Chapter 1: Steam & Sunrise
The alarm chirps at 04 : 20, a polite bird instead of yesterday's drill sergeant ringtone. I roll from the quilt mound, toes brushing floorboards still warm from the night-long hum of the paraffin heater. Cedar-oil and faint metal ping greet me—comfort notes I never knew a winter attic could hold. I flex my healed ankle in slow half-circles, counting silent clicks while the heater's bass thrums beneath.
Breathe in four, Ha-eun reminds, voice low as the stove. Hold two, release four.
I obey, the air tasting of wool, coffee oils, and the cold that lingers near the window.
On the sill, Joon-woo's steel tamper waits—rings catching starlight like the promise of another orbit. Ten days until the SCA practical. Ten dawn rehearsals left.
At the workbench I tip fresh beans into the hand-grinder's hopper. Twenty-three rotations, I whisper.
Breathe-grind-bloom, Ha-eun intones, and we turn the crank together. The burrs rasp a rhythm: one, two, three… coffee perfume unfurls—dark chocolate, moss after rain.
Portafilter locked, I thumb the stopwatch. Hot water meets grounds with a soft sigh. Pre-infuse four—
"Bloom," I finish aloud, watching crema rise, tiger-striped. The shot should run twenty-seven seconds. At twenty-five the stream pales too soon, blonds like diluted honey.
My chest tightens. Failure shrieks in memory: ledgers red-lined, followers counting backwards, river breath freezing.
Two fingertips tap twice over my sternum. I feel Ha-eun's steadiness sliding into pulse, not seizing control, just aligning.
Let the breath go, she whispers. Steam fills the silence where panic lived. Twenty-seven ticks pass; the shot lands shy of perfect but drinkable, still swirling with marbled oil.
04 : 35. Milk time.
I purge the wand, sink it just below the surface of chilled whole milk. Thermometer clipped, I listen for the paper-tearing hiss.
"Fifty-five," I murmur.
Sixty, Ha-eun echoes.
"Sixty-five." We stop the count together; I shut the valve, letting the whirlpool settle into glossy paint. No visible bubbles. Micro-foam: conquered, at least this round.
Outside the dormer glass, night unbuttons at its seam. A faint peach ribbon slides along the eastern ridge, slipping between smokestacks and cranes. Sunlight kisses the tamper's engravings, igniting concentric rings that chase one another across the sill.
I slide the pitcher, tilt, guide the pour. White trails fold into brown, a hesitant leaf veining outward. The rosetta is lopsided, but it floats. A small victory leaf on a river of crema.
04 : 40. I carry the cup to the heater and perch on a crate. Upstairs silence deep enough to hear paraffin ticking through a pipe. Downstairs, the faintest thump—Min-ji's dawn trot playlist powering up.
I open the Wheel Journal. Instead of columns I draw a circle, divide it into four scented quadrants: Aroma—today "baker's cocoa." Extraction—"27 s, early blond." Milk—"59 °C, silky." Service—a tiny sketch of my crooked leaf. Numbers radiate outward like seedlings rather than fence posts.
A red badge flashes on the phone beside the journal. HanRiver Mutual: 1 new message. My thumb hovers. Chill that has nothing to do with spring air prickles my arms. I close the notification shade, let it fade.
Not yet, Ha-eun agrees, a quiet leaf over water.
04 : 50. I shrug into a café hoodie and descend the steep staircase. Heater warmth trails me like a portable sun; the latte's aroma paints each step. Below, Min-ji belts the chorus to some decades-old trot remix while juggling muffin trays.
"Morning, team!" I call, voice buoyant enough to surf the music. She glances up, eyes catching the leaf on my foam and widening with mock awe.
"Look at our certified-in-ten-days queen!" she hollers, raising a flour-dust fist.
I grin, pulse steady. Above, the first full beam of sunrise slips through the skylight and lays a golden ring on the stair landing—as if the day itself stamps its approval.
We are rolling now: heater humming, milk swirling, heartbeats neatly nested inside circles that keep widening. Somewhere in my pocket an email waits—ice chunk in a thawing river—but for this breath, steam eclipses shadow.
Tomorrow will bring another grind, another bloom. And when the sun climbs, I will be here, counting rotations beneath its widening light.
Chapter 2: 55-to-65 °C
Morning rush leaves the café bar slick with condensation and stray oat-milk dribbles. It is 09 : 15, the hour when adrenaline drains from the tiles like melt-water and pitchers clatter through the rinse sink in a tinny symphony. I rotate my wrist, feeling the pleasant burn of repetition, then squint at the slim digital thermometer. Calibration dot blinks steady; no excuses.
Five meters away, Min-ji erupts from the dry-storage door waving a fistful of neon sticky notes. She slaps them onto the stainless counter in a tidy row—55 °C, 60 °C, 65 °C—each digit drawn with a bubble-letter heart.
"Foam-Art Face-Off," she declares. "Winner gets Madam's bibimbap coupon. Loser cleans the grease trap."
I laugh, but perfectionism stiffens my shoulders. Coupons are currency, and the grease trap is a circle of industrial-grade purgatory.
Play, not ledger, Ha-eun hums behind my ribs. A lavender breeze inside the skull.
"Three rounds," Min-ji says, already steaming practice milk. "Cappuccino, flat white, latte. Hit the target temp or forfeit art points."
Madam Kang leans through the kitchen pass-through, flour on her cheek like war paint. "Not a second past eleven, you two," she warns, but her eyes glint. Stakes approved.
I purge the wand, exhale, and whisper the mantra.
"Breathe—grind—bloom."
Fifty-five… fifty-five…
The pitcher screams, micro-bubbles fizzing too loud. My thumb hesitates a heartbeat—two degrees late. Thermometer flashes 67 °C. Foam stiff as Styrofoam.
Self-critique lunges: Fail.
Two quick taps over my sternum; Ha-eun slips into the space between beats. Lower hiss, softer breath, she whispers. The reprimand dissolves like sugar.
Min-ji clocks a silky 56 °C and pours a cartoon cat with frothy whiskers. "Your turn, professor," she grins, sliding the sticky note aside like a trophy.
New milk, clean pitcher. I angle the wand shallower; the hiss sounds like gentle rain on a bus roof.
Fifty-eight… fifty-nine… sixty… We cut the steam together at 60 °C on the dot. Relief surges; but I rush the roll, swirl unevenly. The leaf fractures midway, veins crooked.
"Branching root," Ha-eun reframes, amused.
Min-ji snorts. "Abstract art scores half-credit!"
My grin wobbles, but the numbers feel kinder—guidelines, not guillotine.
Interruption
Buzz-buzz. My phone shivers on the condiment shelf. Subject line bright as frostbite: HanRiver Mutual—Policy Review Required.
Cold spikes through the newfound foam. I flip the device facedown, inhale the chant with Ha-eun.
Fifty-five, sixty, sixty-five.
Anxiety ebbs but does not vanish; it settles into vigilance, like a watchdog that knows its shift will come later.
Both pitchers charge at once; steam wands hiss in harmony. Min-ji tongue-drums a countdown.
"Sixty-two…" Sixty-three… "…Sixty-four," we breathe in chorus. I kill the valve; thermometer rests at 64 °C, a hair shy of the sticky note. The milk glows—liquid satin.
Pouring, I tilt cup and pitcher until whirlpool forms a perfect eye. The micro-foam ribbon settles, leaf blades feathering outward—one, two, three—the spine curls back, closing on itself. A full rosetta circle gleams on the crema, no breaks, no stray bubbles.
Min-ji lands at 66 °C, finishes with a flourish swirl that slouches on one side. She lifts her cup, sniffs, and sighs theatrically. "Too hot—bubble graveyard. Victory to you, maestro."
