The next morning, the sky was full of clouds and fog. The Ganghwa Island felt rooted in quietude, which stirred the heart, as if waiting for something to reveal that was long buried.
Soo Young stood at the door, shawl tightly draped around her shoulders, and the letter folded against her chest beneath her blouse. Uncle Dae Sik appeared from the narrow back street, wearing an old, faded military jacket. He brought with him a bundle wrapped in cloth consisting of a flashlight, a thermos of barley tea, and something she couldn't see.
"You ready?" he asked, in a low voice, damp with the morning chill.
She nodded. "Do you think we'll find it today?"
"I think your father meant for you to."
Jun Ho was waiting for them at the end of the path, carrying his canvas satchel across his chest, and his sleeves rolled up as he was headed to fix a roof and not chasing a ghost.
A large forest stretched ahead, wet soil scent rising from between the trees. The trail they were following didn't feel like a trail anymore, instead, it was a faded memory between thorns and ferns. Birds were singing remotely, but even their song felt alarming.
As they climbed, the silence grew. Soo Young was trying to match the steady pace of Dae Sik, but she was short of breath with every upward turn. Jun Ho looked back at her once, his eyes asking if she was alright. She nodded
"Why did Appa choose this place?" she asked after a prolonged silence.
"Because no one would come looking here," Dae Sik said. "Even during the worst of the crackdowns, soldiers avoided these woods. Too steep. Too easy to get lost."
As they crossed a mossy boulder, looking like a crouching dog. Dae Sik paused. "From here, it's not on any map."
They moved slowly after that point, descending into deep canyons and thick brush. Finally, they entered a narrow clearing where pine trees were arranged in geometric patterns, planted by humans long ago.
They moved slowly beyond that point, navigating steep gullies and thick brush. At last, they entered a narrow clearing where pine trees stood in unnatural rows, planted by human hands long ago. It was like walking into a forgotten cathedral of green trees.
At the center was a sunken area of Earth with crumbling stones at the border, blackened by fire and time.
"Your father used to call this place the 'second kitchen,' Dae Sik said, with a strange, gentle tone. "Because it's where secrets were cooked."
He sat on one knee and started pulling aside the dry bark, pine needles, and buried memories. Soo Young joined him too, fingers shivering. Then thunk. Wood. Covered in oilcloth and sealed with waxed string.
She then looked at Dae Sik, who nodded, and handed the bundle to her.
With Jun Ho controlling the lid, she unwrapped the waxed cloth and opened the rusted box. Inside were folded papers, turned yellow with time, and a small leather-covered notebook.
And no radio.
But something real. Something her father had held, touched, hidden, and entrusted the earth to protect.
They sat on the stone ring, breath steaming in the cold air, flipping through the notebook page by page. The leather cover creaked with age.
It was a log and not a diary.
The handwriting was small and neat. Lines of dates, names, and code phrases. Mentions of "safe nights," "marked trees," and "weather cleared." Then, there was a hand-drawn sketch of the village with a secret X at the back of the old rice mill.
"He kept records," Jun Ho whispered. "Not for himself. For someone else. Or maybe for you."
"There were rumors," Dae Sik said, voice tight. "That he was helping ferry messages and people across Incheon, both directions. Refugees. Spies. Idealists. People the world didn't want to exist."
Soo Young was slowly turning pages. One page just had a date, hers, and just one word beneath it: Safe.
She blinked as her eyes became teary. He was not just living quietly. He was protecting, resisting, and planning in silence. And he had marked her birth date not with joy, but with safety.
Jun Ho placed a hand on her shoulder.
"Even then," she murmured, "he was preparing for a storm."
Later, when they returned to the village, Soo Young felt the trees draw her thoughts. Something had changed inside her, something deep and heavy. The past no longer felt unseen, but a rising tide.
The streets were quiet, but not peacefully so. As they reached the market square, a man caught her eye, standing beside the payphone, wearing a dark coat. He seemed incongruous. Very neat. Very tall. His shoes were too clean for a fisherman or farmer. He held the phone receiver in one hand and was scanning the road with the other.
When Soo Young and Jun Ho passed, he paused mid-sentence and turned to watch them.
"You know him?" Jun Ho asked.
"No," she said, but her voice cracked.
That evening, they stayed home. She hid the box beneath the floorboards in her room. Jun ho tiptoed, and Dae Sik sat with legs crossed, sharpening an old penknife. Nobody said anything. The air was tense.
Then someone knocked at the gate. It was Tae Soo.
"I saw someone near the schoolyard," he said. "Not one of ours. Looked like he was checking the side fences."
Jun Ho glared. "The same man from the payphone?"
Tae Soo nodded. "Didn't look like someone passing through."
Soo Young looked at them, heart pounding. "They're here for the notebook. Or the tape. Or both."
Dae Sik looked at the blade in his hand. "Then we move quickly."
The night, Soo Young sat beside the oil lamp, the notebook's pages fanned across the floor like autumn leaves. Routes. Maps. Names. And the repeated reference to "the signal that travels without feet."
The magnetic tape hadn't been played yet. They needed a recorder. Somewhere in the village, maybe in the old schoolhouse loft or someone's home, one might exist. But time was shortening.
Outside, the wind was rustling across the persimmon tree. The shadows shifted.
A soft knock at the window.
Soo Young opened the window, and Jun Ho stood outside, with a pale face under the moonlight.
She let him inside.
"I remembered something," he said. "About the rice mill."
"What?"
"After it burned down, I helped the elders clear out the back. There was a crawl space under the far wall. Deep enough to hide a dog. Or a child. Or maybe… a box."
She caught her breath.
"You think…?"
Jun Ho nodded. "Your father marked it for a reason."
They sat together in warm lamplight, the room full of silence except for the distant sound of waves gently lapping against the shore. In that silence, a new certainty was formed: not all secrets can be kept.