The decision came to Ha-neul in the middle of the night, like most decisions did.
She had been lying awake since three in the morning, staring at the ceiling of her childhood room, listening to the unfamiliar silence. Seoul never slept—there was always a siren in the distance, a neighbor's television, the rumble of the last subway train. Here, the silence was so complete she could hear her own heartbeat.
And in that silence, she kept seeing his face.
Not in a romantic way. Or maybe it was, she didn't know anymore. It was more that she couldn't stop thinking about the way he had looked at her. Like he was seeing past the surface, past the polite smile and the tired eyes, straight into something she hadn't shown anyone in years.
*That man has more inside him than most people show in a lifetime.*
Her father's words echoed in her mind. A man with no past. A man who cooked food that tasted like memory. A man who looked at a stranger like he already knew her.
By the time the sun began to lighten her window, Ha-neul had made up her mind.
She found her father in the kitchen at six-thirty, already dressed, already drinking his morning tea. He looked up when she entered, one eyebrow rising slightly at the sight of her in actual clothes at this hour.
"I want to do it," she said. "The store. The Family Mart. I want to take it over."
Her father set down his cup. He didn't look surprised—if anything, he looked like he had been waiting for this moment. "You're sure?"
"No." She laughed, a little bitterly. "I'm not sure about anything. But I need to do something. And this... this feels right. Small. Manageable. I can do this."
He studied her for a long moment, the way he used to study the sea before deciding whether to take the boat out. Then he nodded. "I'll call the village association chairman this morning. The building's been empty long enough—they'll be happy to have someone in it. Probably give you a good rate."
"And the supplies? I'll need stock. Shelving. A refrigerator. A—"
"One thing at a time." He stood, placing a hand on her shoulder. The gesture was so simple, so familiar, that Ha-neul felt her eyes sting. "We'll figure it out together. That's what family is for."
---
By nine o'clock, the wheels were in motion.
Her father made his phone call. The village association chairman, a round-faced man in his seventies named Mr. Bae, showed up at the house within the hour, keys in hand, practically beaming at the prospect of someone finally reopening the empty store.
"Three years," he said, pressing the keys into Ha-neul's palm. "Three years we've been waiting for someone to take this on. The old people have to walk all the way to the town for basic things. And the tourists, when they come—" He shook his head. "You're doing us a favor, girl. Don't let anyone tell you different."
The rent was almost nothing. The deposit was even less. By lunchtime, Ha-neul was standing in front of the dusty storefront, keys in her hand, feeling like she had just jumped off a cliff without checking if there was water below.
Her mother appeared beside her, armed with cleaning supplies. "Well? Are we going to stand here all day or are we going to make this place presentable?"
The work began.
---
The store was worse than Ha-neul had expected.
Three years of neglect had left their mark. Dust covered every surface, thick enough to write in. The old refrigerator hummed weakly in the corner, its motor sounding like it was on its last legs. The shelves were crooked, the floor was sticky, and the whole place smelled faintly of mildew and expired cigarettes.
But her mother attacked the dirt with the ferocity of a general leading a charge. Buckets of soapy water appeared. Rags and sponges multiplied. Windows were thrown open, letting in the salt air and the sound of the sea.
By two o'clock, her father returned with a truck.
He had borrowed it from Park Dooshik, the fisherman, along with Dooshik's two teenage sons. The bed of the truck was piled high with supplies—new shelving units from the hardware store in town, a small upright freezer, boxes of cleaning products, and, most importantly, the first order of stock.
"I called the wholesaler in Pohang," her father explained, heaving a box onto his shoulder. "They'll deliver the regular shipments once a week. For now, I picked up what I could carry—instant noodles, drinks, snacks, basic household stuff. Enough to open."
Ha-neul stared at the pile. "Appa. How much did this cost? I need to pay you back, I have some savings left, I—"
"Hush." He cut her off with a look. "Consider it an investment. You succeed, you pay me back. You fail..." He shrugged. "Then we've had an adventure."
Her throat tightened. She turned away quickly, pretending to examine one of the new shelves, and blinked until her eyes cleared.
