Chapter 14 – Not Uncle, But Hyung
Gu Baekmo was lying on the bench in front of the convenience store, gazing up at the dimming evening sun. A second grader, Sana, was lying beside him doing her homework on her stomach. She passed by the store every day after school on her way home.
“Sana.”
“Yes.”
Still in second grade, Sana sounded a bit congested. She must have caught a cold.
“Why aren’t you going to cram school?”
“Because I’m bad at studying.”
“Then you should go even more.”
“Cram school is for kids who are already kind of good.”
Sana, whose mother was from Cambodia, didn’t lift her head from her homework, but her big eyes looked visibly dejected. Her parents worked from morning to night and had no time to take care of her.
Although Jun-san had quite a few multicultural families, so Sana’s appearance didn’t stand out much, her quiet and shy nature often left her feeling isolated.
“How do you even know how to say something like that?”
“My aunt said so.”
“I don’t think you’re dumb.”
“I know that too.”
“Sana.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you want some ice cream?”
“Uncle, do you want ice cream?”
“I told you, I’m not uncle. Call me hyung.”
“Hyung, do you want ice cream?”
“Go to the freezer and pick two of whatever you want.”
Sana jumped up and ran into the store. Gu Baekmo, who shamelessly insisted a child twenty years younger call him hyung (older brother), peeked over at the homework Sana had been struggling with. The crooked handwriting in the lined notebook was nearly indecipherable—it must’ve been a writing assignment.
Sana came back with two orange-flavored ice pops, unwrapped one, and handed it to Baekmo, who was still fused to the bench. This kind of thing happened a lot—he’d tell the kids to bring snacks or ice cream, and they knew to unwrap it for him too.
“Sana.”
“Yes.”
“Your full name is Lee Sana, right?”
“Yes.”
“Who named you?”
“Grandpa.”
“Did you know your name is the same as a king from Joseon?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know which one?”
“King Jeongjo.”
“So you know. But then why is it…”
Baekmo rolled over to face Sana’s homework.
“…that you don’t know how to speak Korean properly?”
Sana pouted, her lips sticking out.
“I hate you, hyung.”
“‘Hate you’ is casual speech.”
“I hate you, sir.”
“When you don’t know something, ask hyung, okay? Look here. This part isn’t ‘seumnida’—it’s ‘seumnida’ with a clear ‘s’ sound.”
Baekmo corrected every spelling mistake in Sana’s homework. Without cram school and not getting along well with friends, Sana often came to the Viva-ri Supermarket after school.
And she wasn’t the only one. Kids who didn’t fit in or whose guardians were away for long hours would all toss their backpacks onto the store bench like it was planned and hang out there until it was time to go home.
Baekmo often gave them snacks or ice cream in exchange for running errands—usually the kind of chores he didn’t want to do himself.
“Here. This is the utility bill and some cash. Go to the bank and pay the electric bill.”
“Here. This is hyung’s phone. Go to the store over there and ask them to replace the screen protector.”
“Here. Today hyung wants shabu-shabu. Take this money to the butcher across the street and ask for 10,000 won worth of shabu-shabu meat.”
And every errand came with a mission briefing:
“If someone calls you on the way, don’t go. Got it? Especially if it’s an adult. And especially if they say a puppy is hurt and needs help—don’t go no matter what. Just go directly to the place I sent you, then come straight back. Understand?”
Silly and spacey like an alien, Baekmo was, in his own way, good at looking after kids. Having grown up deaf and raised by his grandmother, he’d spent his own childhood feeling isolated.
Sana was now thrilled—her writing assignment had zero mistakes. Gu Baekmo waved at a few elementary and middle school kids passing by, then pulled out his smartphone. Messages were piling up in the Bongnim-dong Women’s Club badminton chatroom, <Smash It Hard>.
Kim Hyunji noona:
“Father-in-law says he’s coming home after dinner today.”
Kim Hyunji noona:
“I’m so happy.”
She was the daughter-in-law of an elderly man who ran a real estate office nearby. She had just been complaining about how he even came home for lunch.
Me:
“Guess he’s going out for something delicious?”
Lee Boknyeo noona:
“I saw him. In a Benz.”
Lee Boknyeo noona:
“Client from the real estate?”
Kim Hyunji noona:
“He said he’s eating with a client. In a Benz, huh?”
Lee Boknyeo noona:
“‘In a Benz, huh?’ is casual speech.”
Kim Hyunji noona:
“Was he perhaps riding in a Benz?”
