to the surface.
River picked up the empty bowl from table eight and carried it to the kitchen. He washed it by hand, slowly and carefully, the way his grandmother had taught him to wash dishes when he was seven years old.
"Thank you," he whispered to the bowl, though he wasn't sure who he was really thanking.
For the first time in years, River felt like he might know what he needed to do.