Chapter Twenty-Three
The pine gate was open.
It was open from the inside.
It was open by the steady hand of an older creature who had — by seventy-three years of cedar-box discipline of latching every Sunday afternoon at four-oh-one — learned not to leave the pine gate of the Bukchon compound latched at four o'clock on a Tuesday afternoon in March of 2026, against the four-instrument arrangement become five at half-past eleven on the Tuesday morning of the Tuesday-Thursday rehearsal room of the JL building above the Hangang.
He had opened it himself at eleven-fifteen.
He had not, on the maru of the middle hanok at eleven-fifteen on Tuesday morning of March of 2026, in the lifting jeong-seol, gone back inside the anbang.
He had stayed — by the mirrored wall of the rehearsal room at eleven-twelve — at the lower step of the maru of the middle hanok of the Bukchon compound on the clear cold winter morning of a Tuesday in March of 2026: the creature who had been, for seventy-three years, the one creature in the Bukchon compound on a Sunday afternoon at four-oh-one, and who was no longer, by the five-instrument arrangement, the one creature.
He had stayed at the lower step of the maru for the four hours and forty-five minutes the Genesis of the JL building was — on the unhurried Tuesday-morning Hannam-Bukchon loop and the clean unsleeping Seoul Metro Line 3 and the short walk up the Bukchon hill — going to take to deliver, by the paje-line younger sister at her right shoulder and the Hongdae-coded dokkaebi of the Sangsudong twenty-four-hour bingsu place at her left and the four-tailed creature of the north slope of Bukhansan at the half-step behind, the Stanford-trained gyopo of the paje line of Chungcheong-do whose own four-hundred-year-and-three-day private call sent forward had, by the jeong-seol lifting, decided.
The four hours and forty-five minutes had been, on the lower step of the maru of the middle hanok in the clear cold winter morning of a Tuesday in March of 2026, the four hours and forty-five minutes.
He had not, on the lower step, taken the phone out of the interior pocket of the charcoal-grey wool overcoat which — after the second breath at four-oh-six on Sunday afternoon — he had, at the low pine chair by the east door of the anbang on the Sunday morning, put on instead of the charcoal-grey wool sweater of his own four-hundred-year discipline, which had — by the second vote at the low table at four-oh-six and especially of the one tear at four-twenty-three — gone down the Bukchon hill on the body of the Stanford-trained gyopo whose own deciding the second vote had been.
He had not, on the lower step, checked the JL building.
He had not checked any of his three Daechi-dong tutoring chains.
He had not checked any of his four Bukchon Han-yak clinics.
He had not checked the holding company in the name of Han Ji-won that had, since five-oh-three on the Sunday evening of February the twenty-fourth of 2026, been the holding company of a Stanford-trained gyopo of the paje line of Chungcheong-do whose own grandmother in Daejeon was, by the jeong-seol on the Cheongju grave, the one woman in the line whose deciding had, on the unhurried Sunday afternoon of February the twenty-second of 2026, been the deciding by which that holding company was, by the chairman of JL, in the name of Han Ji-won.
He had, on the lower step, for four hours and forty-five minutes, breathed.
He had breathed once. He had breathed twice. He had breathed three times.
He had, on the lower step, kept the steady warm of the marble under his tongue at the steady warm of the marble.
It was going to be, on the lower step of the maru at the fourth hour of the afternoon of a Tuesday in March of 2026, by the five-instrument arrangement of the paje-line, the steady warm of the marble at the paje-line elder daughter's approach.
She came up.