Madam Kang arrives as referee, sipping first mine, then hers. "Good texture," she tells me, then waves the sacred coupon like a priest with incense. "Spend it wisely. But I want ten more leaves like that before exam day." A wink, a challenge, a benediction.
We laugh, knock elbows, and drain the practice lattes. The cartoon cat melts into brown foam, whiskers curling like commas. I open the Wheel Journal at the service bar and draw another ring around today's circle chart: 55 °C—too dry; 60 °C—branch root; 64 °C—closed rosetta.
The phone buzzes once more. I ignore it, write a note in the margin instead:
Email after Drill #5—no sooner.
Ha-eun hums approval. Numbers on the sticky notes flutter in the vent breeze, sounding almost like a chant of their own.
As Min-ji tackles the milk pitchers with a grin and Kang yells for someone to restock matcha, I pocket the coupon and feel the circle of the rosetta glowing in my chest—warm, unbroken, expanding.
Tomorrow, the digits will wait for me again—fifty-five, sixty, sixty-five—and I will meet them with a steadier hand. For now the café hums, and I match its pitch.
Chapter 3: Hoist the Shutters
The courtyard smells of thaw and iron when Madam Kang kicks the rolling ladder into place and jabs upward with her broom handle. "Up, up—winter's paid enough rent," she declares. A rind of dust flakes from the corrugated shutters, drifting like gray confetti onto our shoes. It is 07 : 30, nine days before the exam, and the café is about to breathe sunlight for the first time since November.
Min-ji angles her phone for a live-stream, framing Kang's impatient scowl. "Operation Spring Bloom, take one!" She adds a sparkle filter; Kang's broom sprouts neon petals on-screen. Laughter echoes off brick.
I grab the crank wheel, palms sliding over cold steel. Circle turns, season shifts, Ha-eun murmurs, her voice a warm hand at the base of my spine. I tighten my grip. Muscles remember ledger nights of clenched fists, but today they meet a different rhythm: one smooth rotation, then another. The shutter shudders, groans, then rolls up with surprising grace. A bar of gold light slashes across the worn cedar deck.
Behind me, the paraffin heater hums its low contented chord—door propped open so warmth can drift outside like invisible incense. Sun meets heat; the air swirls with promise.
A squeak of cart wheels announces Joon-woo. He pushes a flatbed stacked with freshly sanded planks, sawdust still perfuming the grain. He offers no words, only a brief squeeze to my gloved hand before unloading. Wood smells like lifted winter, Ha-eun notes, and I nod, inhaling resin that reminds me of campfire nights never yet lived.
We fall into simple tasks—driver bits whirr, screws bite cedar, lantern cords loop around railing posts. Min-ji perches on a step-stool, hanging rice-paper globes in concentric rings. Each time one sways, it casts a pale circle over the deck boards, a constellation slowly assembling.
"Stream numbers are climbing," she crows. "Townies love a makeover montage."
Kang pokes her head out with a tray of ginger tea. "Montage faster. Spring menu debuts in ninety minutes."
09 : 15. In the kitchen's steam-fogged heat, Kang presents her spring prototypes like battlefield trophies: a mugwort latte tinted forest green; a honey-yuzu tonic that glints like bottled dawn; and a rice-milk affogato whose soy-paper label reads 새싹—Green Shoot.
"Cost each in grams and won by tomorrow, clear?" she says, sliding the tray toward me. "Price too high and locals complain. Price too low and we can't afford the basil."
I nearly reach for my old spreadsheet app, heartbeat skipping to ledger tempo. Instead I flip open the Wheel Journal on a flour-spattered prep table. Colored pencils bloom in my fist. A circle forms, partitioned into wedges: Beans, Milk, Syrup, Labor. Numbers curl along arcs, not columns. Round edges soften math, Ha-eun murmurs. Anxiety loosens its grip.
10 : 30. Foam pitcher in hand, I'm practicing hearts when the phone rattles across stainless steel. HanRiver Mutual: URGENT FOLLOW-UP pulses beneath the cracked glass.
A nail of ice slides between ribs.
Two taps. Breath steadies. Not column time, Ha-eun reminds. I flag the email for 21 : 00, thumb shaking only once.
By 11 : 00 the deck is dressed: cedar planks glowing, lantern rings bobbing, chalkboard sign broadcasting TRY OUR GREEN SHOOT TONIC! with Min-ji's doodle of a sprouting bean that oddly resembles me.
The first couple steps into the courtyard, cheeks pink from the lingering chill. Sun pools around their boots; it feels like an omen. I pull a mugwort shot, steam milk to a velvety 60 °C, and free-pour a leaf that curls into a near-perfect spiral. They sip, then grin so wide I feel the curvature in my own bones.
Min-ji captures it all, captioning: Sun + foam = healing.
Kang pretends indifference, but the corner of her mouth lifts as the till bell dings.
Lunch rush subsides at 13 : 00. We tally earnings—modest, encouraging. Kang slaps a bibimbap coupon into my palm, honoring yesterday's wager. "Spend it before the ink dries," she warns. "And draft those costs."
I promise, heart light. No dread digits throb behind my eyes; just colored arcs waiting for detail.
Night settles quick in the mountains. At 21 : 00 I sit cross-legged beside the heater, coupon bowl fragrant with sesame oil in my lap. Lantern-light from the deck flickers through the dormer, painting moving rings on the attic floor. The phone lies in front of me, red email badge bright as an arterial drop.
Open it, or sleep?
Circle, not cliff, Ha-eun offers—but leaves the choice mine.
I hover a fingertip over the screen. Metal tamper on the sill catches stove-light, its concentric engravings pulsing like a gentle heartbeat. Outside, a wind chime shivers—soft, expectant.
Chapter fades on that suspended breath, email still unopened, heater ticking steady as the courage gathering in my chest.
Chapter 4: Pink Dust
Cherry-blossom season lasts only nine days, Min-ji claims, which is exactly as many days as I have left before the practical. When the clock on the La Marzocco blinks 14 : 00, she hips me away from the grinder, earbuds bobbing to some hyperpop remix.
"Break time, Professor Latte. Go collect pink dust before the wind does." She twirls her phone, already editing this morning's shutter montage. "I've got the bar—promise not to burn anything except my playlist."
Kang is inspecting yuzu deliveries in the back, so I peel off my apron. The cost sheet still waits, half-colored wedges in the Wheel Journal, but Ha-eun murmurs, Rest is an investment, not leakage. I let the words settle and step into the alley's thin sunlight.
Joon-woo stands beside his motorbike, two takeaway cups venting curls of steam. He doesn't wave—just tilts his head toward the street that tumbles downhill to the river. Invitation accepted.
We walk. Engines cough in the distance, but here the air smells of river stone warming and the faint almond of blossoming sakura. Each gust shakes loose a hush of petals that swirl across pavement like slow pink snow.
Circles of paused sunrise, Ha-eun whispers. I breathe in their quiet sugar.
The embankment path is lined with old plum benches and brand-new caution tape someone already ignored. Petals collect in the cups of our shoes. We sip silent mint-yuzu tea; the citrus lifts the afternoon lull like a drawn curtain.
I catch Joon-woo watching a drift of blossoms spin above the water. Light freckles his cheekbones; beneath the stoic line of his mouth hides a question.
Halfway down the path he stops at a bench etched with graffiti hearts. From his satchel he pulls a matte-steel travel mug, its surface brushed to soft graphite. Etched on the side is a crane in flight—wings made of concentric rings like ripples frozen mid-burst.
"Milled it from heater scrap," he says, thumb tracing the rings. Three words, heavy with hours of work.
Heat radiates through gloves when he places it in my palm. The rings catch afternoon sun and throw tiny halos onto the blossom-stained bench.
