The sea gave Ji-won his menu each morning.
Not literally—he didn't walk to the shore and wait for the waves to whisper suggestions. But the fish arrived before dawn, still cool from the deep water, and whatever Dooshik's son brought in his plastic bucket became the foundation of the day. The sea decided. Ji-won simply responded.
This morning, the bucket held yellow corvina.
Four of them, medium-sized, their scales catching the kitchen light like polished gold. Good fish. Firm flesh, clean eyes, the faint sweet smell of the ocean rather than the sharp tang of age. Ji-won paid the boy, added an extra thousand won for no reason other than the boy's sleepy smile, and watched him bicycle back into the grey.
Then he turned to his chalkboard.
The menu changed every day. That was the rule of Jiwon's Table, unspoken but absolute. Regular customers never knew what they would find. Tourists sometimes left disappointed when they discovered he had no printed menu, no set offerings, no predictability at all. But the villagers understood. They had learned, over three years, that whatever Ji-won wrote on that board would be exactly what they needed.
He wiped the board clean with a damp cloth and began to write:
오늘의 메뉴 | Today's Menu
조기 매운탕 — Spicy Yellow Corvina Stew: 14,000₩
계란말이 — Rolled Omelette: 6,000₩
제철 나물 — Seasonal Wild Greens: Included
잡곡밥 — Multigrain Rice: 2,000₩
오늘의 국 — Today's Soup: 콩나물국 (Bean Sprout Soup)
He stepped back, studied the letters, and nodded once. Good. Clean. Honest.
The corvina would need careful handling. Too firm and the flesh wouldn't absorb the broth. Too soft and it would fall apart entirely. There was a window—perhaps twenty minutes of cooking time—where the fish would be perfect, and Ji-won had been chasing that window for twenty years.
He rinsed the fish in cold water, then set them aside. The stew would come later, closer to lunch. For now, he had the morning rush to prepare—the fishermen, the old people, the schoolteacher who always ordered the same thing even though the menu never stayed the same.
By six-fifteen, the first customers arrived. By eight-thirty, they were gone. The rhythm of the restaurant was as reliable as the tide.
---
Next door, Ha-neul was already at work.
She had arrived at seven, unable to sleep, too wired with nervous energy to lie in bed any longer. The store greeted her with the same chaos she had left last night—half-unpacked boxes, shelves that needed arranging, a refrigerator that still hadn't been tested.
But today, she had a plan.
She started with the refrigerator. It hummed to life when she plugged it in, a sound so reassuring she almost laughed. Then the shelves—straightening, organizing, making everything neat. Then the stock, box by box, can by can, until her hands were raw from opening cardboard and her mind was pleasantly empty of everything except the task in front of her.
Her mother appeared at nine with coffee and rice cakes. Her father stopped by at ten with more supplies from the hardware store. The morning passed in small kindnesses, the kind that had annoyed her last week and now felt like the only thing holding her together.
By noon, the store was ready.
Not finished—it would never be finished, not really, because a store was a living thing that needed constant attention. But ready. The shelves were stocked. The refrigerator hummed. The counter was clean. A small table near the window held a kettle and cups for anyone who wanted to sit and talk.
Ha-neul stood in the middle of her store and allowed herself one moment of pride.
She had done this. With help, yes, but she had done it. In three days, she had turned an abandoned space into something that could actually function. Something that could serve people. Something that was, against all odds, hers.
Her stomach growled.
She looked at her watch. Twelve-fifteen. She hadn't eaten since the rice cakes at ten, and those were long gone. She could make herself something from the store—ramen, maybe, or one of the instant rice bowls she had stocked for tourists.
But through the window, she could see the restaurant next door. The warm light. The shapes of people inside. The smell, even from here, of something incredible.
You're welcome anytime.
His words from yesterday echoed in her mind.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she grabbed her wallet and walked out the door.
---
The bell above the restaurant door chimed softly as she entered.
Inside, Jiwon's Table was exactly as she remembered—warm wood, soft light, the long counter with its four stools. Three of them were empty. The fourth held Mr. Ahn from the post office, who nodded at her without speaking and returned to his soup.
Ji-won looked up from the stove.
For a moment, something crossed his face. Surprise? Pleasure? It was gone before she could name it, replaced by his usual calm.
"Ha-neul-ssi." He wiped his hands on his apron. "Welcome."
"I hope I'm not interrupting." She gestured vaguely at the stove. "Lunch rush looks... manageable."