She came up the Bukchon hill in the charcoal-grey wool sweater of his own four-hundred-year discipline that had — on the second breath at four-oh-six on Sunday afternoon — ended; and under the sweater the gray Theory coat of a Stanford-trained gyopo; and in the coat's interior pocket the green-ribboned JL notebook with the bujeok of cinnabar on mulberry paper of the old Insadong-coded woman who was — by the paje-line younger sister at her right shoulder — the grandmother of Min-ji's grandmother in Daegu; and at her right shoulder the paje-line younger sister in her own grey cardigan over the soft black tee, the white linen pocket-square with its own bujeok in the cardigan's interior pocket; and at her left shoulder the Hongdae-coded dokkaebi in the quilted brown vest the color of a winter river and the black baseball cap with no logo; and at the half-step behind them the four-tailed creature of the north slope of Bukhansan in the black down jacket of a Tuesday-morning vocal trainee of the JL building at four o'clock on a Tuesday afternoon in March of 2026.
The Genesis had let them out at the Bukchon Cultural Center at three-forty-eight.
They had walked.
They had walked, by the five-instrument arrangement and the clear cold winter afternoon of a Tuesday in March of 2026, the six-minute walk up the Bukchon hill that the Stanford-trained gyopo had, on the Sunday afternoon of February the twenty-second of 2026, walked up for the first time.
She had walked up at the same pace.
She had walked up not — by the paje-line younger sister and the jeong-seol and the further piece and the five-instrument arrangement — in the slow flat unhurried Joseon-mother way of the first Sunday afternoon, but in the steady Joseon-mother way of a paje-line elder daughter of Chungcheong-do whose own grandmother in Daejeon had, by the jeong-seol on the Cheongju grave of her own mother and the two-minute phone call at three-eleven on the Tuesday afternoon, said only:
Granddaughter. Go up the hill. I have, on the jeong-seol of our line, said what was mine to say. The rest is yours.
She had said: Halmoni, will you come up.
Her grandmother had paused.
Her grandmother had paused for the count of three breaths.
Her grandmother had said: Granddaughter. I will, by the jeong-seol of our line, come up. I will not come up today. I will come up on the day the Joseon mudang's daughter of the paje line of Chungcheong-do — on the fourth morning of the fourth month of the first year of King Injo's reign, on the granite cap of the Seonbawi rocks of the east shoulder of Inwangsan at the second hour — decided was the day a paje-line elder daughter of Chungcheong-do, with the braided four-strand white linen mourning ribbon at her own left wrist, was, by the loom of Samshin halmoni, going to come up. That day is, by my reading of the jeong-seol of our line, the morning of the seventh of the fifth month of the second year of the reign of the president of the Republic of Korea who is, by the paje-line carried onward, the president to whose Chief of Staff a private call is owed. That morning is, by the Western calendar, four days from the Tuesday afternoon. On that morning I will, by seventy-nine years of carrying the private call forward, be on the Bukchon hill at the pine gate of the Bukchon compound. Until that morning, granddaughter — the four days are the four days you have, by the jeong-seol, been given to learn the grammar of the private call on the low table of the anbang of the middle hanok of the Bukchon compound from the older creature whose own four-hundred-year discipline has, on the second breath at four-oh-six, ended. Learn carefully, granddaughter. The grammar is not the grammar of any other Korean line. The grammar is, by the line as it carries onward, yours.
Halmoni had said: Take the paje-line younger sister with you. She is, by the old Insadong-coded woman, the one Korean body whose own grandmother in Daegu is — by the face in the mirror above the kitchen sink since the seventh of the second month of this year — the one Korean grandmother whose deciding on the paje-line is mine to share.
Halmoni had said: Take the dokkaebi. He is, by seventy-three years of the older creature's cedar-box discipline, the one creature in the Bukchon compound whose discipline is the discipline by which the five-instrument arrangement is, on the Tuesday afternoon, the five-instrument arrangement.
Halmoni had said: Take the four-tailed creature of the north slope. She is, by the second pillar of B3 at seven-fifteen on Saturday morning, the one creature whose own discipline has, on the private hour, decided to stand with the paje-line carried onward instead of with the reincarnated creature of her own senior of the year nineteen-fifty-three at the north slope of Bukhansan.
Halmoni had said: Granddaughter. Go up.
I had said: The one piece I have not, on the phone, told you.
