This Burns My Heart Page 0,57

but to say he wasn’t her husband also felt wrong. Yul might take her correction—if offered too quickly, in protest—as a slight.

“We’re not husband and wife. We’re not married,” said Yul, before Soo-Ja could speak.

The waitress looked confused. “Ay, you sure do look like husband and wife,” she said, her smile now gone. She returned to her father’s side, occasionally stealing glances at the two of them. Her words hung heavy in the air.

“I want to go back to looking,” Soo-Ja said, rising from her seat. “You can stay here and eat your soup.”

Yul reached for her, as if to pull her down. But once his hand felt her arm—real, made of flesh and bone, not just an image across from him—he seemed to lose courage and did not protest. “I’ll come with you,” he said, also rising.

Back in the market square, Soo-Ja felt as if she’d lived there forever, recognizing the fruit peddlers camping out on the ground, and the old men sitting on boxes turned upside down, playing janggi. At the stalls, women wearing head scarves wielded knives with acrobatic precision, cleaning fish on top of wooden crates, while men with bloody aprons around their waists yelled out prices. On the counters, piles of catch—kandari, saury pike, whip ray, and sea bream—glowed in the afternoon sun.

Weary-looking customers carrying straw baskets ignored Soo-Ja, walking briskly past her in the overcrowded plaza. Yul alone stayed with her, looking solemn as she asked strangers about her daughter. With him there, the locals appeared more responsive. They actually seemed to think before finally delivering a no, now offered with regret rather than as a dismissal. With each no, Yul seemed as disappointed as Soo-Ja, and for that, she loved him—that he could feel what she felt; as if by doing so, he could lessen her load.

The sun began to set, and Soo-Ja prepared to make her way back to the other side of the marketplace. While taking a minute to catch her breath, she noticed an old woman standing in front of a tobacco shop, blowing smoke in the air exuberantly. She wore her gray hair tightly held back, exposing her deeply tanned face, which appeared to have as many lines as the surface of a leaf. Soo-Ja tried not to stare, but the old woman kept looking over at her.

“Who is she?” Soo-Ja overheard the old woman ask her friend. “Why is she walking around like that?”

“She lost her daughter,” her friend replied.

“When did this happen?”

“I saw her first last night.”

“What does her daughter look like?”

The tobacconist had heard Soo-Ja describe Hana so many times, she had memorized her words. “She sounds like a rich man’s kid. Nice red jacket with a hood; pretty, embroidered gloves; heavy, sturdy leather shoes; a gold-colored ribbon on her head. Three years old.”

“Three years old,” the old woman echoed thoughtfully.

So this is what I’ve become, a story. She’d have to spend the rest of her life wandering those streets, while strangers newly arrived in town would point, curious. They’d be filled in and look at her with pity, secretly glad that her fate wasn’t their own. She had become a part of this plaza, like the nicks on the wooden benches, or the rusty stains on the lampposts.

Soo-Ja looked at the old woman one last time before she started walking again, and this time their eyes met. She gave her that faint flicker of recognition you give when you know a face but can’t place it. Soo-Ja didn’t know why, but she began moving toward the old woman, as if obeying an order, and the old woman walked toward her, too. As they drew near each other, Soo-Ja felt a light frisson of anticipation, knowing she was about to meet someone who would be important to her.

“You’re a very lucky woman,” the old woman said, when they got close enough to talk. She did not offer her name, nor did she ask for Soo-Ja’s.

“Why do you say that?” Soo-Ja asked.

Left behind, Yul watched them from a distance, without joining them.

“You’re lucky… that I smoke,” the old woman said, scattering some ash onto the floor.

“Please explain, halmeoni,” said Soo-Ja, calling her “grandmother.” Her voice quivered a little. “I’m a very distraught woman. And I know that you know because I heard you talk to the shopkeeper. So if you have something to tell me, do so. But don’t waste my time. Please.” Soo-Ja made as if to move away, but she knew the old woman could