A small smile tugged at his mouth. "It comes in waves. The fishermen eat early. The old people eat early. By noon, it's usually quiet until one-thirty or so." He nodded at the stools. "Please. Sit."
She chose the stool closest to the window, leaving one empty space between her and Mr. Ahn. The counter was polished smooth, worn by years of elbows. Above it, the chalkboard menu caught her eye.
"Yellow corvina stew," she read aloud. "That's today's special?"
"If you want it. Or I can make you something else. Whatever you like."
Ha-neul considered. In Seoul, she would have asked questions—what's in it, how spicy, can I substitute this for that. But something about this place made those questions feel wrong. The menu was the menu. The fish was whatever the sea had provided. Ordering felt like trusting, and trusting felt strange, but also... right.
"The stew," she said. "And whatever comes with it."
Ji-won nodded once, accepting this. Then he turned to his stove, and Ha-neul forgot how to breathe.
She had watched chefs cook before. Seoul was full of them—flashy knife work, dramatic flames, performances designed to impress. Ji-won was nothing like that. His movements were so economical they barely seemed like movements at all. He simply... did things. And the things he did were mesmerizing.
First, the broth.
He had a pot already simmering on the back burner—anchovy stock, she guessed from the smell, made with dried anchovies and kelp. He ladled it into a smaller brass pot and set it over high heat. While it came to a boil, he reached for a bowl of pale white paste—doenjang, soybean paste, but lighter in color than the usual dark brown. A spoonful went into the broth, dissolving immediately. Then gochugaru, the red pepper flakes that would give the stew its color and heat. A tablespoon. Then another. Then a spoonful of minced garlic, so fine it was almost a paste itself.
He worked without measuring, without tasting, without any of the hesitation that normal cooking required. His hands simply knew what to do.
The broth turned red. It bubbled and steamed, filling the small restaurant with a smell that made Ha-neul's mouth water and her stomach clench with hunger.
Now the vegetables.
A handful of radish, sliced thin. Half an onion, cut into rough chunks. A spring onion, chopped into long pieces. All of it went into the pot, sinking into the red broth, releasing their own flavors into the chaos.
And then, the fish.
Ji-won lifted one of the yellow corvina from a tray behind the counter. It was whole, scaled and gutted, its golden scales still gleaming. He laid it in the pot gently, almost reverently, as if he were putting a child to bed rather than cooking dinner. The broth covered it halfway. He added another piece. Then another. Three fish in total, arranged so they all had room to cook.
"Now we wait," he said quietly.
Ha-neul realized she had been leaning forward, elbows on the counter, completely absorbed. She sat back, embarrassed, but Ji-won didn't seem to notice. He was watching the pot with the same focused attention he brought to everything, his face lit by the steam.
Seven minutes passed. Mr. Ahn finished his soup, left money on the counter, and shuffled out with a quiet farewell. The restaurant felt smaller now, more intimate, just the two of them and the bubbling pot and the sound of the sea through the open window.
Ji-won moved again.
He added a handful of minced garlic—more garlic, as if there hadn't been enough already. A spoonful of gochujang, the red pepper paste, for depth. A sprinkle of ground pepper. Then he reached for a small bowl of something green—chives, chopped fine—and scattered them over the top.
The stew was done.
He ladled it into a large earthenware bowl, making sure each piece of fish was represented, that the broth filled the spaces, that the vegetables weren't forgotten. Then he placed it in front of her, along with a small bowl of multigrain rice and an array of side dishes she hadn't even noticed him preparing.
"The banchan changes daily," he said. "Today's are spinach, pickled radish, and seasoned bellflower root. The stew is spicy. Go slowly."
Ha-neul looked at the food in front of her. Then at him. Then at the food again.
"This is..." She trailed off, unable to find words big enough.
"Just lunch." But his eyes were warm, and she could tell he understood.
She picked up her spoon.
The first thing she noticed was the broth. It was intense—spicy, yes, but also deep, complex, full of flavors she couldn't separate. The sea was in it, obviously, but so was the earth, and something else, something almost sweet that she finally identified as the radish, which had softened and released its essence into the liquid.
She dipped her spoon again, this time catching a piece of fish.
The flesh was perfect. Firm enough to hold its shape, tender enough to flake at the slightest pressure. It had absorbed the broth without losing its own identity, each bite tasting simultaneously of the sea and the spicy red liquid it had cooked in. She closed her eyes without meaning to, letting the flavors fill her mouth, her throat, her chest.
"Good?" His voice was quiet.
She opened her eyes. He was watching her with an expression she couldn't read—careful, guarded, but underneath that, something that looked almost like hope.
