The next morning, Soo Young stood against the yard's boundary wall, staring at the damp ground. Her uncle's return had shocked everyone at the house. Soo Young's mother was silent since he left the previous evening, only murmuring that a ghost had returned when the living still had unfinished business. This means that sometimes your past comes back, especially when you have not found forgiveness, closure, and peace.
Soo Young was confused whether her mother was doubtful or hopeful. Her uncle left without informing them when she was a child, and his absence was never spoken of positively. Now, his sudden return, older, weaker, eyes that held tiredness rather than danger, it felt like an old chapter was reopening in her life.
"Soo Young!" her mother called from the kitchen. "Go fetch more firewood. It'll rain tomorrow."
She nodded and moved toward the shed, trying to brush away the uneasy feeling.
In the afternoon, the village was bustling with unusual excitement. It was because the Women's Association and the schoolteacher were organizing a small event. "A Poetry and Calligraphy Competition", to celebrate the full moon festival. Koreans celebrate it to lift spirits, express gratitude, and wish for well-being and good days in the coming year.
Children ran around the village shouting, "Write a poem and win a chicken!" The elder women giggled over steaming pots, remembering how they used to scribble love poems on scraps of Kozo paper when they were young.
Jun Ho found Soo Young arranging the straw bundles in the yard.
"Did you hear?" he asked, breathless, with bright eyes. "A poetry contest. You should join."
Soo Young laughed bitterly. "Do I look like someone who has time to write poems?"
"You used to write all the time," Jun Ho said. "I remember. In school, your notebook was always full of poems, not math."
"That was a long time ago."
Jun Ho moved closer, his voice tone down. "You still have that in you. Just write one poem. You could win. Or at least… let people hear your words again."
She paused. Her fingers froze on the straw. In such a long time, she did not allow herself that kind of softness. For words to move naturally, for feelings to turn into language.
"I don't even have a paper," she said.
Jun Ho smirked. "I'll bring some."
Later in the evening, Jun Ho got her an old piece of paper and a borrowed pencil stump. Then, Soo Young sat near the kerosene lamp after her siblings were asleep. Her mother secretly saw her from the corner of the room once but said nothing. Soo Young was writing her poem in silence, slowly constructing sentences, like water flowing unexpectedly after a long time.
After she finished writing her poem, she didn't smile, but felt relieved.
On the day of the competition, the sky was clear and the wind was light and lively. Everyone gathered at the schoolyard, where benches and low tables had been placed. All the children were wearing clean clothes, and mothers and grandmothers came holding umbrellas and gossip, of course!
Mr. Min was the judge and also the schoolteacher. He was a young idealist when Soo Young was in school. His hair turned salt and pepper, and his voice carries the calm authority of someone who now expects less and appreciates the small things more often.
Soo Young was standing at the edge, holding her paper in her hands. Jun Ho stood beside her, hands in his pockets, offering reassurance.
"First up," Mr. Min announced, "We'll read the poems aloud. The best will be copied on rice paper and hung by the shrine tree."
Everyone clapped, half of them were serious, and half delighted. A few boys recited funny rhymes. One girl read a lyrical poem about her cow. Then, with a prod from Jun Ho, Soo Young stepped forward.
Her hands were slightly trembling while unfolding the paper. Then she began to read:
"The Things I Carry" By Soo Young
"I carry mornings in silence, and evenings that ask for nothing. The ache in my arms is old now, like an old friend who stays.
I carry the weight of rice sacks, and the sound of my siblings breathing. I carry my mother's silence and words I never learned to speak.
But some days, I carry sunlight in my pocket—and a wind that feels like hope.
I carry myself, and that is enough."
After reading her poem, the silence was louder than the claps. Mr. Min blinked hard behind his glasses. Children stopped jiggling. And someone at the back even sobbed.
Then a strong round of applause broke through the silence and grew louder, warmer, and unlike the claps for the other poems, which were polite, this was heartfelt.
Soo Young flushed and went straight to her seat. She was overwhelmed with the response and so much attention. Jun Ho looked at her and said, "I told you so."
After everyone was done, the teachers started pinning the poems to a long rope hanging between two trees. Mr. Min chose three winners: a clever haiku about village ducks, calligraphy by an elder, and Soo Young's "The Things I Carry."
Her name was called out with such pride that people who didn't know her looked at her respectfully as they passed. Some of them even asked her to write for their family altar.
She was not interested in the prize, which was a large pumpkin and a basket of dried anchovies, but she felt something unfold within her gently. Confidence? not exactly. Instead, something valuable.
That night, when Soo Young went home after the event, she saw that her mother was folding dried herbs inside.
"Your poem," her mother said, not looking directly at her. "It was good."
Soo Young held the prize basket tightly.
"I didn't know you remembered how to write like that."
"I didn't either," Soo Young replied quietly.
After a long silence, her mother added, "Your uncle read it too. He said it reminded him of your father."
Soo Young didn't say anything. She didn't know how to react to that. But she felt it settle deep within her chest, a seed was being planted. Or maybe a memory faded by time.
Outside her house, Jun Ho was waiting, loosely holding the string around his one hand that had held the poem banner. He took it down for her.
She came to him, tired but with a light heart.
"You always know what I need before I do," she said.
Jun Ho gazed at her for an extended moment. "That's because I've been watching you for a long time."
Soo Young stayed quiet. But this time, she didn't look away.
The wind became noticeably breezy, pulling at her sleeves.
This time, it stayed.