Halmoni had said: Granddaughter. I have, by seventy-nine years, known the one piece. It is the one piece I have, by the loom of Samshin halmoni, been waiting to be told. I am telling you only that I have not told it, and the telling, when it comes — on a low table on a Saturday morning of a fifth month of a first year of a new arithmetic of a paje-line carried onward — will be the telling.
Halmoni had said: Granddaughter. Go.
She had gone.
She had gone — by the phone call at three-eleven and the paje-line younger sister at her right shoulder and the Hongdae-coded dokkaebi at her left and the four-tailed creature of the north slope at the half-step behind — up the Bukchon hill in the clear cold winter afternoon of a Tuesday in March of 2026 to the pine gate of the Bukchon compound, which had, by the jeong-seol lifting, been opened from the inside at eleven-fifteen on the Tuesday morning.
She arrived at the pine gate at four o'clock.
She did not, at the gate, knock.
She walked through.
She walked through the pine gate of the Bukchon compound at the fourth hour of the afternoon of a Tuesday in March of 2026, in the charcoal-grey wool sweater of an older creature whose own four-hundred-year discipline had ended, with the paje-line younger sister at her right shoulder and the dokkaebi at her left and the four-tailed creature of the north slope at the half-step behind, and she crossed the inner courtyard at the seven-centimeter snow now melted back to three, the wet jeong-seol of the paje-line.
He was on the lower step.
He was on the lower step of the maru of the middle hanok, in the charcoal-grey wool overcoat of an older creature whose own four-hundred-year discipline had ended, the celadon cup in his hands.
The celadon cup was, after the four hours and forty-five minutes, empty.
He stood up.
He stood up at the lower step of the maru of the middle hanok at the fourth hour of the afternoon of a Tuesday in March of 2026 in the unhurried Joseon-scholar way of a creature whose four-hundred-year discipline of being the one who stood when she arrived had — by the five-instrument arrangement — agreed to be no longer the discipline of an older creature standing for a younger creature, but the discipline of an older creature standing for a paje-line elder daughter of the line that had, by the flat un-vowelled breath, decided.
He bowed Fifteen degrees.
I bowed Fifteen degrees.
He bowed to the paje-line younger sister at my right shoulder.
Fifteen.
She bowed Fifteen degrees.
He bowed to the dokkaebi at my left.
Five.
The dokkaebi inclined his head.
Five.
He bowed to the four-tailed creature of the north slope at the half-step behind.
Five.
She bowed back.
Five.
The five-five-fifteen-fifteen of the fourth hour of the afternoon of a Tuesday in March of 2026 at the lower step of the maru of the middle hanok of the Bukchon compound was, by the five-instrument arrangement, the first ratification.
He said, in the careful Joseon-scholar voice of a creature whose own four-hundred-year discipline had ended:
Han-ssi.
I said, in the Joseon-mother grammar of a Stanford-trained gyopo of the paje line of Chungcheong-do at the lower step of the maru at the fourth hour of the afternoon of a Tuesday in March of 2026:
Sajangnim.
He said: Min-ji-ssi. Mr. Kang. Hae-ri-ssi.
The three said, in the clean unembarrassed careful Korean of three creatures who had been brought, by the five-instrument arrangement, to the lower step:
Sajangnim.
He bowed again.
Fifteen.
He said: Come up.
We came up.
The anbang of the middle hanok of the Bukchon compound at half-past four of the afternoon of a Tuesday in March of 2026, in the clear cold winter sun of a Korean late winter on the Bukchon roof, was the anbang.
The low table at the center of the anbang was the low table.
The folded futon of the heated ondol was, by his own folding-of-the-futon at seven-oh-three on the grey morning of a Sunday in March of 2026 — after the grey hour at four-eleven and the leaving by the paje-line elder daughter at four-fifteen — folded.
The low pine cabinet of the western wall was, after the Saturday morning of the cedar-box-coming-out and the Sunday afternoon of the saying-on-the-table and the Sunday-evening putting-back-of-the-cedar-box, closed.
