Chapter 94: The Weight of One’s Own Story

“It’s me.”

Author Oh Hee-kyung emerged calmly from the darkness.

‘Wait, how did she manage to find me in this pitch-black mountain hollow without even using a flashlight?’

I shone the flashlight I’d borrowed from the monk in the direction of the sound, then quickly lowered it.

Only then did Author Oh Hee-kyung squint at the intense beam, before relaxing with a gentle smile.

“Did you know I’d be here, Author?”

“I heard you’ve been borrowing light from Venerable Jin-gwan every night. I figured you’d be here.”

“The spot is really nice.”

“It is, isn’t it?”

“I’m not interrupting, am I?”

“Of course not. From the very first time I showed you this place, I hoped you’d come and go as you pleased, Geosa-nim. This temple, these stones—they belong to no one. Same goes for those stars.”

I sat side by side with Author Oh Hee-kyung atop the rock, tilting my head all the way back to gaze at the stars.

“Lee Writer, when you have time, would you look over my script?”

“Sorry?”

Author Oh Hee-kyung pushed a stack of prepared A4 sheets toward me.

“Can I… read your script, Author Oh?”

“I’m curious how Geosa-nim Lee Jung-hyuk will see it.”

I accepted Author Oh Hee-kyung’s brand new, piping-hot script—the sort she never showed anyone and never let outside.

It felt as though I had discovered a secret manual, like a martial artist stumbling upon a lost tome.

At that moment, a vibration sounded from somewhere.

Had I unearthed an ancient text buried for a thousand years, setting heaven and earth trembling?

Author Oh Hee-kyung took out her phone from her pocket and answered.

“Yes, PD-nim. I sent the script by email. Yes, let’s do that.”

“Huh? You have a cell phone, Author?”

“Of course? I’m a modern person too.”

“...Come to think of it, do you write on a laptop, then?”

“Who writes by hand these days? What era do you think this is? Let’s head back now. It’s cold.”

Author Oh Hee-kyung turned on her phone’s flashlight, brightly illuminating the pitch-dark mountain path, and safely descended.

For some reason, I felt a strange sense of betrayal.

The image I’d had of her, writing out each line of dialogue with a perfectly sharpened pencil by lamplight on manuscript paper, suddenly seemed awkward and out of place.

“Well, take your time reading. Give me feedback whenever you like.”

Author Oh Hee-kyung escorted me to my room, then quickly disappeared.

Truly... an inscrutable person.

‘Indeed. How could a mere mortal hope to understand a Buddha?’

I was reminded of something an assistant writer once said to me.

I returned to my room and opened Author Oh Hee-kyung’s script, formatted in a neat Hangul file just like any other writer’s—typed crisply on a computer.

For a moment, I genuinely wondered when someone who wakes up at dawn with the monks, attends services, bows, helps with chores, prepares meals, and even hosts tea gatherings, could possibly find the time to write.

But that curiosity vanished as I began to read the bewildering developments of the opening scene—the hand turning the pages froze.

A national sports star heroine, injured, returns to her rural hometown for rehabilitation.

There, she encounters her high school rival, the insufferable neighborhood grandmothers, and even a male lead reminiscent of Mr. Hong.

‘Hmm. The plot is more predictable than I expected.’

The female protagonist, a former athlete now injured, moves about in a wheelchair, facing many restrictions.

Closed off after her accident, she’s emotionally shut herself away from her family, friends, and neighbors.

On top of that, she believes the grandmothers come and go from her yard, stealing things at will, and she distrusts the neighbors, convinced they’re meddling to hinder her rehabilitation.

Gradually, as she meets the male lead who acts as the local Mr. Hong, she starts to open her heart.

The stubborn, self-centered protagonist finds healing for her wounded spirit through the warm-hearted male lead, comes to objectively accept her injured condition, and moves forward in life.

The lives of the battle-hardened grandmothers are themselves the stories of mothers, fathers, grandmothers, and grandfathers one might find anywhere around us.

Reading the script, it felt like eating a plain beef radish soup without any seasoning.

Yet the depth was akin to a broth simmered for nights on end.

A thick humanity burrowed deep into my chest.

Once, I might have dismissed this as predictable and melodramatic, but now each line of dialogue, each bit of description, struck home.

‘Oh Hee-kyung is Oh Hee-kyung.’

The people I’d met while eating, sleeping, and living at the temple for nearly ten days.

The trio of laywomen, the still-childish temple boys, the abbot, the kitchen manager, the laymen—people I would never have encountered in normal life all thrown together under one roof, and through them, I’d come to know the scent of real people.

Up until now, working on dramas, I’d only met a limited range of people, always talking to those in the industry, constantly scheming for trendier, more conventional ways to write.

‘Right. This is what drama really is.’

Something so obvious hit me hard on the back of the neck.

A story redolent with humanity, one that never grows stale.

A tale where your story feels like mine, and mine, in turn, becomes someone else’s—stories of real people living real lives.

Only then did I realize why the characters and dialogue that Oh Hee-kyung creates, and the humanism within them, feel fundamentally different from my own writing.

I’d always chalked it up to differences in life experience and individual talent.

“Oh? What’s this.”

I felt something hot drip from my eyes.

By the time I’d read up to Act 4 of Oh Hee-kyung’s script, tears were streaming down my face before I even realized it.

