River woke up in his childhood bed to a sound he had forgotten existed - complete silence. No traffic, no air conditioning units humming, no city noise bleeding through expensive windows. Just the soft whisper of wind through the mountains and the distant call of birds greeting the dawn.
For the first time in years, he had slept through the night without waking up in a panic about the next day's menu or a critical review or a business meeting.
His mother had left breakfast on the kitchen table - rice porridge with dried seaweed and a small dish of kimchi that tasted like it had been fermenting in her cellar for months. Simple food that filled him up instead of leaving him hungry an hour later.
After breakfast, River found himself drawn back to his grandmother's house. In the morning light, the garden looked even more wild and abundant. What had seemed like chaos the night before now revealed itself as a different kind of order - plants growing where they were happiest, not where someone had decided they should be.
River pushed through the overgrown paths, examining plants he hadn't seen since childhood. Perilla leaves growing in shady corners. Hot peppers turning red on sprawling bushes. Beans climbing improvised trellises made from old bamboo poles.
"Excuse me."
River spun around, startled. A woman stood at the garden gate, holding a small basket and looking slightly embarrassed to have been caught trespassing.
She was probably in her late twenties, with soil under her fingernails and hair that looked like she had been working outside. Not beautiful in the polished Seoul way River was used to, but striking in a more fundamental way - like someone who belonged exactly where she was standing.
"I'm sorry," she continued. "I didn't know anyone was here. I've been... well, I've been taking care of some of the plants. Your grandmother's garden was too beautiful to let it die completely."
River stared at her. "You've been taking care of the garden?"
The woman's cheeks flushed. "I hope that's okay. I live just over the hill, and I walk past here every morning. When I saw the tomatoes rotting on the vine last summer, I couldn't help myself. I started harvesting them so they wouldn't go to waste."
She held up her basket, which was filled with perfect vegetables - the kind of produce River would have paid premium prices for in Seoul.
"I always left some money in the mailbox," she added quickly. "And I replanted some areas that were getting too weedy. I hope whoever owns this place doesn't mind."
"I own this place," River said softly. "And I don't mind at all."
The woman's eyes widened. "You're Mrs. Park's grandson? The famous chef from Seoul?"
River winced. Even here, his reputation had preceded him. "That's me."
But instead of the usual starry-eyed recognition he got in the city, the woman just nodded matter-of-factly. "Your grandmother used to talk about you. She was very proud."
"What's your name?"
"Flora. Flora Kim." She gestured toward the mountain path behind her. "I have a small farm over the ridge. Mostly vegetables and herbs for the local market."
Flora. River found himself repeating the name silently. It suited her - like someone who understood growing things.
"Would you..." River hesitated, feeling strangely nervous. "Would you show me what you've done with the garden? I mean, if you have time."
Flora's face brightened. "Really? You want to see?"
For the next hour, Flora led River through his grandmother's garden like a gentle tour guide. She showed him where she had replanted the herb spiral, how she had trained the bean vines to grow up corn stalks in the traditional Three Sisters method, where she had added compost to improve the soil.
"Your grandmother had incredible instincts," Flora said, kneeling beside a patch of Korean mint that was thriving in partial shade. "She knew exactly where each plant would be happiest. I've just been trying to maintain what she started."
River watched Flora's hands as she spoke - gentle but confident, the way she touched plants like she was greeting old friends. Her fingernails were short and practical, her palms callused from honest work.
So different from the manicured hands of Seoul food critics and restaurant investors.
"How did you learn so much about gardening?" River asked.
"My grandmother, mostly. And books. And a lot of mistakes." Flora laughed, a sound like water over stones. "I killed more plants than I care to admit when I first started farming."
"You started a farm?"
Flora nodded, suddenly looking shy. "Three years ago. Nothing fancy - just two acres where I grow vegetables for the farmers market and some of the local restaurants. People here want simple food grown cleanly. No need for anything complicated."
Simple food grown cleanly. River thought about his restaurant's menu - dishes that required ingredients flown in from around the world, preparations that took hours of technical precision, presentations that prioritized appearance over nourishment.
"Can I see your farm?" he asked impulsively.
Flora looked surprised. "It's not very impressive. Not like what you're probably used to."
"I'm starting to think impressive might be overrated."
The walk to Flora's farm took twenty minutes along a mountain path that River remembered from childhood hikes with his grandmother. The air smelled like pine needles and wild flowers, and River realized his lungs felt cleaner than they had in years.
Flora's farm was tucked into a small valley that caught the morning sun perfectly. Two acres of neat rows separated by grass paths, with a small greenhouse and a simple shed for tools. Nothing fancy, as she had warned, but everything purposeful and well-tended.
"This is beautiful," River said, and meant it.
"It's a lot of work for one person," Flora admitted. "But I love being outside. I love growing things that people actually eat and enjoy."
River walked between the rows, marveling at the variety. Tomatoes in dozens of shapes and colors. Leafy greens he hadn't seen since his grandmother's kitchen. Herbs that smelled like concentrated sunshine when he brushed against them.
"Do you sell all of this?"
"Most of it. Some I preserve for winter - fermented vegetables, dried herbs, frozen berries. And some I just give away to neighbors who need it."
Flora stopped beside a row of enormous winter squash. "Your grandmother taught me that food is meant to be shared. She used to bring me vegetables when I first moved here and was too poor to eat properly."
"She did?"
"Every week. She'd show up at my door with a basket and refuse to leave until I promised to eat everything. She said I was too skinny to farm properly." Flora smiled at the memory. "She was probably right."
River felt a familiar tightness in his chest - the same feeling he'd had watching the old man eat his simple kimchi jjigae. Here was someone who understood what his grandmother had tried to teach him. That food was love. That growing and cooking and sharing meals was about nourishment, not performance.
"Flora," he said slowly, "would you teach me?"
"Teach you what?"
"How to grow things. How to... remember what food is supposed to be."
Flora studied his face for a long moment. "Are you sure? It's dirty work. And slow. Nothing like restaurant cooking."
"I'm sure."
Flora smiled - not the polished smile of Seoul business meetings, but something real and warm and slightly amused.
"Okay, city chef. But we start with weeding. And I warn you - gardens don't care about your schedule."
For the first time in months, River laughed. A real laugh that came from somewhere deep in his chest.
"I think that's exactly what I need to learn."