The cedar box was, on the low pine shelf above the lower drawer, where it had been on the grey morning at four-thirteen on a Sunday morning in March of 2026 — where I had, on the grey morning, not taken it.
He sat.
He sat at the low table on the bangseok cushion at the angle the anbang permitted at the north side of the low table.
He set both palms flat on the table.
He did not, on the table, place the celadon cup.
The celadon cup was, on the Tuesday afternoon, on the low pine shelf of the daecheong by the east door, where he had — in the unhurried Joseon-scholar way of an older creature whose discipline of placing a celadon cup of boricha on a low table was now, by the paje-line carried onward, no longer the discipline — set it.
I sat.
I sat at the low table on the bangseok cushion at the angle the anbang permitted at the south side, a hand-span away.
I set both palms flat on the table.
Min-ji sat.
Min-ji sat at the bangseok cushion at the east side of the low table at my right shoulder.
She set both palms flat on her thighs.
Mr. Kang sat.
Mr. Kang sat at the bangseok cushion at the west side of the low table at my left shoulder.
He set one hand flat on the table and the other flat on his right thigh in the unhurried Hongdae-coded way of a six-hundred-year dokkaebi at the anbang of the Bukchon compound on the Tuesday afternoon of March 2026.
Hae-ri sat.
Hae-ri sat at the bangseok cushion at the north-east corner of the low table at the half-step behind Min-ji and across the table from him.
She set both palms flat on her thighs in the unhurried Joseon-coded discipline of a four-tailed creature whose own one-hundred-and-eleven-year discipline at the north slope had, by the private hour at the second pillar of B3 at seven-sixteen on Saturday morning, decided to be — at the low table of the anbang of the middle hanok of the Bukchon compound on the Tuesday afternoon — present.
He looked at the low table.
He looked at it in the slow unhurried Joseon-scholar way of an older creature looking, for the first time in seventy-three years of cedar-box discipline, at the low table of the anbang with five creatures at it.
He looked up.
He looked at me.
He said: I am, on the low table of the anbang of the middle hanok of the Bukchon compound at half-past four of the afternoon of a Tuesday in March of 2026, in the five-instrument arrangement of the paje-line, going to tell the last piece. The last piece is the piece beneath the pieces. It is the piece I have, by the seventy-three years and the four hundred and three years, kept in the one box the cedar box has not held.
I said: The cedar box.
He said: Yes, Han-ssi. The cedar box has, on the low pine shelf, held three things: the white linen mourning ribbon of the Joseon-court mudang Kim Gae-hwa of the paje line of Chungcheong-do; the jade jjokji-hairpin of the Joseon-court calligrapher Lee Si-yul of the paje line of Chungcheong-do, whose seven syllables on the mulberry paper of the wayside shrine on the morning of the third day of the jeong-seol of the third month of the first year of King Injo's reign were the first sentence of the private call of the paje line sent forward; and the carved wooden bell of the Joseon scholar of the Westerners' faction at the lower shrine on the south path on the morning of the seventh of the fifth month of the first year of King Injo's reign. The cedar box has held these three. The cedar box has not held the fourth.
I said: The fourth.
He breathed.
He breathed, slow and even.
He said: The fourth has, in the seventy-three years of cedar-box discipline, been in the inner pocket of the charcoal-grey wool sweater of an older creature whose own four-hundred-year discipline has, on the second breath at four-oh-six on Sunday afternoon, ended.
He looked at me.
He looked at me at close range, in the clear Joseon-scholar voice he had used, on the grey hour at four-eleven, on the mirrored wall of the Tuesday-Thursday rehearsal room.
He said: Han-ssi. The fourth has, since the second vote at the low table at four-oh-six on Sunday afternoon, been in the inner pocket of the charcoal-grey wool sweater the Stanford-trained gyopo of the paje line of Chungcheong-do — in the grey hour at four-eleven — walked out of the Bukchon compound in.
I sat.
I did not, on the low table, blink.