"Good," she managed. "Really, really good."
He nodded once and turned away, giving her privacy to eat. But she could feel his presence anyway, filling the small space, making the food taste even better than it already did.
She ate slowly, making it last. The side dishes were perfect—the spinach bright with sesame oil, the radish pickle cutting through the stew's richness, the bellflower root nutty and slightly bitter in a way that grounded everything. The rice was fluffy, nutty, the perfect vehicle for sopping up the last of the broth.
By the time she finished, she was full in a way she hadn't been in years. Not just physically full, but satisfied, content, the kind of full that came from food made with attention and care.
Ji-won appeared at her elbow with a small cup of tea. "Barley. It helps with the spice."
She accepted it gratefully, wrapping her hands around the warm ceramic. He didn't move away immediately, standing on the other side of the counter, close enough that she could see the fine lines around his eyes, the calluses on his hands, the way his hair was slightly damp from the steam of the stove.
"Ji-won-ssi," she said.
He waited.
"Can I ask you something?"
Something shifted in his posture. A slight tightening, almost imperceptible. But he nodded.
"Where did you learn to cook like this?"
The question hung between them. Simple. Innocent. And yet she knew, somehow, that it wasn't simple at all.
For a long moment, he was silent. The sea filled the space, waves against the pier, distant and constant.
"Many places," he said finally. "Many years."
It was an answer. It was also not an answer at all.
Ha-neul pressed gently. "Like where? Did you work in restaurants? Train with someone?"
His eyes met hers, and she saw something there—a warning, maybe, or a plea. Don't. Not yet. Not here.
"A long time ago," he said. "In another life."
The words were soft, final. They closed the door without slamming it, leaving her standing on the outside, peering in.
She should have stopped. She knew she should have stopped. But something in her wouldn't let go.
"And that life?" she asked. "What was it?"
Ji-won looked at her for a long moment. The kitchen was silent except for the faint bubbling of something on the stove. Through the window, a gull cried, sharp and lonely.
"Quiet," he said. "It was very quiet."
It was the most revealing thing he had said, and it revealed nothing at all.
Ha-neul wanted to push further. Wanted to ask about the scars on his hands, the way he sometimes stared at the sea like he was waiting for something, the sadness that flickered behind his eyes when he thought no one was watching. But the door was closed. She could feel it, solid and unmovable.
"Thank you for lunch," she said instead. "It was the best thing I've eaten in years."
Something softened in his face. "You're welcome here anytime. You know that."
She left money on the counter—more than the menu price, because the meal had been worth more—and walked to the door. Her hand was on the handle when his voice stopped her.
"Ha-neul-ssi."
She turned.
He was standing behind the counter, hands at his sides, looking almost unsure. It was the first time she had seen anything like uncertainty on his face.
"The store," he said. "You opened it today?"
"Almost. Today was the final push. Tomorrow I'll actually open for business."
He nodded slowly. "That's good. The village needs it." A pause. "If you need anything... help with heavy things, or someone to watch the store while you eat... I'm next door."
It was such a simple offer. Such a small kindness.
And yet, coming from him, it felt like something more.
"Thank you," she said. "I might take you up on that."
She walked out into the afternoon sun, the bell chiming behind her, and stood for a moment in the square. Through the restaurant window, she could see him moving behind the counter, already cleaning, already preparing for the next customer.
Many places. Many years. Another life. Quiet.
None of it was an answer. All of it was a mystery.
And the worst part—the best part—was that she couldn't stop wanting to solve it.
---
Back in the restaurant, Ji-won stood at the sink, washing dishes.
His hands moved automatically, scrubbing, rinsing, stacking. But his mind was elsewhere. It was in the stool by the window, the one she had just vacated. It was in the questions she had asked, the ones he couldn't answer, the ones he had spent three years learning to deflect.
Where did you learn to cook like that?
He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he was somewhere else. Not Hado-gae. Not this kitchen. Somewhere dark and loud and full of people who needed things from him, needed him to be someone he wasn't sure he could be.
He opened his eyes. The dishes were clean. The sun was still shining. The sea was still there, constant and patient, waiting for nothing.
He dried his hands and went back to work.
Some questions didn't have answers. Some answers weren't meant to be spoken.
But as the afternoon passed and the shadows lengthened, he found himself glancing toward the window more often than usual. Toward the store next door. Toward the woman inside, arranging shelves and dreaming small dreams and asking questions he couldn't answer.
He didn't know why.
Or maybe he did, and that was the scariest part of all.