"It's beautiful," I manage.
He shrugs, then adds, "Cranes remember the way home." The longest sentence I've heard from him.
I tell him about the single crane I watched over the Han at dawn after burning my ledger, how its wings seemed to stitch the river back together. He answers with a story of his father walking miles after losing a factory job, pointing at cranes that nested near the scrapyard as proof that flight could grow out of wreckage. The words are sparse, but the silence between them feels stitched tight, strong.
A playful gust flings petals into the air, neon bright where sun hits. For a split second, the color mirrors the pink LEDs that once rimmed the bridge at 04 : 20. Vertigo tugs. I tap twice over my coat.
Different bridge, new breath, Ha-eun soothes. The panic skid stops; petals drift down, harmless confetti.
Joon-woo's brows pull together—concern, but no questions. I take another breath, steady, and twist the mug lid. Steam curls out, scented with mint and the citrus he packed. We sip from the same cup. Spring tastes of metal and honeyed herb.
We loop back through streets where petals lodge in bicycle spokes and convenience-store signs. Min-ji's notifications ping every few steps—likes flooding her "sakura snow" stream. I laugh; Joon-woo's mouth twitches like a shy lantern.
At the café doorway he brushes a stray petal from my collar. His fingers linger half a heartbeat—warm calluses against cotton. Promise hovers there, gentle as the drifting bloom.
"Deck cleanup at six," he reminds. I nod, clutching the mug to my chest like a compass.
As I pocket my phone, it vibrates: HanRiver Mutual—Third Notice. The crimson badge throbs against the crane engraving. The contrast is jarring—flight beside ledger.
Tonight, I promise myself. Cost sheet, then email. One thing at a time.
Inside, espresso and laughter spill across cedar planks; lantern rings glow faintly in afternoon light. I step back behind the bar lighter than I left, pink dust still clinging to my cuffs, and the gentle weight of a crane cupped in steel warming my pulse.
Nine days to the exam. One evening to face whatever waits in that inbox. For now, I wipe petals from the counter and let the scent of blossom and mint swirl into the hiss of milk—a reminder that circles keep widening as long as I stay open to them.
Chapter 5: The Study Wheel Spins
Heater metal pings as it expands, a tiny metronome beneath the steady thump of Joon-woo's hammer in the workshop downstairs. I sit cross-legged on the attic floor, invoices splayed like playing cards around the Wheel Journal. Oolong steams inside the crane mug, its etched rings catching lamplight—concentric ripples urging me to begin.
The colored-pencil tin opens with a friendly rattle.
Beans, terra-cotta, Ha-eun murmurs, a velvet alto inside my ribs.
I draw the first wedge, warm clay red.
Milk, sage.
A cool green slice completes its arc.
Syrup, amber.
Honey gold glides over the paper grain.
Labor, indigo—deep as predawn.
I shade the final segment, the circle now pulsing like a stained-glass compass. Distant hammerbeats line up with my strokes—thunk, scritch, thunk, scritch—turning numbers into rhythm instead of verdict.
Invoices slide beneath each colored wedge. I copy figures in neat loops, resisting the itch to open a spreadsheet. Columns feel like prison bars tonight; the wheel is a ferris ride. When the total lands, I exhale without flinching. Prices settle beside icons—a mugwort leaf, a droplet of yuzu sun, a rice-milk comet—ready for Kang's menu.
22 : 00. Cost sheet: done.
Temptation prickles: duplicate data into cells, align decimals, feel the old safety of grids. My fingers hover over the laptop trackpad.
Two taps over my sternum. Breath resets—four in, hold two, four out. The screen stays dark.
I flip to a blank spread and draw a larger circle, then another nested inside, and six more until the page blooms like a cross-section of some cosmic onion. The outermost ring I label Theory; the next Palate Drills; then Milk, Latte-Art, Rest, Reflection. Eight rings for eight days. I assign shades—dawn peach for rest, violet for reflection—and start penciling blocks of time.
FF-BB-77, inhale, Ha-eun chants, translating peach to hex code. 66-99-CC, exhale. Color becomes music; the wheel spins beneath the lamp, steadying my pulse as surely as crema creeping across a demitasse.
When the last segment is filled, I lean back, wrists powdered with pastel dust. Outside, wind rattles a paper lantern; its ring-shadow dances along the ceiling rafters like approval.
The phone buzzes.
Kang's voice crackles through voicemail: "Trust your wheel, kiddo. Need those numbers by six. Sleep—don't spiral." The affection tucked between brusque syllables makes me smile.
23 : 10. One red badge glares on the lock screen: HanRiver Mutual – Third Notification. No more dodging. I open the email.
Dear Policy Holder LEE, S.Y.:
We have been alerted to evidence contradicting the death claim filed 18 months prior.
Please present for in-person verification within FOURTEEN (14) calendar days, or the claim will be referred for fraud adjudication under Article 217.
Fourteen days. My thumb turns cold against the glass: fourteen days to prove a life I nearly forfeited.
Heartbeat spikes—steel railing, river neon, the ledger's liquidation line. Two taps. Ha-eun catches the freefall.
We breathe; we plan, she whispers.
The Study Wheel waits open, violet reflection ring still blank. I pencil a small note on day six: Seoul trip? Beside it, a tiny crane arrowing upward.
23 : 40. I photograph the cost wheel and fire it off to Kang with the subject line "Green Shoot Pricing – circular edition." Another shot to Min-ji garners instant reply—a sticker of a dancing bean shouting YAAS WHEEL! that makes me snort tea.
I prop the new mug on the windowsill; heater glow slips through the etched crane, casting rings onto the wall where I once tacked apology notes like shrapnel. The paraffin hum lowers to a cat's purr. Workshop hammer falls silent.
Eight days till the exam. Fourteen till the inquisition. Two wheels spinning in tandem, but tonight they feel aligned rather than opposed—gear teeth meshing inside a larger, unseen machine.
Lamp off, journal closed, I let dusk settle. Pink petal memories drift behind my eyelids, blending with indigo labor lines and amber syrup costs. In the dark, I sense Ha-eun's satisfied hush, and far below, Joon-woo guiding a final screw into cedar.
Tomorrow's dawn will tick louder, but for now the attic is a circle of soft heat and quiet resolve, and every breath turns the wheel.
Chapter 6: Whispering Beans
The café is still dark at 05 : 45, all the shutters down except the one narrow pane over the sink where dawn has begun to dilute the night. I flick on a single bulb above the bar; its cone of light turns the stainless counter into a stage. Three glass bowls wait in a tidy arc—Ethiopia Yirgacheffe, Guatemala Huehuetenango, Indonesia Sumatra Mandheling—beans roasted just past first crack, their oils barely surfaced. Beside them sits the crane mug, exhaling ribbons of oolong across my notebook.
I breathe in the quiet, let the heater's paraffin hum anchor my pulse, and break the crust of sleep still clinging to my thoughts.
Ready? Ha-eun asks, voice as gentle as steam against porcelain.
"Ready," I whisper back.
I lift the Yirgacheffe sample to my nose. Floral, citrus, something bright.
Bergamot at 15 °, apricot at 30 °, jasmine at 45 °… Her words sketch an invisible color wheel in the air, each degree a hue I can taste. My mind swivels, painting sectors of tangerine, peach-skin pink, paper-white blossom.
Guatemala next—hazelnut 180 °, panela sugar 200 °, orange peel 220 °—then Sumatra, rolling dark tobacco and wet cedar across the final quadrant. The aromas braid together until the wheel spins beneath my ribs.
I set the bowl down carefully. "How do you know that?" The question has lived in my throat for weeks. It steps into the dawn like a shy animal. "What… are you, exactly?"