Until now, the stories I wrote always started from some special class or unusual circumstance.

Twin brothers, a gangster-turned-chef, dysfunctional couples, a psychic female doctor and a killer, even King Sejong’s story.

All instant attention-grabbers, designed to capture viewers’ interest at once.

But it was hard for my work to exude the rich scent of humanity that Oh Hee-kyung’s writing did.

The people in my dramas were, in the end, simply protagonists for a drama.

Special, simply because they were the main characters, doing what only protagonists could do.

But in Oh Hee-kyung’s dramas, it felt like I too could find myself in those situations at any time, feeling the same emotions, laughing and crying in empathy.

With careful unraveling, even the stories of ordinary people could be interesting enough.

I realized I’d been living, forgetting this obvious truth.

And since it moved me so deeply, there could be no better drama than this.

“How was the script?”

Though it was late, I immediately went to find Author Oh Hee-kyung.

“It was wonderful.”

“I see.”

“And about those stars you told me to look at, Author. You were right. I lived in Seoul and thought, ‘Ah, this is good enough—I can see the stars pretty well.’ I never even thought to look for more.”

“Is that so? And now?”

“I was foolish.”

“No. Writer Lee, you’re not foolish. Anyone living in Seoul would only see that many stars.”

“Is that why you stay at this temple?”

“Yes, exactly. With so many stars right here, why would I live in crowded Seoul?”

Author Oh Hee-kyung let out her signature breezy laugh.

A round halo seemed to radiate behind her.

For a moment, it looked like a circle of light shone on her forehead.

“Now then, looks like Geosa-nim will be needing a laptop, too.”

Author Oh Hee-kyung took a laptop from her wardrobe and handed it to me.

“Huh? Why a laptop in your wardrobe? No, more importantly, why are you giving this to me...?”

“It’s time for you to return to being a writer. Don’t you want to write again?”

She was right.

From the moment I started reading Oh Hee-kyung’s script, my whole body had been itching to write again.

I wanted to savor my own stories, to chew, tear, and enjoy my own writing.

“Thank you, Author. I’ll try writing once more.”

Back in my room, I bathed and sat down in front of the laptop.

Tomorrow was my last day, so I was allowed to skip morning prayers and the communal meal—gratefully, I started to write.

Light leaked through the crack of the door, letting me know it was morning.

Knock knock—a gentle sound, and two large rice balls and a tangerine were left at my door, letting me know it was time to eat.

Other than that, I didn’t even go to the bathroom—just set the laptop on the low folding table and wrote.

“Ughhh...”

I didn’t even notice how much time had passed, sitting for so long and standing up.

As I stretched, a sigh of relief escaped me.

After being completely blocked by writer’s block, I finally finished Episode 21 of .

Chirp, chirp, chirp—the sound of mountain birds came through, and when I opened the door, cool, clear air pricked my nose.

Soon after, the sound of the early-morning temple bell rang out.

I quickly washed up, changed into my robes, and headed to the main hall.

Then, bow after bow, I prayed with all my heart.

Even after a thousand prostrations, I felt lighter than ever.

As always, I joined the trio of laywomen heading to the kitchen.

“Why didn’t you show up yesterday?”

“He must be worn out. It’s amazing that he lasted over a week, at his age.”

“That’s right. When I was his age? Forget a temple—I wouldn’t even glance at one if Buddha’s own grandfather appeared before me.”

“Unfortunately, today’s probably my last day. I came to say goodbye to you ladies.”

“What?”

All three laywomen turned to look at me.

A hint of regret flashed through their six eyes, then quickly vanished.

“That’s how it is. Every meeting comes with a parting, too.”

“Geosa-nim, you’ll do well at anything you try. Just keep living that way.”

“But if we come to Seoul, you’ll hang out with us, right?”

Having my phone confiscated, trembling through a thousand bows, enduring the stinky outhouse with just a handkerchief instead of toilet paper—there were plenty of reasons to descend the mountain at any time, but what really kept me here were these people.

The warmth I hadn’t felt since my mother.

What they gave me was so much more than just the desire to write again.

“Of course. Please do come. I’ll treat you to delicious food and give you a Seoul tour.”

“Ooh, that’s a promise!”

We cleaned our plates, wiping even the last speck of kimchi and red pepper powder with pickled radish, then moved to the pavilion for tea.

As always, we sat in a circle, calmly sharing our stories.

As usual, I was last.

Seated in the center, Author Oh Hee-kyung looked at me for a moment, then spoke.

“Well, shall we end today’s tea here?”

“Excuse me.”

I quietly raised my hand.

“Would it be all right if I shared a bit of my story?”

Having never once told my story, a dozen faces looked at me with surprise.

Only Author Oh Hee-kyung nodded, as if she’d been expecting it all along.

In my life, I’d never told anyone my story for so long.

The words were far more condensed than what I’d said to Author Oh Hee-kyung, but sharing this with people unrelated to my life, who I might only see a handful of times more at best, felt so unfamiliar.

But the more I spoke, the lighter my body and mind felt.

Strangely, it was as if I’d become that Greek god condemned to endlessly roll a boulder uphill, finally enduring the long, arduous everyday life.

And so, after ten days, I was able to share my story with the people I’d lived alongside.