The heavy boots belonged to Officer Park, who appeared around the corner wearing the expression of a man trying to look official while secretly hoping to avoid any real confrontation. At twenty-five, he had the earnest face of someone who still believed the police manual contained solutions to life's messier problems, and the nervous energy of someone discovering it didn't.
"Miss… uh…" He consulted a small notebook with the intensity of a Confucian scholar deciphering oracle bones. "Yoon Hwa-yeong? I'm afraid I have to ask you to move along. Unlicensed fortune-telling is prohibited on public streets."
Hwa-yeong rose with liquid grace, hands clasped before her like a court lady receiving royal decree. "Officer Park honors this humble establishment with his presence. However, this unworthy practitioner merely offers herbal consultations and friendly conversation to those seeking wisdom."
"Right," Park said, visibly thrown by her archaic diction. "But… the cards… and the blanket setup…"
"Ancient meditation tools for personal spiritual cultivation," she replied without missing a beat. "Surely the distinguished representative of public order would not prohibit a citizen's private contemplation of celestial patterns?"
Officer Park blinked rapidly, like a computer forced to run incompatible software. In his two years on the beat, he'd dealt with drunks, pickpockets, and occasional knife fights, but no one had ever turned "move along" into a philosophical debate.
Mrs. Kang chose that moment to emerge from her stall, wielding a spatula like a weapon of mass destruction. "Park-ssi! That girl pays her taxes and keeps the alley clean. Find some real criminals to bother!"
"I'm just doing my job, Mrs. Kang," Park protested, but his voice lacked conviction. His grandmother back in Busan still visited the local mudang for his grandfather's arthritis, and some childhood beliefs died hard.
Sensing opportunity like a tiger smelling blood, Hwa-yeong said, "Perhaps Officer Park suffers from concerns of the heart? Spring often awakens romantic yearnings in noble spirits."
Park flushed scarlet. "I don't… I mean… how did you…?"
"The way honored officer adjusts his uniform suggests preparation for an important encounter. The faint scent of cologne applied with unpracticed hands speaks of hopeful intentions. And the nervous energy surrounding your aura indicates—"
"Okay, okay," Park interrupted, looking around to ensure no one was listening. "Maybe I've been thinking about asking someone out. But that doesn't mean I believe in fortune-telling!"
Mrs. Kang snorted. "The boy's been mooning over the new girl at the post office for three months. Even my dead husband could see that, and his ghost has terrible eyesight."
"Mrs. Kang!" Park yelped.
Hwa-yeong's eyes lit up like a lantern. "Sit, honored officer. Let us explore what the cosmic forces reveal about your romantic destiny."
Before he could protest, she had spread her blanket and was shuffling her cards with hypnotic rhythm. Minister Jung materialized beside them, grooming himself with the air of someone settling in for premium entertainment.
"This is highly irregular," Park muttered, but he sat down anyway.
"Love recognizes no regulations," Hwa-yeong intoned, dealing three cards. "Ah. The patterns speak of a pure heart troubled by social anxieties. The maiden in question possesses education beyond your own, causing unnecessary insecurity about intellectual compatibility."
Park's jaw dropped. "How could you possibly know that?"
"The cards reveal all to those who read them with proper wisdom," she replied serenely, though she'd overheard Mrs. Kang gossiping with the vegetable seller the week before. "However, intellectual disparity need not be an obstacle. What matters is sincerity and respect for her mind."
She leaned forward conspiratorially. "Tell me, does honored officer write poetry?"
"Poetry?" Park looked horrified. "I can barely write incident reports!"
"Then we must remedy this deficiency." She produced a small notebook and wrote swiftly in neat, flowing script. "Consider this humble composition:
Spring rain falls on post office windows,
Each drop carries this foolish heart's hopes.
Though my words stumble like autumn leaves,
Your wisdom shines brighter than summer sun.
Park stared at the page, aghast. "I can't give her that! She'll think I'm insane."
"Modern romantic customs have become regrettably crude," Hwa-yeong said with disapproval. "Proper courtship requires artistic expression. However, if classical verse seems too bold, perhaps a simple offering will suffice. Does the honored maiden enjoy particular foods?"
"She always has coffee in the afternoon," Park admitted reluctantly. "From that new vending machine near the government building."