I am the breath that wasn't spent, she answers, playful as wind chimes in a breeze. Then silence, as though the breeze has moved on.
Curiosity flares, but there's no tug-of-war in my chest, only the invitation to follow the mystery on my own legs.
The front bell jingles. Joon-woo shoulders through, carrying two burlap sacks stenciled ETHIOPIA and BRAZIL in fading blue ink. He sets them near the grinder, nods once, and lingers—hands in pockets, gaze curious.
"Pre-shift cupping," I say.
He tilts his head toward the Yirgacheffe, inhaling. "Flowers," he offers, voice gravel-soft.
"Bergamot and jasmine," I add, cheeks warming when he smiles at the specificity. Ha-eun hums approvingly.
We taste in silence: break crust, spoon, slurp. Ha-eun calls the notes a half-second before they bloom on my tongue, and each time Joon-woo's eyebrows lift in quiet admiration. Confidence clicks into place like a well-seated portafilter.
A crash from the staff door. Min-ji stumbles in, hair pineapple-tied on top of her head, hoodie proclaiming SLEEP IS A CONSPIRACY.
"Which one of you bean nerds scheduled a séance before sunrise?" She yawns cavernously, then sniffs the air. "Mmm. Nutty. Gimme."
She slurps the Guatemala sample, eyes widening. "Tastes like hazelnut spread on a sun-warmed rock. Ten out of ten."
I laugh. "Ha-eun pegged hazelnut too."
"The ghost barista?" Min-ji waggles her spoon. "You should pitch that to the Goblin Lantern podcast. They love folklore weirdness—last episode was about a dokkaebi that haunts rice cookers."
Podcast. Folklore. My curiosity sharpens. "Link me?"
She thumbs her phone, air-drops a neon skull icon into my inbox, then snaps a photo of the cupping setup with the caption #WitchingBeans.
"Inventory numbers, now!" Kang's voice booms from the storeroom. Joon-woo shoulders a sack and heads that way; Min-ji follows, still mumbling about rice-cooker spirits. I jot quick circles in the notebook—how many kilos in, expected drinks out—color-coding quantities instead of tabulating columns. The wheel feels alive under my pen.
When the others disperse, I turn a fresh page and write the header in violet ink:
WHAT IS HA-EUN?
Below, two columns—Observations, Possible Myths—but the lines are curved, meeting at the bottom so the table becomes another wheel. In Observations I list:
Appeared night of bridge.
Knows sensory data beyond experience.
Respects consent cues.
Possible Myths: dokkaebi (playful goblin), gumiho (fox spirit), honswi (spared-breath wanderer). I circle the last, pen tapping. Spared breath. A chill of recognition.
I mark tonight's Study-Wheel slot "Reflection-2: folklore research," underline twice.
Phone vibrates: Palate Drill Block #1 starts in five minutes. The background shows the insurance deadline reminder—thirteen days now. Two clocks ticking, but neither louder than the steady thrum of purpose in my veins.
We spin the wheel, Ha-eun breathes. Not the other way around.
I close the notebook, inhale bergamot ghost, and shout down the hallway, "Grinders on, team!"
Burrs whine to life. Light seeps wider through the windows, illuminating motes of bean chaff dancing in the air—tiny brown comets orbiting a sun just clearing the ridge. The wheel turns, and I turn with it, ready to trace every scent back to its source, even the invisible ones that call themselves breath.
Chapter 7: Ginseng & Gears
The hand-grinder seizes halfway through the Guatemalan roast, the burrs shrieking like metal chalk. Fine grounds clump at the exit chute, and my carefully planned palate-drill derails into a sludge of frustration.
"Not tonight," I hiss, twisting the dial back to coarse. The crank barely budges. Seven and a half days to the exam; a jammed grinder is an omen I refuse to entertain.
Teeth gnashing when they should be greeting, Ha-eun murmurs, amused.
Her metaphor only sharpens my irritation. I slap the portafilter onto the mat and march for the cellar door. A single bulb reveals the stairwell to Joon-woo's workshop, amber light breathing up through sawdust curls. I tap twice at my sternum—steady—and descend.
He is already there, sleeves rolled, wiping cedar shavings from a vise. Lamp-glow bronzes the contour of his jaw; cedar oil mingles with machine grease in the warm, earthy air.
"Grinder?" he asks, reading the tension in my grip on the jammed device.
"It's chewing instead of cutting." I set it on his bench like a surrendered weapon.
He spreads a gray cloth, lays out screwdrivers and bearing grease with the reverence of a surgeon. Then he gestures: Are you ready to help?
I nod, pulse calming to the rhythm of his quiet efficiency.
Gears crave harmony, not war, Ha-eun whispers as Joon-woo unscrews the top cap. I hold the flashlight; the beam glints along scalloped steel teeth flecked with oil-dark fines.
He guides my fingers to the central axle. "Turn," he says.
The shaft slides free, revealing a crooked shim. "Out of alignment," he murmurs, and hands me a thin brass washer. We fit it, burrs clicking back together with a satisfying kiss. Metal scent mingles with cedar, settling into my lungs like calm.
When we finish brushing stray grounds from the carrier, my knuckles feel sand-papered. Joon-woo opens a small tin; the balm inside is pale amber and smells of earth after rain—ginseng with a hint of pine.
"Homemade," he offers, dipping two fingers. He rubs a dab into my reddened skin, slow circles warming the joints. Electricity flickers where his thumb traces bone; breath stalls, then evens under Ha-eun's amused silence.
Ginseng sweetness rises between us, root and resin, ancient and new.
While we realign the grind dial, he talks in hushed fragments: an old bicycle salvaged after his mother left, hours spent sanding rust until the rims gleamed. "Fixing is… breathing," he says, eyes on the burrs. The sentence hangs like sawdust in a shaft of light.
I answer with the brief outline of my own repair—burning a letter on a winter roof, writing circles instead of ledgers. No details, just enough for recognition to pass between us like a steady current.
He nods once, acceptance soldered into the silence.
Beans tumble into the hopper. I crank—smooth revolution, no screech, the resistance buttery. Grounds fall in even curls, the aroma of dark honey and roasted almond flooding the bench.
We share a grin small but seismic.
Phone buzz. Min-ji's voice memo crackles: "Don't break the grinder or each other, lovebirds!" followed by a meme of two cartoon gears kissing.
Heat blooms in my cheeks; Joon-woo's low chuckle vibrates the cedar boards.
Above us, Kang's footsteps cross the café, her humming fading as she locks the front. Joon-woo flips the workshop switch; tools slip into shadow. At the stairwell I linger, the balm tin warm in my pocket.
"Thank you," I say, letting gratitude breathe between words. My fingers brush his, light as a petal but charged as live wire. He squeezes back, a promise forged of steel and quiet patience.
Burrs turning in tandem, Ha-eun sighs, content.
The heater clicks on upstairs, beckoning. I climb with the newly tuned grinder, ginseng perfume braided into my pulse and gears humming smooth inside my chest.
Tomorrow the mock-exam drills begin, and every bean will grind true. But tonight, cedar, grease, and the sweetest root have taught me that not all machinery must bite; some click into place with gentle precision—and sometimes, so do hearts.
Chapter 8: Mask Dance Market
Lanterns shaped like talchum masks sway in the drafty foyer of the Yongcheon Community Hall, their paper jaws flapping like gossiping elders. Red lacquer grins, indigo scowls, moon-white half-smiles—all bobbing above a corridor of folding chairs that smell faintly of mothballs and soy wax. It is 18 : 00 on a Wednesday, seven days before my exam, thirteen before a stranger in an insurance office decides whether I have the right to breathe. No pressure.
"Numbers, here." Madam Kang thrusts a bulging manila folder into my arms as she barrels past, floral scarf fluttering like a victory banner. "You're finance tonight."