Lee Boknyeo was the wife of Viva-ri’s owner. Then came a report from Park Ji-young noona, who worked at the duck meat restaurant “Flower Bud.”
Park Ji-young noona:
“Found the Benz.”
Park Ji-young noona:
“He’s here with a guest from Seoul.”
Baekmo typed back:
Me:
“A guest from Seoul looking at land in Bongnim-dong?”
Park Ji-young noona:
“Said he’s a doctor.”
Baekmo stretched as he got up from the bench, then unlocked his bicycle.
“Sana, it’s getting late. Head home now.”
With a slightly disappointed face, Sana packed her bag. Baekmo unlocked the bike leaning against the bench.
Pedaling slowly for about 20 minutes, he arrived at the “Flower Bud” duck restaurant. The rumored Benz E300 was parked in front. He took a photo of the license plate with his phone. The doctor from Seoul had visited Grandpa Sangchun’s real estate office.
Just one neighborhood over, there were tons of legit realtors. There was no redevelopment plan here, and every hill was marked as a green belt.
“As soon as Jumuru shows up, guests from Seoul start arriving, huh?”
Baekmo hummed a little tune as he pedaled off again.
The reason Muru came to Junsan was threefold:
To overcome the slump from writing her second novel.
A vague suspicion that her amnesia and hallucinations might be linked to her hometown, Junsan.
To escape and heal from heartbreak.
Now ten days had passed since she arrived in Junsan.
Had she resolved any of the three?
At the small reading room in the Bongnim-dong library, Muru had her forehead pressed against her laptop keyboard.
She hadn’t recovered any memories from before age eleven, her ex-boyfriend’s secret wedding still haunted her, and worst of all—her writing. The long-form web novel she was supposed to be working on.
It had been three years of floundering. Other authors wrote two or three full-length novels a year, but she had abandoned four stories at 14 chapters, realizing they were doomed. She gave up on three more at 30 chapters after belatedly realizing they were trash. One story she’d written while feeling euphoric—almost manic—turned out to be fun only for the writer, in a niche genre, so it was buried in her “Graveyard” folder.
Her current plot went like this:
Çankırı Province, Turkey. The village of Balibag. Tuz Salt Mine.
Eunjo and Liam bought tickets at the entrance and walked into the dark tunnel.
Though it was July, peak vacation season, it was oddly quiet. The heat outside was stifling, but the moment they stepped inside, cold, damp air clung to them. Goosebumps rose on Eunjo’s bare arms in her short-sleeved shirt. Liam noticed her shiver and took off his white linen shirt, draping it over her shoulders. She blinked in surprise.
“What about you?!”
“I’m fine.”
Wearing just a white sleeveless top, he smiled reassuringly. He adjusted the shirt around her shoulders and added:
“Liam.”
“…?”
“My name is Liam. Not ‘you.’”
She nodded dazedly. The chilling air in the cave and his firm arms gave the moment a surreal feeling. The two walked slowly into the cave lit by orange lights.
“Earlier, you were about to ask something?”
“Huh?”
“Right before we arrived.”
“Oh, it… wasn’t important.”
She wanted to ask why, out of all places, he’d come straight here upon arriving in Turkey. It wasn’t even a famous tourist spot.
“Why… did you come to the Tuz Cave?”
And that’s where she stopped writing, turning instead to Turkey travel blogs and Google Maps of the Tuz Cave area. As always, this was her pattern. She’d never been abroad, but any mention of a country immediately sent her to Google Maps.
So if it didn’t work in Seoul, why would it work in Junsan?
Ugh. I’m so sick of this.
Grinding her teeth, Muru lifted her head—her keyboard was filled with lines of 66666666666666 from her forehead. Even the number felt ominous.
She hurriedly packed her things and left the library. Though she came to write, she also borrowed two books that didn’t fit in her laptop bag, so she carried them in her arms. Her plan was to nap for a bit after getting back to the Hwaran boarding house.
…but why the hell am I at the Bongnim Police Substation?
“Oh?! Muru!”
Kwon Hosik perked up behind the complaints desk. Just three hours ago, they had eaten breakfast together. Now, in his police uniform, he looked unfamiliar. Three hibiscus buds decorated the epaulets on his teal shirt.
Ah, right. Hosik’s a cop.
Having left her laptop bag on the village bus and spiraling into a panic, Muru now breathed a huge sigh of relief upon seeing a friend wielding state power.