"Excellent. Tomorrow, arrive with premium coffee and a small gift—perhaps flowers or quality confection. Speak simply but sincerely. Compliment her dedication to her work, then invite conversation over refreshment."
Mrs. Kang shouted from the stall, "And don't wear that awful cologne! You smell like a department store exploded!"
Park looked between Hwa-yeong, Mrs. Kang, and Minister Jung, who seemed to nod in agreement. "This is crazy. I don't even know your real name, and I'm taking dating advice from a fortune teller and a chicken vendor."
"The wise seek counsel from unexpected sources," Hwa-yeong said sagely. "And this humble practitioner's name is indeed Yoon Hwa-yeong, as recorded in administrative records."
"Right." Park stood, adjusting his uniform. "How much for the… consultation?"
"For a servant of public order, no payment is required. However, should your romantic venture succeed, a small offering to the guiding spirits would be appreciated."
Park nodded, still dazed, and wandered off muttering about coffee and poetry.
Mrs. Kang shook her head. "That boy's going to scare her to death with classical love poems."
"Perhaps," Hwa-yeong admitted, packing her cards. "But sincere foolishness often succeeds where calculated charm fails."
"Speaking of sincerity," Mrs. Kang said, producing a newspaper-wrapped bundle, "someone left this for you earlier. Skinny girl, looked like she hadn't eaten in days."
Inside was a can of instant coffee and a note in careful hangul: "For the herbal medicine. My skin is already better after two days. Thank you, Joseon unni. —E"
"Eun-mi," Hwa-yeong murmured, recognizing the runaway sister of the factory worker. Too thin, too alert, sleeping rough but clinging to dignity.
"She looks like trouble," Mrs. Kang grunted.
"She looks like survival," Hwa-yeong corrected gently. "Which often appears identical to trouble to those who have forgotten its necessity."
She rose and brushed dust from her hanbok. Her morning earnings were enough for rice and perhaps vegetables, but not optimism about tomorrow.
Minister Jung wound around her ankles, purring with suspicious loudness. In her mind, she heard her long-dead patron whisper: "Every empire begins with a single loyal subject, little songbird."
"Mrs. Kang," she said suddenly, "might I use your talking box briefly?"
"My what?"
"The speaking device. The black box that summons distant voices."
"It's called a telephone, strange girl. Use it, but keep it short. Long distance costs money."
Approaching it with reverence, she dialed the number memorized from a newspaper ad. In her past life, communication over distance required messengers or dangerous shamanic trances. Voices travelling through wires still seemed profoundly supernatural.
"Good morning," she said when someone answered, her formal speech turning a phone call into diplomatic negotiation. "This humble caller wishes to inquire about the herbal supply business advertised yesterday. Specifically, procurement of ginseng root, pearl powder, and pine bark for medicinal preparations…"
Mrs. Kang watched, stunned, as Hwa-yeong negotiated wholesale prices with smooth, aristocratic authority. Ten minutes later, arrangements for a sample delivery were confirmed.
"Where'd you learn to talk business like that?" Mrs. Kang asked.
"In my previous existence, I managed household accounts for a nobleman of considerable wealth," she replied matter-of-factly. "Negotiation principles remain constant across centuries, though communication has become remarkably convenient."
Mrs. Kang shook her head. "I don't know if you're crazy, brilliant, or both. But you're definitely not ordinary."
Above them, someone's radio played tinny American pop. Hwa-yeong winced at the foreign melodies so different from the court music in her dreams.
"Mrs. Kang," she asked quietly, "do you believe in second chances?"
"Depends who's asking and what they did the first time."
"What if someone failed catastrophically to protect those they loved, and now they've been given another chance to serve a greater purpose?"
Mrs. Kang wiped grease from her hands. "Then they better not mess it up twice. Universe doesn't usually offer thirds."
Hwa-yeong nodded solemnly as Minister Jung vanished around the corner, tail held high like a minister retiring from court. In the distance rose the city's ceaseless chorus—construction machinery, car horns, merchants hawking produce under smog-gray skies.
Tomorrow, she decided, she would begin expanding her herbal business in earnest. Perhaps, if the spirits were kind, she would gather the scattered pieces of this life into something worthy of the dignity she lost three centuries ago.
After all, even fallen gisaengs deserved the chance to rise again.
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