I blink after her. "I thought I was just note-taking?"
"Same thing, bigger font," she calls, already mounting the stage.
Min-ji pops up beside me, camera gimbal spinning. "Seo-yeon, tilt the folder this way—perfect! 'Café accountant' aesthetic." A flood of hearts scrolls past her screen. She pans upward; the mask lanterns glimmer in digital bokeh.
Count breaths, not enemies, Ha-eun reminds, warm in my chest. I inhale the foyer's chalky incense—part tradition, part janitor's disinfectant—and step into the hall.
Rows of townsfolk shuffle programs printed in four colors but three different fonts. At center stage, Kang claps once, and the room stills.
"Yongcheon Heritage Market," she announces. "Every Saturday morning, starting next month. Mask-dance stage here, craft booths ringing the square, food demos—" she lifts a clay pot that still steams—"including fermented soybean stew so authentic your ancestors will beg for seconds."
Scattered laughter, genuine applause, then the predictable question from a silver-haired man in the second row: "How much?"
"Finance will answer," Kang replies, swiveling and spotlighting me with her chin. "Please welcome our café's miracle mathematician, Lee Seo-yeon."
Thirty pairs of eyes converge. The folder suddenly weighs as much as the espresso machine upstairs. My pulse skips, but the two-tap cue on my sternum steadies it.
Ha-eun murmurs mask-dance trivia—T'alchum originated as satire; numbers can be satire, too. The absurdity makes me grin.
I flip open the folder, find only my own cost wheels and blank graph paper. No projector? Fine. I grab a fat red marker, stride to the easel, and draw a circle in one smooth motion. Inside it I segment wedges while speaking:
"Start-up costs," I shade crimson, "covered by low-interest county grants we've already pre-qualified for." A blue wedge: "Stall fees—ten thousand won per day." Green: "Volunteer labor, no cash outlay." Yellow ring around the edge: "Rain insurance, two percent of total." The circle glows like a festival drum.
Murmurs shift toward approval—until a dry cough cuts through.
Mr. Oh rises, tweed jacket bristling. "Rain insurance is calculated on prior attendance data," he says, voice crisp as ledger paper. "We have none. Your estimate is optimistic."
Heat prickles my ears. Before I can answer, cedar wood and machine grease drift in: Joon-woo steps from the side aisle, a miniature cedar booth model cradled in his calloused hands.
"Weather-proof panels," he says softly. "Collapsible. I'll build at material cost." He sets the model on the table; the tiny booth even has gutters.
Gasps, appreciative nods. My heartbeat finds a new rhythm.
"Subtract booth rental cost," I add, redrawing the outer ring—yellow shrinks, green expands. The wheel still balances.
Questions fly—permits, traffic flow, waste disposal. I answer some, defer others, always funneling back to the circle: inputs, outputs, contingency ring. The visual language disarms skepticism; even Mr. Oh's scowl softens when I quote projected break-even in five Saturdays.
Kang calls for a vote. Hands rise like fluttering petals—twenty-three yes, four no. Applause ricochets off wooden beams.
I exhale, body sagging with relief and something brighter—pride.
Outside, night air smells of river mist and hoddeok syrup from a cart already testing market potential. Min-ji's phone pings; her poll shows eighty-two percent excitement.
"Told you numbers can dance," Kang says, clapping my shoulder so hard my teeth click. She strides off to barter with the hoddeok vendor.
Joon-woo lingers beside me, cedar model tucked under his arm. "Good circles," he murmurs. Under the streetlamp his eyes catch amber like resin. A shy smile tilts my world.
Phone buzz—HanRiver Mutual: Reminder—12 days remaining—a red badge glaring against mask lantern light. Reality's counterweight.
But the wheel inside my journal spins steady. I pocket the phone, let the buzz fade under distant drums as the local dance troupe rehearses. Masks whirl—red grins, indigo scowls—swift turns that honor shadow and light at once.
Numbers can dance, yes. And tomorrow, when dawn grinds beans beneath repaired burrs, I will make them sing.
Chapter 9: Notification Freeze
The Study-Wheel alarm chirps at 06 : 30, a sparrow-bright trill that bounces off the attic rafters. Heater breathes cedar-warmth, and the crane mug on my desk fogs its own rings of oolong. I reach for the notebook—today's first task is palate-drill theory—when my phone wakes, screen bleaching the dim room.
Eom Ji-sun
URGENT—insurer just called re: your death claim??
Are you… alive? Please reply.
The steam in the mug wavers. For a moment I am back in a fluorescent corridor that reeks of antiseptic and wilted lilies; an HR desk where I signed the "leave of absence" that became my vanishing act. The walls tilt. My heart jackhammers.
Two taps over my sternum. Four in, four hold, four out, Ha-eun counts, her voice a lighthouse. Sunrise seeps through the skylight, drawing a gold circle on the floorboards—a protective ring, she murmurs. My vision steadies inside it.
I scroll.
They said claim is "unprocessed," need verification of passing.
Call me. I'm scared.
Scared? She should be. Fraud charges, voided policy, headlines that resurrect the corpse I tried to bury.
Count breaths, not enemies, Ha-eun reminds.
Downstairs the café smells of yesterday's mop water and fresh hope. Min-ji is already editing clips from last night's vote, earbuds in, bobbing like a pigeon. "Morning, Professor Wheel!" She flashes her phone: a bar chart of hearts soaring. "Eighty-two percent hype for the market!"
"That's… amazing," I manage, clutching my own device like a detonator. She doesn't notice; the editing beat drops, and she spins away.
Kang yells from the storeroom, "Bean inventory by seven, people!" Normal life marches on.
I duck between burlap sacks stacked to the ceiling—coffee fortress, dusted with parchment flake. The air is cool, hushed. I flip my notebook to a blank spread and draw a ring, divide it into four columns that curve into petals: Ignore, Lie, Half-truth, Full truth. I color them—pale grey fading to deep jade.
Grey feels like suffocation. Lies coil like ledgers. My pencil hovers over jade.
Columns fracture; circles hold, Ha-eun whispers. Her certainty settles like balm.
I shade the "Full truth" segment, then scribble a bullet: Schedule Seoul trip: Day after exam. Another: Consult lawyer? Joon?
Footstep thuds overhead—Joon-woo unloading cedar planks for the booths he promised. Solid weight, steady rhythm. A reminder that help exists—if I let it.
Phone buzzes again. Ji-sun's typing bubble appears … disappears … reappears, ellipsis pulsing like a held breath. My thumb floats above the keyboard. What do you write to someone who thinks you're a ghost?
Tell her you're breathing, Ha-eun suggests. A breath is a fact, not a confession.
I start:
Ji-sun. I received your message.
Yes, I'm alive. Complicated story—
Fingers freeze. Heater clicks upstairs; the punctuation on my hesitation. I backspace, close the draft. Not yet.
Kang calls again; the grinder starts its clean morning purr—repaired teeth greeting in harmony. I tuck the phone into my apron and smooth my expression into something like calm.
The typing bubble still hovers on the lock screen, three dots blinking fragile as a firefly trapped in glass.
I pocket the fear alongside it, step toward the bar, and inhale the scent of newly aligned beans.
Circle holds—for now.
Chapter 10: Double-Tap Drill
The CLOSED sign hangs on the café door, but the bar is anything except idle. Pitchers gleam in a straight military line, thermometers clipping their rims like salutes. Min-ji balances her phone on a tripod, livestream set to Latte Boot Camp – Day 1; neon comments already ripple across her screen even though the feed hasn't started.
"Cue the coffee gladiator," she chirps.
I roll my shoulders, centring the repaired hand-grinder at my station. Six days to the exam, twelve to whatever the insurer decides; but for this hour there is only milk, espresso, and muscle memory.
