“What is this? You want to work in place of your mother? Here, at Domyeongjae?”
Ten minutes had passed since Yeonwoo first met Chief Moon Ok-rye—a woman who seemed forged from armor, leaving not a single gap in her composure. Yeonwoo had laid out her mother’s condition in painstaking detail and presented the medical certificate.
To Chief Moon, who had skimmed the document with a bored flick of her eyes, Yeonwoo’s plea to take her mother’s shift sounded preposterous. The reality did not flow as Yeonwoo had hoped. Chief Moon stared at her with such open ridicule that Yeonwoo felt her resolve shatter, forcing her to swallow a thick lump of shame.
The sharp gaze peering over the Chief’s small-framed glasses only made her aura feel more biting.
“Your name?”
“Ji Yeonwoo.”
“Age?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“Huh. Twenty-nine.”
A sigh of indecipherable intent hissed through Chief Moon’s teeth. She scanned Yeonwoo from head to toe, dissecting her posture, before finally lowering the medical certificate.
“It is regrettable your mother was injured, but one cannot blame anyone for tripping and falling on her own feet.”
The precise, sharp-edged articulation of Moksan-Gun dialect felt particularly cruel today.
“Besides, we are short-handed, but we cannot simply hire anyone. A substitute must possess a certain dignity and fit the framework of this place.”
“Ah…”
As a disbelieving sigh escaped Yeonwoo, Chief Moon shook her head with even greater stubbornness. The answer was a flat refusal.
“And most importantly, you’re too late. The job posting is closed, the interview schedule is set, and you should be focused on nursing your mother, not here.”
“Wait, Chief, please, just a moment.”
As Chief Moon rose, Yeonwoo scrambled to follow, clutching at her sleeve. When the Chief’s fierce gaze latched onto her, Yeonwoo rushed her words.
“Then what happens to my mother? Will she be able to return to work once she’s discharged?”
“Work? Once I find a replacement, that door closes. Your mother knows that better than anyone, doesn’t she? Domyeongjae is a place where if a vacancy occurs, one leaves without a word. That has been our long-standing promise. If your mother knows it well, go ask her yourself.”
“But, Chief!”
As Chief Moon walked toward the lobby, Yeonwoo followed, trailing her like a shadow. Chief Moon arched a brow, her expression radiating impatience.
“What is it? What now!”
“Ah, yes? Well, that is…”
Yeonwoo felt crushed under the weight of the Chief’s icy, high-pitched reprimand.
“I told you no, yet you insist on dragging this out. Domyeongjae is governed by principle and rule. This isn’t a place where we yield just because someone comes here and throws a tantrum. Do you understand?”
“But…”
“The staff at Domyeongjae are chosen by my hand alone. It is not a favor I grant upon request. As long as I am standing here with my eyes open, there will be no exceptions. Forget about working in your mother’s place—what could you even do with wrists as thin as toothpicks?”
“……”
As Yeonwoo stammered, flustered and defeated, Chief Moon dusted off her sleeves and clicked her tongue. She turned and vanished, leaving behind a draft of cold air that signaled the finality of her decision.
Her mother’s resignation was inevitable, and the chance to work in her stead was gone.
It was the worst possible outcome for both of them.
*
The groundbreaking ceremony was a grand affair, drawing a crowd of political and business elites. As the tape was cut, a cascade of colorful balloons surged into the sky. Reporters’ shutters clicked in a frantic rhythm, and Nam Seongheon, Executive Director of Seoryang Construction, stood at the center, drawing the most focused light.
Lost in a sea of shifting alliances and calculated interests, Seongheon repeated formalities for nearly half a day. He navigated the boisterous, aimless chatter with practiced caution, careful that his words could never be turned against him.
“You prepared well. It was excellent.”
After the ceremony, back within the walls of Domyeongjae, Seongheon strolled along the promenade with his aunt, Chairperson Nam Yoon-young. As the head of Seoryang Group, she oversaw every affiliate with a steady hand.
At the praise, Seongheon shook his head slightly.
“The President prepared far more than I did. Please give the credit to him. He will be pleased to hear it.”
“Credit, my foot. Does your aunt not know her own younger brother’s personality? He was likely too busy just accepting whatever his nephew spoon-fed him. I can see it clearly without even looking.”
Seongheon chuckled at her candor, keeping his own thoughts guarded.
Chairperson Nam Yoon-young paced beside him, her gaze wandering to the manicured landscape. Japanese quince bushes burst with vermilion flowers, while the cornelian cherry trees, still bare of red fruit, turned a pale, hopeful yellow—the first signs of spring.