I sat at the low table on the bangseok cushion an arm’s length off with the charcoal-grey wool sweater of an older creature whose own four-hundred-year discipline had ended on my body, the green-ribboned JL notebook in the interior pocket of the gray Theory coat folded at my left, and the braided four-strand grammar of the flat un-vowelled breath of a Joseon mudang's daughter of the paje line of Chungcheong-do at eleven-oh-three on the morning of the seventh of the fifth month of the first year of King Injo's reign in the interior of my own chest — and I, by the five-instrument arrangement at the low table, slid my own right hand, in the unhurried Joseon-mother way of a paje-line elder daughter, into the inner pocket of the charcoal-grey wool sweater of the older creature at the north side of the low table.
The inner pocket was, after fifty-three hours of wearing, warm.
In the inner pocket was a thing.
The thing, by the inner pocket and the unhurried Joseon-scholar discipline of the older creature, was light.
The thing was, by its weight in the inner pocket, the weight of a folded piece of mulberry paper.
I took it out.
I took it out at half-past four of the afternoon of a Tuesday in March of 2026, the short distance between us, in the measured Joseon-mother way of a paje-line elder daughter.
The folded piece of mulberry paper was, on the low table, light in the hand.
It was, by the four hundred and three years and the last piece beneath the pieces, the piece.
I set it on the low table.
I set it at the center of the low table, a half-step from his own two palms and a half-step from my own two palms and a third of a step from Min-ji's two palms and a third from Mr. Kang's and a half from Hae-ri's — in the deliberate Joseon-mother way of a paje-line elder daughter setting the fourth thing on the low table of the anbang of the middle hanok of the Bukchon compound on the Tuesday afternoon of the five-instrument arrangement at four-thirty-one.
He looked at it.
He did not, on the low table, reach for it.
He looked at me.
He said: The fourth is the fourth strand of the braided four-strand white linen mourning ribbon of the Joseon-court mudang's daughter Yun Da-eun of the paje line of Chungcheong-do on the granite cap of the Seonbawi rocks of the east shoulder of Inwangsan at the second hour of the fourth morning of the fourth month of the first year of King Injo's reign.
I said: The fourth strand.
He said: Yes, Han-ssi. The fourth strand was, on the granite cap of the Seonbawi rocks at the second hour of the fourth morning, the strand of the flat un-vowelled breath of the four-tailed creature on the slope at the fourth morning of the fourth month whose own discipline the Joseon mudang's daughter of the paje line, on the granite cap, could not trust.
I sat.
I breathed.
I took a slow breath.
I said: The fourth strand is the breath of the one creature on the slope at the fourth morning whose own discipline the Joseon mudang's daughter, on the granite cap of the Seonbawi rocks at the second hour, could not trust.
I said: The one creature was you.
I said: And the piece on the folded mulberry paper is — by seventy-three years of cedar-box discipline of an older creature whose own four-hundred-year discipline has ended — the piece of the fourth strand the four hundred and three years of your own carrying has, in the inner pocket of the charcoal-grey wool sweater, kept.
I unfolded the folded piece of mulberry paper at the center of the low table at four-thirty-three on the afternoon of Tuesday March of 2026.
The mulberry paper was, after four hundred and three years, soft.
The mulberry paper had been folded — to the measure of the old Joseon-court palm of an older creature whose 1623 discipline was the careful Joseon-scholar discipline of folding to the measure of an older Joseon-court palm — into a thirty-two-fold square.
I unfolded.
I unfolded thirty-two times.
I unfolded in the unhurried Joseon-mother way of a paje-line elder daughter unfolding a folded piece of mulberry paper at the center of the low table of the anbang of the middle hanok of the Bukchon compound at half-past four of the afternoon of a Tuesday in March of 2026.
The unfolded mulberry paper was a clear square of old Joseon-court mulberry paper at the measure of the thirty-two-fold square.
On the clear square was — by seventy-three years and the careful Joseon-scholar discipline of the older creature in the inner pocket of the charcoal-grey wool sweater — the braided four-strand white linen mourning ribbon.