Stretch, swirl, settle, Ha-eun hums, steady metronome behind my ribs.
First pitcher: 58 °C, glossy as silk. I tilt, wiggle wrist; a neat heart blooms in the practice cup. Second: 61 °C, pour lengthens; a leaf unfurls. Min-ji squeals, camera swooping close.
"Okay, Professor Wheel, time for live!" She thumbs RECORD; digital hearts explode like popcorn.
I steam the third pitcher—temperature hits 65 °C exactly—when Min-ji wheels to grab a rag. Her elbow clips the handle. Scalding milk arcs, baptises my wrist, floods the counter in a white tide. At that precise moment the phone in my apron dings: the same DM thread I've dodged since dawn.
Heart detonates. For a split second I see hospital ceiling tiles, smell iodine.
Two fingers tap my sternum—once, twice.
Four in, four hold, four out, Ha-eun counts, voice cool as mint.
Steam hisses, puddle creeps. My lungs obey: inhale four, hold four—sunlight makes a ring—exhale four, empty four. The tremor in my hand subsides; heat registers as only warmth now.
Min-ji freezes mid-frame, viewers no doubt catching the whole mess. "Oh my god, are you burned?"
"Just startled." I shut the wand, reach for a towel. "Drill continues."
Explaining the Cue
Milk wiped, counter sanitised, I turn to her. "You saw me tap twice?"
"Yeah—power pose?" she guesses.
"It's a cue. Means 'I've got it but I need a breath.' Three taps is emergency: Ha-eun helps drive."
Min-ji's brows shoot up. "Your guardian-angel system! That's… kinda epic." She scrolls comments. "Viewers want the secret handshake."
Ha-eun chuckles inside me. Let them learn to breathe circles.
Min-ji roots in her apron, produces a neon-green elastic. "Colour code! Lime for calm. We tap, we breathe, we pour."
We reset. "Simulated scorch," Min-ji declares, waving the pitcher like a siren. She purposely over-steams; I three-tap—thud thud thud—just loud enough for the mic. Control slides inward: tilt the wrist, angle three degrees, Ha-eun guides. The milk obeys, hiss smoothing to a cat's purr. We pour together; rosetta petals land perfectly within the rim.
Min-ji's timer beeps six seconds. "Record swap! Chat dying!"
Two final cups—tulip and swan—sit like trophies. In the stream's chat, heart emojis rocket skyward. The door from the stairwell nudges open; Joon-woo steps in, cedar-plank scent wafting around him. He offers a stack of fresh towels, eyes skimming the spotless counter, then me. A small nod—approval, and something softer. The lime band on my wrist feels suddenly brighter.
He disappears as quietly as he came.
Min-ji ends the stream, thumbs sore from moderating. "Tap-tap-breathe—they love it. Branding opportunity!" She dances off to edit.
I'm alone with hiss-quiet machines. Phone screen still glows in my apron:
Eom Ji-sun is typing…
Dots pulse. I press the elastic band against my sternum—two taps, one breath.
Truth after the exam, I remind Ha-eun.
Truth is patient, she answers.
I silence the notification, rinse the pitchers, and line them to dry—handles precisely aligned, like teeth meshing without war. Outside, cedar hammers echo from the courtyard where booths are being born. Inside, milk aroma and lime-bright fabric promise that when panic spills, circles can contain it.
Tomorrow the grind continues—but tonight, the wheel has spun true.
Chapter 11: Paper Cranes
The attic hums like a low-lit kiln, heater coils tinting the rafters ember–orange. 21:30 on my Study-Wheel says Research, so the café's invoices are exiled to a corner. In their place I spread a fan of crisp origami squares, the colors of late spring—pollen green, fox-silver, persimmon red.
A soft tap against skullbone: Tonight we hunt our reflection.
"I know," I whisper. "No more guessing in the dark."
Laptop power-up chime, search window open. Key words hover: spirit companion Korean folklore voice inside. Before I can fall down the algorithmic rabbit hole, the trapdoor bangs open.
"Scholar party!" Min-ji bursts in, arms overloaded with popcorn bowl and an avalanche of stapled print-outs. Butter steam follows her like cartoon scent lines. She collapses onto the floorboards, scattering pages covered in bold headers: Dokkaebi Love Charms—Fact or Fiction?Nine-Tail Grooming Tips.
"I brought sources." She winks. "And carbs."
I laugh—more relief than humor. Sleep debt knots behind my eyes, but curiosity pries them wide.
Min-ji cues up her favorite podcast, Goblin Lantern, on the portable speaker. Two hosts banter in late-night FM voices:
—Some say dokkaebi wear tiger-skin coats—
—Wrong Joseon period, bro. They wore straw—
Straw, Ha-eun corrects, whisper-thin italics sliding under the banter. Tiger was later court theater embellishment.
I fold the first square along a center crease. "Green crane equals dokkaebi candidate," I declare, easing the paper's beak into a sharp point. My wrists remember latte tulips; the motions feel similar—glide, pinch, lift.
Min-ji crunches popcorn. "Silver for gumiho, obviously. Fox couture."
We settle into an easy rhythm: she scrolls folklore blogs, I fold. Popcorn kernels ping the bowl like tiny gravel. Heater ticks down its cycle.
Crane #1 — Dokkaebi
Traits scribbled on a sticky note:
Loves games & riddles
Grants boons to hard workers
Carries club that bends reality
"Club's too macho," I mutter. "Ha-eun's voice is more fountain pen than baseball bat."
Guilty, she sings.
Crane #2 — Gumiho
Nine silver tails unfurl in my mind—predatory glamour. But Ha-eun has never dripped seduction; she is lantern-light on river fog. The gumiho crane perches, glossy and improbable.
Min-ji scrolls. "Here's a cheeky one—cheon-yeo gui, the wanderer ghosts of women who died unjustly."
I pause, throat thudding. Red square becomes Crane #3. Paper stiff between fingers.
"Possible," I say quietly.
Voice of the breath still owed. Ha-eun's whisper shivers the air. Popcorn scent sours against raisin memory: river rail, 04:20 neon.
I line the three cranes in strict column, ledger style, then shake my head. No. I lift them, rearrange into a circle like petals around a candle jar. A spiral feels truer than rows.
The podcast drifts into talchum mask-dance lore—wooden faces, spinning skirts.
Ha-eun hums a mournful talchum tune. Its five-note motif slips through me like warm broth. "You know that song?" I ask.
It remembers me.
A new thought sparks: breath spirits tied to dance masks—liminal guides between living and dead. I scribble on notebook: breath-spirit / mask link? Circle it twice.
Footsteps creak on the stairs—measured, heavier than Min-ji's. Joon-woo appears, arms full of pastel rectangle sheets used to cushion cedar booth panels. Sawdust freckles his forearms; the air around him carries pine and machine oil.
"These were heading to recycling," he rumbles, placing the stack beside me. Eyes flick over my crane spiral; the ghost of a smile curves.
"Perfect timing," I say. Our fingers meet on the paper; electricity, soft and static.
He inclines his head, leaves without another word. The scent of cedar lingers.
Min-ji fans herself theatrically. "Could build a whole aviary with that chemistry."
"Focus, historian," I tease, but warmth climbs my neck.
Together we add fresh cranes—honey, midnight, glacier blue—each tagged with half-formed hypotheses: mugunghwa nymph, smoke gwishin, manifested conscience. The spiral thickens, a blooming chrysanthemum.
At 22:45 my phone alarm chirps BED!—the Study-Wheel's stern guardian. Five-day exam countdown shows in red digits.
I sketch a concentric Myth Wheel: inner ring of confirmed traits—soot-cedar scent, circle fixation, dual voice. Outer ring: candidate myths. Library visit arrow slotted for post-exam day.