Amidst the color, a magnolia tree stood with white buds rising like the purity of a spirit. A smile touched the Chairperson’s lips.
“Your mother loved magnolias.”
As she breathed in deeply, as if to catch a phantom scent, Seongheon halted.
“The magnolia trees here were all planted by your father because she loved them. There was no husband more devoted than he was.”
Having lost his parents in a childhood accident, Seongheon had been raised by his aunt; she was the only mother he had known.
“If your mom and dad could have watched you today, they would have been so proud. Right?”
Chairperson Nam Yoon-young turned to look at him, her eyes clouded with memory. Seongheon had been only four. He remembered the accident as a sudden, sharp silence. At that age, he had viewed heaven as a distant country—like America, across the globe—convinced that if he only waited, they would eventually return.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought up the past on such a good day. It’s just that I am so proud of you today.”
“I know. Please, don’t worry about it. I don’t have any particular reaction to those stories anymore.”
At his indifferent tone—as if he were discussing a stranger’s life printed in a newspaper column—Chairperson Nam Yoon-young studied him for a long, quiet moment.
His height, his perfectly balanced features, the distinct, masculine line of his throat—all of it was striking. Yet, his closed lips, which rarely yielded to a smile, seemed to draw people in all the more.
“You grew up so well, our Seongheon. Having you here makes your aunt feel truly secure.”
She smiled softly, smoothing the lapel of his suit, finding comfort in the solid breadth of his shoulders.
It was then.
A manager with graying hair, pulled back into a severe bun, approached them. It was Chief Moon Ok-rye, the woman who commanded the domestic staff of Domyeongjae.
“Ah, so this is where you were.”
Chairperson Nam Yoon-young turned to her. Chief Moon was the most powerful figure among the staff, a fixture here for decades.
“What brings you here, Chief Moon?”
Chief Moon folded her hands respectfully. She briefly summarized the morning’s accident and noted that the staff member’s leave would likely be indefinite. She needed to hire a replacement.
“Chief Moon, you should handle those matters on your own. Surely you don’t need my permission for such things?”
“Usually, no. But when you are present, Chairperson, I must ask. It is the law of our Domyeongjae.”
The Chairperson nodded, unbothered. Employment was the Chief’s domain.
As they exchanged minor pleasantries, a young woman walked slowly beneath the magnolia trees. Seongheon, who had been silently listening to the dialogue, let his gaze drift toward the movement, and he immediately recognized her.
She was the woman from the bus stop this morning.
*
“That’s a face I haven’t seen before.”
The Chairperson noted her, casting a casual, curious glance toward the girl. Chief Moon, looking back to identify her, replied, “Yes. She is the daughter of the injured employee. She came to drop off the medical certificate and is on her way out.”
“Ah. An employee’s daughter.”
At the mention, Seongheon’s brows flickered. Unaware of the attention, Yeonwoo walked on, her eyes unfocused and her step lacking any real direction.
She was young, yet there was a total absence of vitality in her movements. Was it her nature, or the weight of the moment? A stray, useless curiosity pricked at him. He didn’t look away until she had vanished from sight.
“Oh, Chief Moon. I almost forgot to mention—we need to talk about the event at Domyeongjae next month.”
“Yes, I was intending to ask about that myself.”
As the Chief spoke, Seongheon offered a brief nod of dismissal.
“Then please, carry on.”
“Yes, Seongheon. See you at dinner.”
Chairperson Nam Yoon-young turned toward the main building with the Chief. Seongheon remained motionless, then turned his gaze back toward the path the woman had taken.
Even after they had left, she hadn’t gone far. She walked with a heavy, hesitant gait, taking two steps before stopping, then two more, then halting again.
Seongheon, who had been watching silently with his hands tucked into his pockets, finally took a step. His polished dress shoes traced a straight line along the edge of the pond.
He reached her quickly. The sound of his steady, rhythmic stride was inches away, but she seemed deaf to his presence. He stopped just behind her, close enough that she looked small enough to be held in a single arm’s reach.
“If you go that way, you will only be moving further from the exit.”
Beneath the budding magnolia leaves, she looked back.
…Wait. Just for a moment.
It felt as though the world had caught its breath, and time froze between them.
The weeping willows, drooping like an old man’s beard, cast shifting shadows over the pond, intoxicated by the spring air. *Swoosh—* the wind rose, the rustle of leaves echoing with sudden, jarring clarity. As if waking from a trance, Seongheon blinked, then met her eyes.
Hands still tucked into his pockets, he continued, his voice calm.
“If you are lost, I will help you.”
It was a guiding gesture he would never have thought to offer.