The next morning, the sun returned as if nothing had happened. The yard glowed with golden light, shimmering off puddles and baking the stones surrounded by the fallen socks, now so stiff and dry like forgotten flags. The chickens squawked near the gate, and an axe's sound echoed from a distance, steady and sure.
Soo Young was rinsing rice at the basin, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. The water flowed clear, then cloudy, then clear again. Her thoughts strayed.
Her father's voice from the last reel stayed with her the entire night, not like a ghost but like a thread she was being pulled along. Every word her father said and every hesitation in his speech resided deep within her.
Jun Ho appeared and stepped into the yard, carrying a bundle of sticks. His pace was relaxed, but his eyes were searching for her. And when he saw her, he smiled at her, the kind of smile that asks nothing but says everything.
"Did you sleep?" he asked.
"A little," she said, cleaning her hands. "You?"
"I dreamt about a wheel that kept spinning. No matter what I did, it wouldn't stop."
She leaned her head. "Sounds tiring."
"It was," he said. "But I woke up with an idea."
She raised an eyebrow.
"We should talk to Teacher Min."
Soo Young asked. "The old schoolteacher?"
Jun Ho nodded. "He used to help deliver messages during the war. If your father was helping people… there's a chance Teacher Min knew something. Maybe even worked with him."
Soo Young paused. "He doesn't leave his house much these days."
"He doesn't have to. I'll go with you."
They planned to go after lunch, when the sun would've melted the remaining dampness from the paths.
Inside, the house was filled with weekend energy. Her siblings were fighting over who would carry the water jug to the well, while her mother was sitting on the porch, spreading herbs on a mat to dry in the sun. Even Tae Soo, who didn't stay long these days, was helping to clean the wood, his motions thoughtful.
Everything felt a little calm and composed.
After lunch, Soo Young wore a scarf around her neck and kept her father's note in her jacket's pocket. She didn't know why she was keeping it, maybe it was a lucky charm, or maybe a defense.
They walked to Teacher Min's home, which took them on a winding trail behind the village, where the aged ginkgo trees tilted like elders in prayer. His house was just behind the bend, hemmed by organized books, rusting tools, and a headstrong dog that barked once, then lay back down as if the effort had cost too much.
Teacher Min opened the door after hearing his dog bark, before they knocked. His face had aged with the years, but his eyes still had that spark that he had once taught children how to dream bigger than their lives.
"Jun Ho," he said, voice husky but kind. "And Soo Young. I wondered when one of you would come."
"You knew we'd come?" she asked.
He gave a crooked smile. "Your father told me once. If anyone ever came asking about the radio, it would be you."
After exchanging looks. Jun Ho stepped forward. "Then you knew?"
"I knew enough not to ask too many questions," Teacher Min said, stepping aside. "Come in. Tea's warm."
Inside, the smell of ink and dried persimmons filled the house. Bookshelves leaning against the walls, full of maps and documents, many turned yellow and faded with age. A kettle bubbled quietly on the hearth.
"I'll be honest," he said as they sat. "There was a time I thought your father was a fool. He risked everything, his business, his name for people he barely knew."
Soo Young listened carefully, her hands wrapped around the warm teacup.
"But now," he continued, "I think maybe he understood something the rest of us forgot. That sometimes, being a father isn't just about what you provide, but what you leave behind."
Jun Ho shifted. "He left behind stories. People."
"And questions," Soo Young added.
"Yes," Teacher Min said gently. "But questions are seeds. If they're good ones, they grow into something stronger."
He pulled out an old register, worn and faded. "He used to send names through me sometimes. I didn't keep copies, but I remember the handwriting. I could never tell if it was shaky from fear or urgency."
They thumbed through the register, and though no names matched with what was on the reel, some surnames overlapped. Soo Young wrote them down in a small notebook she brought with her. They were strings, and strings could be followed.
As they were leaving, Teacher Min offered a reassuring touch on Soo Young's shoulder.
"You're not him," he said. "But you carry his fire. That's not a burden. That's a gift."
She nodded, eyes prickling. "Thank you."
They quietly walked back home, but it was a peaceful, enveloping silence. Not heavy, just full.
They reached the village just before the wind picked up again. Downstream, children were floating boats made of bark and leaves. One boy called out to Jun Ho, waving a twisted stick like a sword.
"You said you'd play today!"
Jun Ho looked at Soo Young, embarrassed. "I may have made a promise yesterday."
"Go," she said, nudging him. "You're a terrible liar. They'll see through you."
He smiled and walked toward the group, his laughter carried by the breeze. Soo Young sat near the path a while longer, watching them. Something about that scene made her smile, which felt like a sunrise from inside her chest.
As she reached home, the yard was full of voices. Uncle Dae Sik was back from the hills with a sack of sweet potatoes, and Tae Soo was trying to convince him to teach him how to make a fish trap.
"You'll lose a finger," Dae Sik said, "but maybe you'll learn something."
Inside, her mother was arranging old letters. She looked up and waved Soo Young over.
"This one came for you," she said.
Soo Young was surprised. "For me?"
It was a simple envelope with no return address. Only her name was mentioned, written in an irregular style.
She opened it slowly.
Inside was a black and white photograph, faded, a man, a woman, and a baby standing in front of a village store. The man was her father.
But the woman was someone else.
And on the back, in small, careful script:
"You don't know me. But I think we share the same story."
Soo Young was staring at the words for a long time. Then, without saying anything to her mother, she put the letter down, went outside into the late afternoon light, and looked toward the hills.
A wind shifted.
And deep in her bones, she knew:
The story wasn't over.
Not yet.