The ribbon was, on the clear square at four-thirty-four on the afternoon of Tuesday March of 2026, the ribbon.
The ribbon was — by the granite cap of the Seonbawi rocks at the second hour of the fourth morning of the fourth month of the first year of King Injo's reign and the eight-millimeter point from the tip of the village butcher's knife on the slope above the willow grove at eleven-oh-three on the morning of the seventh of the fifth month of the first year of King Injo's reign — used.
The ribbon was cut.
The ribbon was cut at the fourth strand at the measure of the wrong notch.
The ribbon was, on the clear square at four-thirty-four on the afternoon of Tuesday March of 2026 on the low table of the anbang of the middle hanok of the Bukchon compound, four hundred and three years used.
I looked at it.
I looked at it at the center of the low table near at hand.
I did not, on the low table, weep.
The reservation, since the strip under the Banpo Bridge, was held.
I sat at the low table close by and looked, in the slow unhurried Joseon-mother grammar of a paje-line elder daughter, at the four hundred and three years of the one carrying of the one ribbon by the one creature whose own discipline I had, on the granite cap of the Seonbawi rocks at the second hour of the fourth morning of the fourth month of the first year of King Injo's reign, in the flat un-vowelled breath, decided I could not trust.
I looked.
I looked for the count of seven breaths.
I breathed.
I said, in the careful Joseon-mother grammar of a paje-line elder daughter at the low table of the anbang of the middle hanok of the Bukchon compound at half-past four of the afternoon of a Tuesday in March of 2026:
Sajangnim.
I said: You have, on the low table, the fourth.
I said: Will you let me die.
The anbang of the middle hanok of the Bukchon compound at half-past four of the afternoon of a Tuesday in March of 2026, on the one sentence of a paje-line elder daughter at the low table, was the anbang.
Mr. Kang did not, at the low table, move.
Min-ji did not, at the low table, weep.
Hae-ri did not, at the low table, blink.
He looked at me.
He looked at me a hand-span away, in the quiet Joseon-scholar voice of a creature whose own four-hundred-year discipline had ended, with the braided four-strand white linen mourning ribbon at the center of the low table between us.
He said: I have, on the low table of the anbang of the middle hanok of the Bukchon compound on the Sunday afternoon of February the twenty-second of 2026 at four-twenty-three, at the one tear at four-twenty-three — already, by the one tear, answered that sentence. That sentence is not, on the Tuesday afternoon of March 2026, the sentence the paje-line elder daughter is, at the low table at four-thirty-six, asking me.
I sat.
I breathed.
He said: Ask.
I said: I am — by the four-hundred-and-three-year-and-three-day private call of the paje-line across the table — asking the one creature on the slope at the fourth morning of the fourth month of the first year of King Injo's reign whose own discipline the Joseon mudang's daughter of the paje line of Chungcheong-do, on the granite cap of the Seonbawi rocks at the second hour, could not trust — whether that creature, on the Tuesday afternoon of the five-instrument arrangement at four-thirty-seven on the low table of the anbang of the middle hanok of the Bukchon compound, is — by the four hundred and three years of carrying the fourth strand in the inner pocket — the creature whose discipline the paje-line elder daughter, at close range, can.
He looked at me.
He did not, at the low table, weep.
The reservation, from the strip under the Banpo Bridge, was — by the five-instrument arrangement of the paje-line — held by the careful Joseon-scholar discipline of the older creature at the north side of the low table.
He bowed Forty-five degrees.
He held the bow.
He straightened.
He said, in the measured Joseon-scholar voice of a creature whose own four-hundred-year discipline had ended:
Han-ssi.
