Sihoo, informed by Hayoon about a potential streamer visit to 56804, hoped they’d eat quietly without disturbing others. Chopping vegetables and beans, he muttered, “A streamer? Just another customer enjoying my food. I’ll treat them the same.”
His hands moved swiftly. Chop, chop.
Buzz. Hayoon checked a text, opening the “Fact Check” channel. “1.2 million subscribers, 5,000 live chatters? Big channel,” he noted. The message was about scheduling a visit from Ddakddaguri, but the proposed times clashed with 56804’s hours.
Hayoon muttered, “This guy’s timing is awful.” He replied, [Those times don’t work. If you want to visit, we can reserve a spot at 9:30 a.m. Otherwise, it’s tough. Thanks for thinking of 56804.]
Beep. Ddakddaguri, aka Kim Cheolsu, sighed at the response. “What’s with this place?” Frustrated, he brushed back his hair and sent a new visit date, ignoring Hayoon’s reply.
Beep. Another message: [Sorry, that’s our regular closing day.]
Cheolsu shouted, “Argh!” startling his upstairs neighbor, who yelled, “Keep it down! You live alone?”
Cheolsu’s shoulders slumped. “Gotta move out of this place.”
Sihoo, as usual, wandered the field after waking. Gazing at distant mountains, he mused, “Wild herbs, mushrooms, fruits up there…” Mountains were a treasure trove of ingredients. Locals sometimes find 300-year-old ginseng. Greed sparked—fields, seas, mountains, all here. If I had rice paddies and labor, I could make doenjang, gochujang…
Snapping his fingers, he decided to use the diner’s day off to visit Haran Market. On the bus, he planned to bury crocks in the field for fermenting. At the market’s pottery shop, wind chimes tinkled as the owner approached. “Hello, what kind of crocks are you looking for?”
Sihoo’s eyes widened at the array of crocks. So many types? Sensing his hesitation, the owner smiled. “Here for your mom?”
“No, I’m buying crocks for fermenting,” Sihoo said.
The owner’s face lit up. “A young guy fermenting? Rare these days.” He recalled his youth, when mothers bought crocks for homemade sauces, a practice now overshadowed by commercial brands. “What size do you need?”
Sihoo glanced around, asking about crocks for burying versus platforms. The owner, assuming a standalone house with a yard, showed him medium-sized crocks. “They need to breathe well,” he said, tapping one. Clink. “A clear, bright sound, glossy surface—that’s a good crock.”
He handed Sihoo a quality test certificate. Sihoo nodded, reading it. “These could last buried for years.” With permission, he tapped and inspected each crock, impressing the owner with his thoroughness. “This one, that one, and those,” Sihoo decided, recalling Master Yoon Sookhee’s advice: Always inspect crocks in person.
The owner promised delivery and took Sihoo’s address. “You came far. I’ll call before delivery.”
Sihoo thanked him and left, withdrawing cash from a bank. The warm spring sun lit the streets. Feeling uplifted, he explored Haran Market, reminiscing about childhood visits with his parents. He spotted elderly vendors trimming vegetables on the ground, their hands bony. His heart ached.
“Grandma, how much for perilla leaves and wild chives?” he asked.
The vendor, hard of hearing, didn’t look up. Sihoo raised his voice. “Perilla leaves and chives, how much?”
She glanced up. “Didn’t hear you. Three thousand won per bundle?”
She packed a handful into a black bag. “You here for your mom, student?”
Sihoo smiled, handing her a 10,000-won bill. “Keep the change.”
“What?” she asked, reaching for change.
“Sell lots, grandma,” he said, grabbing the bag and leaving quickly.
Thirsty, Sihoo searched for a café near the market. Spotting a man with a smartphone, seemingly streaming, he grinned. That’s him. Recognizing Ddakddaguri, Sihoo leaned against a wall, waiting for the broadcast to end.
Step, step. As Cheolsu packed his phone and tripod, approaching Sihoo’s direction, their eyes met as he passed.
“Huh?” Cheolsu froze.
Sihoo’s lips curved into a gentle smile.
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