Min-ji yawns broad enough to crack her jaw. "Tomorrow I stream your finance-draft sprint. Hashtag 'numbers danced.'"
"Budget first," I groan, snapping laptop shut. Paper rustles like soft rain as cranes settle.
We pack up. She hauls popcorn bowl; I cradle cranes into an empty bean sack—temporary nest.
When the attic quiets, heater hum circles me. I'm midway to turning off the desk lamp when the phone buzzes again.
Eom Ji-sun (DM):
Call me before auditors escalate. They want files this week.
The message glows ice-blue against cedar shadows. A draft from the heater vent lifts a green crane's wing—it flutters, points toward the phone like an omen.
I two-tap my sternum. Inhale four. Hold. Exhale.
Circles hold, Ha-eun reminds, steady as a drum.
"After finance draft," I whisper. "Then truth."
I dim the lamp; ember light pools over the Myth Wheel, cranes casting long beaks across its rings. Outside, the night -- dark as folded paper -- waits to be opened.
Chapter 12: Foam Swans
The CLOSED placard flips over at three-oh-one, but inside the café the air buzzes as if we'd thrown the doors wide. Min-ji scampers across the bar, blue painter's tape stuck to her teeth while she pins up a banner that reads PRACTICE CONTEST – FOAM SWANS in bubble letters that already sag at the edges.
"Lights, latte, action!" she declares around the tape. Her tripod is set center-stage; red livestream dot glows like a record light on a karaoke mic.
I breathe in the scent of microfiber-polished steel and cinnamon floor cleanser. Five days until the real exam, eleven until auditors may decide whether I, legally, exist. Right now there is only milk, pitcher, and gravity.
Glide, dip, lift, Ha-eun murmurs, each word a thumb on a metronome.
Round One — Heart & Tulip
The first pitcher hisses to fifty-eight degrees. I circle the wand's tip just below the milk's skin, coaxing that sweet-grass whisper of micro-foam. Pull espresso, swirl crema. Pour.
A heart blooms crisp and centered. Online hearts burst back on Min-ji's screen. Second cup: a three-tier tulip stacks perfectly, petals tidy as ledger zeroes.
Confidence pricks through my sleep-born fog.
Intrusion
Phone vibrates in my apron. On-screen banner:
Eom Ji-sun:
Still waiting to hear from you.
Pulse stutters. Two quick taps to my chest. Inhale four, hold four—heater hum, circle safe—exhale. My wrist loosens before the wand can sputter.
Milk stays silky.
Two junior baristas take their turns, leaves splaying like fox tails. I follow: angle pitcher, let white paint branch inside brown canvas. Ha-eun counts my breathing; lines settle smooth. Applause emoji rain down the stream.
A shadow stretches across the doorway. Joon-woo, cedar dust smudging the cuffs of his plain tee, leans against the jamb with a carpenter's stillness. The booth-building must be on pause. He folds his arms, mouth tilted in the smallest yes.
Adrenaline spikes—pleasant this time.
The Swan Showdown
Min-ji spins the wheel of latte challenges on her phone; it lands on SWAN. Gasps from chat, groans from staff.
"Final round. Let's make that bird fly," she crows.
Milk steams to sixty-one. Feathering a swan means coaxing a spine of white, wings of light strokes, head formed in a single flick.
First pass: I tremble; one wing blotches. Glide, Ha-eun sings. I slow the pour, lower pitcher nose. White ribbon thins, arches; I rise, flick—a neck, a beak. Tail whips into a graceful curl.
Silence, then whoops. The foam swan sits as if caught mid-takeoff, wings ragged where I first faltered but—alive.
Min-ji points camera at four cups. Chat voters flood in; percentages climb beside my swan. Madam Kang barrels through back door, still clutching permit forms, takes quick sips. "This one," she declares, nodding at my cup before fleeing to another call.
Min-ji raises my arm like a prizefighter. Viewers spam 🦢 emojis.
Joon-woo steps forward holding something wrapped in cotton rag. He unwraps a stir-stick carved from walnut, the wood sanded to satin. Its handle loops into a swan's long neck; tiny wings are etched with scalpel-sharp grooves.
"For… practice," he murmurs, voice hoarse with sawdust. He hands it over, thumb brushing my knuckle—a spark that dwarfs the ring-light glare.
"It's beautiful," I breathe. Lucky wing, I think, tucking it into apron pocket beside the phone's silent weight.
He bows a fraction, then retreats to cedar shavings and hammer taps.
Stream ends; comments echo into digital afterlife. Min-ji totters with victory energy, rattling off stats—unique viewers: 612, peak hearts: 9 k. She replays the slow-mo swan pour, cackling over her own meme captions.
Kang pops her head in long enough to remind me, "Budget draft tomorrow morning, don't let numbers drown in milk," then vanishes again.
Foam swan still floats, surface shimmering like rice paper as it dissolves.
My phone buzzes against walnut.
Eom Ji-sun:
Auditors moved up timeline. Need confirmation this week. Call tonight?
Milk hiss has stopped, but my ears ring. Foam swan's wings sag, collapsing inward until only a pale oval remains—like the rim of an empty ledger.
Two taps steady my chest; breath tastes of walnut oil and distant cedar dust.
"Tonight," I whisper, knowing Min-ji can't hear, knowing Ha-eun does. Beyond the door, hammer strikes begin again—steady, patient, building something I can't yet picture but already trust.
Glide, she reminds, as the milk resets in a pitcher, waiting for tomorrow's exam drills—and tonight's truth.
Chapter 13: Permit Forms & Petals
The café's back-room smells of steamed milk and fresh printer ink—a strangely bracing combination at nine in the morning.
Madam Kang slides my spiral budget across the prep table. Each petal of the wheel glows beneath fluorescent light: pale pink for stall fees, jade for power rental, honey-gold for performer honoraria, indigo for contingency. Numbers ring their colours like quiet bells.
"Pretty and persuasive," she decides, securing the pages with a decisive chop of her palm. "City hall opens in twenty. Coat on."
I tug the crane-etched travel mug closer and skim my column of mnemonic swatches one last time. Breathe in octaves, Ha-eun murmurs, a low flute inside my chest. Do, re, mi… I inhale on do, exhale on mi, and my pulse slows enough to zip the binder without trembling.
Marble floors echo under Kang's determined heels. She barrels through the turnstiles with a plastic clamshell of mugwort rice-cakes held high like diplomatic credentials. I shuffle behind, hugging the binder, trying not to trip over my own resolve.
At the Permit & Events desk, Mr Choi—thin spectacles, chrysanthemum-print tie—peers at us as though we might unsheathe swords instead of spreadsheets.
"Outdoor commerce requires Form 42-B, safety schematic, projected revenue sheet, and proof of crowd-control insurance." His voice is a stapler: crisp, metallic.
Kang sets the rice-cakes between us. "And nourishment for overworked clerks."
Choi blinks at the green-tinted glutinous domes. Curiosity loosens his shoulders. "Is that ssuk?" he whispers.
"Wild mugwort from the eastern slope," Kang confirms. "Limited batch."
While the aroma of spring weeds its way into the office, I open my binder and unfurl the colour-wheel budget. Chalk lines of sunlight from the high window fall across the paper, illuminating each petal.
"Rather than a column ledger," I begin, voice softer than I wish, "we've mapped cost and revenue as proportional segments. This outer ring shows maximum capacity; the inner ring shows break-even. The blank space between is resilience."
Mr Choi's gaze tracks the gradient like a child mesmerised by a kaleidoscope. He nibbles rice-cake, hums approval, and flips to the fee schedule with renewed gentleness.
Circle triumphs over grid, Ha-eun notes, pleased. I sense her leaning back, letting me steer.