The afternoon passed in a blur of activity.
Dooshik's sons—broad-shouldered boys of sixteen and eighteen, both painfully shy around Ha-neul—carried the heavy items without being asked. Her father assembled shelves with the methodical patience of someone who had spent his life fixing things. And Ha-neul and her mother cleaned and arranged and cleaned again, working side by side in a rhythm that felt ancient and natural.
At some point, Ha-neul realized she was enjoying herself.
It wasn't the work itself—she had worked harder in Seoul, for longer hours, with more at stake. It was the simplicity of it. The physicality. The way a dirty floor became clean, an empty shelf became full, a forgotten space became something new. There was no business plan here. No investors to impress. No projections or profit margins or any of the things that had consumed her for the past five years.
Just work. Just her family. Just this small, humble space that was slowly, quietly, becoming hers.
"Ha-neul-ah." Her mother's voice broke through her thoughts. "Come look at this."
She was standing by the front window, holding up a piece of paper. It was a sign, hand-lettered in her mother's careful script:
*하도마트*
*Hado-mart*
*OPENING SOON*
Ha-neul laughed. "Omma. That's terrible. The letters are crooked."
"They are not crooked. They are charming. There's a difference." Her mother pinned it to the window anyway, stepping back to admire her work. "See? Now it's official."
The sun was beginning to lower toward the sea, painting the square in shades of gold and amber, when they finally stopped.
The store was far from finished. The new refrigerator needed to be plugged in and tested. The stock was only half-unpacked. There were still boxes in the corner, still shelves to arrange, still a thousand small tasks waiting to be done.
But for the first time in years, Ha-neul felt something she had almost forgotten.
*Hope.*
It was small and fragile, like a flame in a wind. But it was there.
"Let's call it a night," her father said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "We can finish tomorrow. Your mother will make dinner, and—"
A knock on the door frame made them all turn.
Seo Ji-won stood in the entrance of the store, a large covered tray in his hands. The setting sun caught the edges of his profile, lighting him in gold. Behind him, the lights of his restaurant glowed warm through the windows.
"I hope I'm not interrupting," he said quietly.
Ha-neul's heart did something strange. She ignored it.
"Ji-won-ssi." Her father greeted him warmly, crossing the store to shake his hand. "What brings you by?"
Ji-won held up the tray. "I saw you all working since this morning. Moving furniture, carrying boxes. I thought..." He glanced at Ha-neul, then away. "I thought you might be hungry. It's tonight's menu."
He set the tray on the counter and lifted the cover.
Steam rose, carrying smells that made Ha-neul's mouth water instantly. There were three separate containers inside—one with braised short ribs, the meat dark and glossy, falling off the bone. Another with an array of side dishes, colorful and artfully arranged. A third with rice, fluffy and perfect, sprinkled with black sesame seeds.
"It's just food," Ji-won said, responding to a question no one had asked. "I made too much tonight. It happens sometimes. And I thought—"
"You thought of us." Her mother's voice was warm, touched. "Ji-won-ah, you're too kind. After the day we've had, this is exactly what we needed. Isn't it, Ha-neul-ah?"
Ha-neul couldn't speak. She was staring at the food, then at Ji-won, then at the food again.
It wasn't just food. She could see that immediately. The short ribs had been cooked for hours—the meat was practically melting into the sauce. The side dishes weren't afterthoughts; they were careful compositions, each one made with attention and skill. This was a meal that had been prepared with intention. With care. With something that looked, from the outside, a lot like kindness.
But why?
Why would a man she had met exactly once, a man who didn't know her at all, go to this trouble? Why would he notice them working? Why would he care if they were hungry?
"Thank you," she managed. The words felt inadequate. "This is... really generous."
Ji-won met her eyes. That look was there again—that sense of being seen, truly seen, in a way that made her want to look away and keep looking at the same time.
"You worked hard today," he said. "You deserve to eat well."
He said it simply, like it was obvious. Like kindness didn't need explanation.
