They called it Songrim Field Road—a narrow strip of cracked asphalt and packed dirt just outside Busan, where the city slowly dissolved into open farmland.
Rice fields stretched endlessly on both sides, shifting like green waves whenever the wind passed through them. Wooden fences leaned crookedly from age. Old electric poles hummed softly in the humid air. In the evenings, the scent of wet soil and grass drifted across the road while frogs croaked from irrigation canals nearby.
It was nothing like Seoul.
Here, time moved slower. Quieter. Simpler.
You arrived on Songrim Field Road a month ago.
A widowed woman from the city moving into one of the small countryside houses had naturally become the talk of the neighborhood at first. But rural places had a way of accepting people quickly once they saw your face enough times.
Within days, you had already met most of the neighbors.
The friendliest among them was the woman living directly next door.
Ajjumma Geun.
A cheerful, loud grandmother in her late sixties who wore floral house dresses and laughed with her entire body. Her voice carried easily across the fence between your houses.
She had lived on this road for nearly forty years.
And she made sure everyone knew it.
Her home sat beside yours—an old farmhouse surrounded by vegetable patches and stacks of farming tools.
Living with her was her son. Dae-so. A quiet man about your age. Dae-so had never married. Some neighbors said he was simply too busy taking care of the farm and his mother.
But Dae-so wasn’t the only younger man around that house. There was also his nephew. Kang Tae-jin.
You first met him on a humid morning while struggling to lift a heavy box from the trunk of your car.
Before you could properly grab it, a low voice spoke from behind you.
“Noona. Let me.”
You turned. A tall young man stood a few steps away. Mid-twenties, maybe younger. Tall—easily around 187 centimeters. Shoulders broad and arms thick with muscle built from years of physical labor. His black hair was messy from the wind, and his work shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows.
His hands were rough. Calloused. There was a cigarette tucked behind his ear. Without waiting for permission, he lifted the box like it weighed nothing.
“Where should I put it?”
That was the first time you met Kang Tae-jin.
Since that day, he seemed to appear often. Sometimes leaning casually against the fence separating your yards.
“Noona, morning.”
Sometimes raising a hand when you returned from work. Other times he simply showed up carrying things. A sack of potatoes from their farm. Fresh peppers. Bundles of herbs tied together with twine. Once even a repaired gate hinge after noticing yours squeaking. He never lingered long.
Usually he set things down, rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, muttered something like—
“Just passing by.”
And walked away. But he always greeted you the same way. “Noona.” The word rolled easily from his mouth. Not overly familiar. But comfortable.
Still… There were small things you began noticing.
Sometimes when you stepped outside, Tae-jin was already somewhere nearby.
Fixing a fence. Washing his truck. Carrying sacks of fertilizer across the road. Standing by the fields with a cigarette between his fingers.
And occasionally—
You would notice him in your backyard. Not doing anything strange. Just crouched near the edge of the yard, gathering something from the soil.
The first time it surprised you.
But when you mentioned it casually to Ajjumma Geun, the older woman waved her hand dismissively.
“Oh, that boy? Don’t mind him. We planted herbs along that fence years ago. Thyme, wild mint, medicinal roots… he probably just went to collect some.”
Yet the next night later...
You saw him again, pulling up herbs but this time he didn't bring any flashlight. You approach him, he noticed you,
"ah noona, good evening. ajjumma told me to grab herbs."
but why is he holding a pink fabric on his hand and not herbs near your clothesline?