The golden hues of the setting sun cast a warm glow over the quiet streets of Gwonseon-gu, Suwon, as the town settles into its evening rhythm. It’s a far cry from the disharmony of Seoul, where life moves at breakneck speed. Here, in this modest suburban countryside, time seems to slow down, as if the town itself refuses to conform to the rush of the modern world. Rows of family-owned shops line the main street, their weathered signs telling stories of decades gone by. The warm light spilling from their windows illuminates the bustling yet gentle heart of the community.
Kim Ji-hoon pedals his bicycle down these familiar streets, his school bag slung over one shoulder, the evening breeze tousling his dark hair. The weight of the textbooks in his bag and the weight of his future on his shoulders feel a little lighter during these rides. It’s a short journey, just fifteen minutes from the high school to his house, but it’s enough to breathe in the essence of his neighborhood.
The local bakery on the corner, a small brick building with ivy creeping up its walls, sends waves of freshly baked bread aroma into the air. Ji-hoon smiles faintly as he passes it, reminded of the mornings when he would stop by for a red bean bun before school. Further down the street, the familiar sizzling of tteokbokki on a vendor’s grill blends with the chatter of a small group of high schoolers still in their uniforms, laughing and sharing snacks after their cram school.
Despite its quietness, Gwonseon-gu hums with life. A street vendor waves at Ji-hoon as he passes, a jovial man with a toothy grin who’s sold the same chestnuts in winter and bungeoppang in the cooler months for as long as Ji-hoon can remember. Ji-hoon raises a hand in acknowledgment, his mind wandering to the days when he and his younger siblings would scrape together their allowances to buy a single paper bag of the steaming snacks.
The streets blur as his legs work the pedals, his thoughts bouncing between memories and the future. It’s hard not to think about the looming college entrance exams, the be-all and end-all of every Korean high school senior’s life. His teachers had drilled into his class just this afternoon how these tests could shape their futures. For Ji-hoon, it felt as though his entire world depended on a single score, a single moment. But for now, as he rides through the gentle streets of his neighborhood, he allows himself to forget.
He turns onto a quieter street, the chatter of the main road fading into the stillness of the residential area. The houses here are modest but full of character. Each one has its own little story, with gardens in varying states of care and bicycles or scooters propped against gates. Ji-hoon spots Mrs. Hwang, the elderly widow who lives two houses down from his own. She’s crouched in her garden, tending to her bright marigolds, her weathered hands moving with deliberate care. She straightens up as he passes and gives him a warm smile, her presence a constant in this neighborhood for as long as Ji-hoon can remember.
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Finally, Ji-hoon arrives at his home. The small two-story house sits tucked into a quiet corner of the neighborhood, its facade painted in soft cream with dark brown trim. A wrought-iron gate opens into a tiny front yard, where patches of soil are brimming with the vibrancy of green plants and colorful flowers. His mother’s handiwork, no doubt. She’s always had a knack for sweet talking life out of the soil, her little garden a reflection of her unwavering care for her family.
Ji-hoon dismounts his bike, resting it against the side of the gate before opening it with a soft creak. The house radiates warmth, even from the outside. The faint scent of something delicious wafts through the kitchen window, carried on the breeze. It’s the familiar smell of soybean paste stew, his mother’s go-to dish for nights when the family gathers at the dinner table. Ji-hoon breathes in deeply, his stomach growling in response.
Inside, the house is filled with the comforting sounds of home. The distant hum of the television echoes from the living room, where his younger brother, Ji-sung, is likely sprawled on the floor, his homework abandoned in favor of cartoons. From upstairs comes the muffled voice of his younger sister, Ji-yeon, probably on the phone with her best friend, giggling over something trivial but important in the way only teenage girls can understand.
As Ji-hoon steps inside, his mother’s voice greets him from the kitchen. “You’re home, Ji-hoon! Wash up, dinner’s almost ready.”
“I’m starving, eomma,” he replies, slipping out of his shoes and setting his bag down by the door. He steps into the small kitchen, where his mother is stirring a pot on the stove. The rich aroma of the stew fills the air, and Ji-hoon’s mouth waters.
His mother glances over her shoulder and smiles at him, her face glowing with the kind of warmth only a parent can exude. She looks tired, though. Her days are long, managing the household and helping at the neighborhood community center, but she never complains. Ji-hoon knows how much she sacrifices for their family, and it fuels his determination to do well in school — to give her the life she deserves.
Challenges lie ahead — the exams, the expectations, the uncertainty of the future — but Ji-hoon knows he’s not alone. Here, in this small house on this quiet street in Gwonseon-gu, he has a family who loves him, a town that feels like home, and a ride through the streets that reminds him, even if just for a moment, that life is more than its pressures. It’s these moments that ground him, that give him strength to face whatever comes next.
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