He said: I cannot, by the four-hundred-year-and-three-day carrying, answer that sentence at the low table on the Tuesday afternoon. That sentence is, by the five-instrument arrangement, the sentence the five instruments, on the four days the jeong-seol of the paje-line has given them, are going to answer. I will, across the four days, give the paje-line elder daughter the piece beneath the piece — and on that piece, the paje-line elder daughter will, by seventy-nine years of her own grandmother in Daejeon, decide. The piece beneath the piece is — at the low table at four-thirty-nine on the afternoon of Tuesday March of 2026 — the four-tailed creature of the Joseon-court line at the village butcher's stall at the foot of the east path of Inwangsan on the morning of the seventh of the fifth month of the first year of King Injo's reign, whose instruction the wrong junior body of the Westerners' faction had, on that morning, been given The creature was Bukhansan-sanshin Bukhansan-sanshin had, on the morning of the seventh of the fifth month, been the mountain god of the Joseon-court line whose own discipline was — by the four hundred and three years of cedar-box hoarding I have, on the low table, finally been able to read — the discipline of breaking the ascension of the one creature on the east shoulder (the one creature being me) by the one instrument I had, on the morning of the seventh of the fifth month, by the four-month preparation, refused to use. The instrument was, by the forty-six-year kitchen of the woman at the foot of the east path, the Joseon-court mudang's daughter Yun Da-eun of the paje line of Chungcheong-do. The instrument was you.
I sat at the low table.
I breathed.
I did not, at the low table, weep.
I said: The instrument was — by the braided four-strand white linen mourning ribbon on the clear square of mulberry paper at the center of the low table — also you.
He bowed Forty-five degrees.
He held it.
He straightened.
I said: The four days.
I said: We have, by my own grandmother in Daejeon on the phone at three-eleven, four days to decide whether the instrument of Bukhansan-sanshin's discipline on the morning of the seventh of the fifth month of the first year of King Injo's reign is — by the loom of Samshin halmoni and the jeong-seol of the paje-line and the braided four-strand white linen mourning ribbon — going to be, by the paje-line elder daughter at the low table at four-forty-one on the afternoon of Tuesday March of 2026, the instrument of the paje-line as it carries onward.
I said: The deciding is mine.
I said: Pour the boricha.
He stood.
He stood at four-forty-two of the afternoon of a Tuesday in March of 2026 in the unhurried Joseon-scholar way of an older creature whose own four-hundred-year discipline had ended, and he walked to the low pine shelf of the daecheong by the east door, and he took the celadon cup he had set there — and the porcelain cup he had set beside it — and the cylindrical boricha canister of the Daegu-coded barley tea the old Daegu-coded woman of the Yongmun-dong market had, in the autumn of nineteen-eighty-nine, sold to his own household — and the kettle of the kitchen — and he came back, in the unhurried Joseon-scholar way, with the four, and he set them at the center of the low table a half-step from the clear square of mulberry paper with the braided four-strand white linen mourning ribbon at four-forty-three on the afternoon of Tuesday March of 2026.
He poured.
He poured four cups.
He poured one for me. He poured one for Min-ji. He poured one for Mr. Kang. He poured one for Hae-ri.
He did not pour one for himself.
The not-pouring for himself was, by the five-instrument arrangement, the piece by which the one creature at the north side of the low table, on the Tuesday afternoon of March 2026, was — at the low table — the fifth instrument the braided four-strand white linen mourning ribbon had, on the granite cap of the Seonbawi rocks at the second hour of the fourth morning of the fourth month of the first year of King Injo's reign, by the fourth strand, been braided to be.
He sat.
He set both palms flat on the low table on either side of the clear square of mulberry paper.
He looked at me.
He said: Drink.
I drank.
I drank the Daegu-coded boricha at half-past four and a half-minute of the afternoon of a Tuesday in March of 2026 on the low table of the anbang of the middle hanok of the Bukchon compound, with the braided four-strand white linen mourning ribbon at the center of the low table a half-step from my own porcelain cup, and the paje-line younger sister at my right shoulder drank, and the dokkaebi at my left drank, and the four-tailed creature of the north slope at the half-step behind drank.
The fifth, at the low table, did not.
The four days had, by the boricha and the braided four-strand white linen mourning ribbon and the five-instrument arrangement, begun.