Her father was already pulling out plastic bowls and chopsticks from one of the boxes, clearly planning to eat right there in the store. Her mother was exclaiming over the side dishes, asking Ji-won how he made the spinach namul so vibrant. The moment passed, ordinary and warm.
But Ha-neul couldn't let it go.
While her parents set up an impromptu dinner on the counter, she stepped outside, finding Ji-won standing a few feet from the door, looking up at the darkening sky.
"Ji-won-ssi."
He turned.
"Why did you really do this?"
The question came out more direct than she intended. She saw something flicker in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or caution—before his expression settled back into its usual calm.
"I told you. I made too much."
"No one makes too much short rib. That takes hours. You planned this."
He was quiet for a moment. The sound of the sea filled the space between them.
"Your father is good to me," he said finally. "He stops by the restaurant most days. Sits at the counter, drinks tea, doesn't ask questions. In this village, that's rare. Most people want to know everything." A small, almost imperceptible smile. "He just... lets me be. That kind of quiet acceptance—it's a gift. I wanted to thank him. This seemed better than words."
Ha-neul absorbed this. It made sense. It was logical, even. A thank you to her father, nothing more.
But something about it still nagged at her.
"And me?" she heard herself ask. "Did you make extra for me too?"
The question hung in the air, more intimate than she had intended. Ji-won looked at her for a long moment, and in the fading light, she couldn't read his expression at all.
"You're his daughter," he said. "That makes you part of this village now. And in Hado-gae, we take care of our own."
It was a perfect answer. Kind. Appropriate. Completely unrevealing.
He bowed slightly, a gesture of farewell, and walked back toward his restaurant. Ha-neul watched him go, watched the way he moved—that same deliberate grace she had noticed before—and felt something shift in her chest.
Back inside, her parents were already eating, praising the food, laughing at something her father had said. The store glowed with temporary lights, and the smell of Ji-won's cooking filled the space, making it feel less like an empty commercial building and more like a home.
Ha-neul sat down and picked up her chopsticks.
The short ribs were extraordinary. The meat was so tender it fell apart at the slightest pressure, the sauce rich and complex with layers of flavor she couldn't begin to identify. The side dishes were perfect—the spinach bright with sesame oil, the pickled radish crisp and refreshing, the kimchi fermented just enough to have depth without being overwhelming.
It was the best food she had eaten in months. Maybe years.
And that was exactly the problem.
"Why is he like that?" she asked, not really expecting an answer.
Her mother looked up. "Like what?"
"So... kind. So thoughtful. He doesn't know us. He doesn't know me. And yet he does things like this, goes out of his way, and expects nothing in return. It doesn't make sense."
Her mother and father exchanged a look. That married look, full of communication that didn't need words.
"Ha-neul-ah," her mother said gently. "Some people are just kind. It doesn't have to make sense."
"Everyone wants something, Omma. That's how the world works."
"Maybe." Her mother's voice was quiet. "But maybe you've been in the city too long. Here, kindness isn't a transaction. It's just... what we do. Ji-won understands that better than most."
Ha-neul wanted to argue. Wanted to point out that her mother was being naive, that the world didn't work that way, that kindness without motive was a fairy tale she had stopped believing in years ago.
But she looked at the food in front of her. Looked at her parents, tired from a day of physical labor they were too old for, eating a meal made by a stranger who had noticed they were hungry.
And she couldn't find the words.
Later that night, after her parents had gone home and she had stayed behind to do one more hour of organizing, Ha-neul stood in the doorway of her almost-store and looked at the restaurant next door.
The lights were still on. Through the window, she could see Ji-won moving behind the counter, cleaning up, preparing for tomorrow. He worked alone, methodically, with the same focused attention he brought to everything.
*No one is just kind,* she thought. *Not like that. Not without reason.*
But as she watched him, she realized something else.
Whatever his reason was, she wanted to know it.
The lights in the restaurant went out. The square fell into darkness, lit only by the moon and the distant gleam of the sea.
And Ha-neul walked home, the taste of his food still on her tongue, and the first threads of a question she couldn't let go of weaving themselves through her mind.