Seoul woke beneath a misty sky that morning, its streets humming softly like a half-finished poem.
From the window of a small hotel in Hongdae, Lin Nira watched the city unfold — people rushing to work, the smell of roasted coffee drifting from a nearby café, neon signs flickering faintly against the fog.
She had been there for a week, though she still wasn't sure why.
Back in Beijing, Nira had taught literature at a quiet university, her days filled with verses from Du Fu and novels that smelled of ink and old wood. But lately, a strange feeling had crept into her — a tug beneath her ribs, as if something unseen was calling her across the sea.
She had ignored it at first.
Then one evening, while grading essays, she found an unfamiliar diary page tucked between her notes — words she couldn't read except for one in English: "Agani."
That night, she booked her ticket to South Korea.
Now, sipping her lukewarm tea, she whispered to the window, "What am I really looking for?"
The wind outside answered with silence.
Her hotel stay, however, had a more practical limit — her wallet.
By the seventh day, she began searching online for something cheaper, her fingertip hovering over listings until one ad caught her attention:
> Shared House in Mapo-gu
For four tenants. Warm, quiet, full of light — laughter included free of charge.
"Laughter free of charge?" Nira murmured, half-smiling. "Maybe that's what I need."
---
The next afternoon, she arrived at the address —
When she rang the bell, a muffled voice shouted, "Coming!"
The door flew open, revealing Lila, flour smudged on her cheek, holding a whisk like a sword.
"Oh, you must be the new applicant!" Lila said cheerfully. "Come in before the dough attacks me."
Nira blinked, unsure whether to laugh or apologize. "Is… this a bad time?"
"Every time's a bad time in my kitchen," Lila replied dramatically. "But please, enter the battlefield."
Behind her, Re-ha appeared, smiling with patient amusement. "Ignore her. I'm Re-ha, the landlord — and part-time peacemaker. Come in."
As Nira stepped inside, warmth greeted her — the scent of vanilla, sunlight spilling over wooden floors, laughter echoing faintly from the kitchen where Agani was making tea.
Re-ha gestured toward the sofa. "Please, sit. You've traveled far?"
"From Beijing," Nira said softly. "I… used to teach literature there."
"Oh, a teacher!" Lila said, perching on the armrest. "Perfect. We need someone to keep us civilized."
"Speak for yourself," Agani called from the kitchen. "I already am."
Lila giggled. "Sure, Miss Tea Philosophy."
Re-ha shook her head, hiding a smile. "You see what I deal with daily?"
Nira chuckled, her shyness easing. "It's… nice. It feels alive here."
---
The door opened again.
"Knock knock — fashion delivery!" came Jin's voice.
He entered with his usual grin and a tote bag full of fabric swatches. "I brought snacks, by the way. And chaos."
"Perfect timing," Lila said. "We were just pretending to be normal."
Jin noticed Nira and froze. "Oh! Another new housemate? Wow, this place is turning into a mini United Nations."
Re-ha shot him a look. "Jin."
He laughed. "What? It's true — Indian chef, Korean designer, Chinese teacher, and… travel company philosopher." He nodded at Agani. "See? International harmony."
Lila crossed her arms playfully. "You forgot one thing — we're all more dangerous than we look."
Nira smiled quietly. "I can tell."
---
After some warm tea and soft laughter, Re-ha showed Nira the last empty room upstairs — small but full of light, overlooking the garden.
"This used to be my studio," Re-ha said. "I cleared it last month, thinking… maybe someone new might need it."
Nira looked around — sunlight brushed across the old wooden floor, catching dust like glitter. It felt calm, almost familiar.
"I'll take it," she said simply.
Re-ha smiled. "Welcome home, then."
---
That night, the four women sat together on the rooftop terrace.
Lila had made dumplings — perfectly crisp, fragrant with garlic and laughter. Jin had dropped by briefly but left when the teasing got too much.
As the city lights blinked below them, Nira listened to the others talk about their dreams, their work, their heartbreaks disguised as jokes. She didn't say much — only smiled, her thoughts drifting quietly.
Something about this house — these women — felt fated. Like the next line of a poem she hadn't finished writing.
When the night deepened and the laughter faded, she looked at her notebook and wrote a single line:
"Perhaps we do not choose where we belong — sometimes, belonging chooses us."
The wind stirred softly, carrying a faint echo of her own words back to her.
And for the first time since she left home, Nira didn't feel lost — she felt found.