Pat-pat of loafers announces Mr Oh, the retired accountant who nearly stalled us at the town meeting. Clipboard ready, he wedges himself beside Choi.
"Your contingency is only five percent," he says, tapping indigo. "What if rain cuts foot traffic by half?"
I breathe once, twice—no panic wave rises. "Five percent on gross, but we've arranged volunteer labour. Labour petals contract before any vendor payout," I answer. "Our break-even drops, weather-risk narrows."
Ha-eun supplies silent hex codes—#B0E0E6 for labour, #87CEFA for rental—and the colours flash in my mind like mnemonic beacons. I quote the adjusted figures without glancing down.
Oh's pen stalls. Choi sips floral tea, expression unreadable.
My phone vibrates in my coat: Ji-sun CALLING. I silence it under the counter. The insurers can wait another breath cycle.
Mr Oh clears his throat. "And projected attendance? Hearsay isn't data."
"Livestream data, actually." Kang pivots the monitor of her phone toward them. Min-ji's real-time poll spins percentages over a mask-dance GIF—seventy-two percent of respondents plan to attend. Comments bloom: Bring back the lion mask!Need more rice-cake vendors!
Oh's eyebrows lift despite himself.
Choi sets down his cup, rice-cake half-finished. "Financial picture appears viable, community demand demonstrated, safety ratios meet code." He pulls out a red-camellia ink pad, presses the permit, and stamps the petals of my budget with an almost ceremonial thunk.
"Provisional approval," he declares. "Follow-up audit in two weeks. Submit final vendor roster by then."
Oh's smile is thin but satisfied—he's secured the audit he wanted. Kang bows, dramatic and delighted. My knees feel watery yet intact.
We step onto the courthouse steps. March wind snatches a flock of early cherry petals from the median trees and scatters them across the fresh stamp like confetti. Kang laughs, holding the permit up to the pale blue sky.
"See? Numbers can bloom if you let them." She elbows me. "Next: finish that exam and wow the auditors."
Petals cling to my coat sleeve, soft as ledger ash long flown. I allow myself a grin—and then the phone buzzes again in my pocket, an electric moth.
Ji-sun's name glows. "Call me. Auditors moved the timeline forward."
My smile tightens. Petals whirl down the steps and vanish into a drainage grate.
We will breathe through this too, Ha-eun assures, voice steady.
I nod once, square the binder under my arm, and follow Kang toward the parking lot where a van full of cedar planks—and Joon-woo's quiet grin—waits for the drive back.
The permit flaps in the breeze, red stamp bright against pastel circles, a paper blossom fighting to stay open against gathering wind.
Chapter 14: Blue Stamp, Green Light
The magnolia-blue seal lands with a damp thud, crisp against the vellum.
Ink feathers for a heartbeat, then settles into a perfect oval of authority.
Kang explodes beside me—half-whoop, half-battle-cry—and pumps the stamped sheet above her head. The fluorescent light in City Hall glints off the fresh emblem like lakewater. I let my fingers rest on the lower edge, feeling the raised rim of ink as though it were Braille that spells Green light, move forward.
Circle secured, Ha-eun murmurs inside, her voice velvety with pride.
By the time we reach the café deck, the air smells of wet cedar and possibility. Min-ji has already unrolled a bolt of moss-green fabric over the half-finished booths; the cloth billows, becoming an impromptu banner. "Hashtag PermitFlex!" she hollers, thrusting her phone skyward for a selfie video.
Kang slaps the permit onto a tray like a sacred pastry. "Blue stamp, everyone! Finish your lattes and paint something."
Paint fumes mingle with the sweet-grass scent of steamed milk; from the alley, Joon-woo's sander growls—a low mechanical purr under the chatter. Three days to the exam, nine to the insurer deadline, and yet this moment vibrates with uncomplicated triumph. The blue halo in my pocket feels warmer than my phone, which has stayed mercifully silent since dawn.
"Excuse me—are you Lee Seo-yeon?"
The voice is clear, practiced, carrying just enough deference to slip past Kang's bustle. A woman in a press badge and plum trench coat steps onto the deck. Her business card reads Han Soo-yeon, Culture Desk; the coincidence of names jars me, but she smiles like someone perpetually discovering good stories.
"We'd love to run a feature on the Heritage Market," she says. "Human-interest focus. Would you two be free this morning?"
Kang doesn't hesitate. "Perfect! Our finance co-chair handles vision and numbers." She pivots, spotlight-bright, and nudges me forward.
Pulse spikes—first stirrings of ledger dread—but Ha-eun taps an invisible metronome: In for four, hold, out for four. I square my shoulders.
"Happy to help," I tell the reporter, voice steady enough to surprise me.
Inside the storeroom, sacks of beans become audience bleachers. Min-ji pulls up her phone and turns on selfie mode. "Media training time. Rapid fire, go!"
"Biggest challenge?"
"Balancing cost with culture," I answer, circling thumb and forefinger—wheel reminder.
"Hidden talent?"
"Foam swans," I grin.
"Dream headline?"
"Numbers That Bloom."
Circle, purpose, people, Ha-eun chants like a soft drummer in the wings. The old reflex to recite columns—debits, credits, bottles owed—never stirs.
Back outside, fresh sage paint glistens on booth planks. Joon-woo, sleeves rolled, offers me a dripping brush so the photographer can frame "community in motion." A smear of green stripes my wrist, cool and earthy—an artist's accidental signature.
Reporter Han begins. "Why a color wheel budget?"
"Because markets aren't ledgers," I say, heartbeat forming the cadence. "They're gardens. Money should show where things grow."
She scribbles, nodding vigorously. "And you used to fear numbers?"
"I feared what I did with them," I admit, choosing each word like a bean to roast. "Now they're circles—no edges to cut myself on."
Kang beams, arms folded, rice-cake queen turned public-relations manager. Behind her, Min-ji live-tweets quotables, peppering them with peach-emoji blossoms.
The photographer angles me toward the booths. Joon-woo retreats to the periphery, but I feel him there—steady as the cedar poles he plane-shaves. When the shutter clicks, I catch his eyes: pride quietly burning. The green brush he'd given me rests against my palm like a shared secret.
"Could I see the full budget pdf?" reporter Han asks while packing. "Deadline's Wednesday; story runs Thursday."
"Of course." I jot the newsroom email. A text pings even before the pen lifts: Mr Oh.
Please cc audit team on any public financial statements.
Ice needles my spine, but I smile at Han, promising the file tonight.
Kang shepherds the reporter to the gate, already inviting her to sample mugwort latte next week. Min-ji squeals, "Green light, baby!" and spins the paint roller like a majorette baton.
Evening folds around the attic. The permit lies atop my study wheel, blue magnolia seal surrounded by flourishes of green paint—the day's two colors humming together like complementary notes. I slide the document into a clear sleeve, the way you'd tuck a fragile petal between book pages.
Phone buzz.
Ji-sun:Auditor contact list attached. They'll want preliminary statements by Monday. Call me.
The email preview hovers, stark against the heater's orange glow. Behind me, folded cranes sway in the breeze from the cracked window—little paper futures craning their necks toward possibilities.
Blue stamp grants passage, Ha-eun whispers, but every bridge still has tolls.
I draw a slow breath, touch the green streak fading dry on my wrist, and let the screen keep ringing. For tonight, the ink is still wet, and the paint still shines.
Tomorrow, numbers will bloom again—under flashbulbs, under audits, under whatever sky waits—but they will do it in circles I am no longer afraid to show.
The phone buzzes once more, longer this time, as if an unseen gate has started to lower.
I close my notebook around the permit, the click echoing like a quiet vow, and reach for the call.
Green light, I think. Forward.