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Ancestral Rite — Where the Living Remain
Smoke rose from the incense burner, and only the cups on the ritual table caught the moonlight, paling into a cold white.
Seongjin watched for a long time as his mother collapsed into sobs, then set down his cup and spoke gently.
"Please stop crying now.
Father and Brother have heard everything."
His mother wiped the corners of her eyes and smiled.
"Yes, yes… I should.
But they went with a scream in their throats.
Shouldn't we at least cry for them?"
His uncle cleared his throat.
"Ahem.
If we who are living live well, those men can rest in peace too."
Seongjin nodded.
"Maybe that's why we hold rites."
"What do you mean?"
"I thought it was only a seat for the dead.
But today I see it's also a seat where the living comfort one another."
His uncle lifted the cup and laughed.
"That's right.
The living gather and cover each other's wounds.
That's what a rite is."
His mother nodded as well.
"That's why the old people said to hold the rite and then share a meal.
It's not the ghost that's hungry—
it's the living heart that feels hollow."
Seongjin listened for a while, then spoke slowly.
"In the end, it's a way of comforting the human heart."
His mother wiped her reddened eyes and smiled.
"Yes.
That's enough."
"Father and Brother will be smiling today too."
"Will they?"
"Yes.
Probably."
After a brief silence, all three laughed at the same time.
That laughter trembled like the aftersound of crying and warmed the yard.
Stars lit one by one, and the wind scattered the smell of charcoal from the ritual table.
Seongjin stayed beside his family until the last glow went out.
Words Left Unspoken
Only after they died do I pour a cup I never poured while they lived.
Even if this cannot bring them back, I offer it with a whole heart.
Father.
Brother.
Come and drink, and then go.
If you were here, I would have followed a merchant caravan even to the Western Regions,
but that road never reached me.
Instead I studied well in the army.
I rose high, too.
I will likely go to war again,
but there are not many now who can easily do anything to me.
In martial skill, in tactics, in real battle—there is no lack.
So please do not worry too much.
Seongjin laid that written note before the tablets and lit it.
The paper flared up and scattered thinly into the sky,
like a soul that visits and departs.
Ritual Meal — Daily Life Returning
The rite had ended, and they were sharing the ritual food when it happened.
Voices sounded outside, and someone sprang up onto the earthen porch beneath the veranda.
"Ah—you're here, Elder Brother."
"So the one who came was you, Ogi."
"It's me, Ogi. I went.
But you were already here."
Seongjin stood up, startled.
"I was at Shinhowi, and word came there.
I found a horse and rode straight here."
In that instant, a far-off memory revived.
In childhood, the one he had clung to most—because they were close in age—was this cousin.
Back then they had played by the river,
sat on the rice-field ridge,
and floated leaves down the water.
Her face had blurred with time, but her eyes were the same.
"It must've been hard. It's far."
"I only delivered the message and came right back."
"You did well.
Let's eat the ritual meal."
"Give me a second to catch my breath first.
Because of you, thoughtless Elder Brother, I went through all that trouble.
How do you not even know your own family's memorial rite?"
"I see."
Seongjin let out a small laugh.
Her once-plump cheeks had thinned, and though she was only a year younger, she looked already grown.
"You've gotten prettier."
"I was always pretty."
"Yes, yes."
His tone carried a rare, easy smile.
Seongjin seated Ogi on the bench and served her a bowl of rice.
"Here. Rice.
I set out the greens—mix it yourself."
"You first, Elder Brother."
"Thank you."
When he drizzled sesame oil over the greens, a nutty fragrance spread.
Ogi lifted her chopsticks and laughed.
"It's exactly the same as back then.
You remember? Even then I scolded you for putting in too much sesame oil."
"Did you?
My memory's hazy."
Seongjin shook his head.
His everyday memories had faded, as if he had lived too many years at once.
That was what the battlefield had done to time.
"But I liked it.
When it smells like sesame oil, it feels like you're really eating."
Their laughter overlapped.
In the far side of the yard, his mother and uncle were clearing the ritual table.
In place of those who had left, the ones who remained were sharing a meal like this.
As they ate in silence, the night deepened,
and moonlight lit the veranda in place of the ritual table.
Seongjin said "thank you" again and again—quietly, but clearly.
The sisters who had been doing the menial work came up late and joined them.
There were several sisters.
The Next Morning — Back on the Road
Before the rooster crowed, Seongjin woke first.
The incense scent that had never gone out through the night had thinned into the faint smell of ash.
The earth beneath the veranda was damp with night dew, and the eastern sky was still bluish.
Dawn was always quiet.
Yesterday's crying and yesterday's laughter had both sunk into that quiet.
He drew water and washed his face.
The cold water sharpened his mind.
When he looked at his palm, the calluses were still hard.
A hand that had packed soil, gripped a sword, and then gripped soil again.
The day at home was short,
but his body was already turning back toward the rhythm outside.
Movement came from the kitchen.
His mother was up, cooking early.
When Seongjin stepped in, she glanced at him and said,
"You're up early."
He answered with a shy smile.
"I guess it's become a habit."
His mother didn't ask further.
Instead she lifted the lid of the rice pot to let the steam escape once,
then—like it was the most natural thing—took out one more bowl.
The table was simple.
The leftover greens from yesterday, soybean paste soup, and freshly cooked rice.
Seongjin picked up his spoon without a word.
Even as he ate, his mind was already on the road.
His mother could not have failed to notice.
"Are you leaving today?"
"Yes.
If I stay away too long, the work piles up."
"That's right.
Come by often.
You could even commute."
"That's what I think too."
"You talk well."
It wasn't a line that held him back,
and it wasn't a line that pushed him away.
It was simply a line of acceptance.
His mother neither heaped more rice into his bowl nor took any away.
Her face said: a son goes to do what he must do.
When he stepped into the yard, the horse raised its head.
It was the same horse Song I-sul had lent him.
Even after a night, its eyes were still clear.
Seongjin stroked the horse's neck once.
When his hand slid between the mane, the horse gave a low sound—
a sign of life, a sign of knowing the road.
He didn't carry much.
One spare set of clothes, a waterskin, and the sword at his waist.
His mother stood at the edge of the veranda, watching.
Seongjin hesitated a moment, then stepped down from the horse and stood before her.
He bowed deeply, with full courtesy.
"I'll be going."
"Yes.
Go."
His mother did not add more.
Instead she pressed his shoulder once.
The touch was brief, but heavy.
Worry, trust, and an old resignation were all inside it.
He mounted again.
As the horse moved slowly, the house began to recede.
Before passing the private gate, he looked back once more.
His mother was still standing there.
She didn't wave.
She simply stood—sending him off.
The road was familiar.
Past the rice-field ridges, over the stream, and up the gentle hill.
The scenery was no different from yesterday,
but his heart was.
Only after the rite, after the words, after the shared meal,
did the road connect again.
The word "return" didn't fit.
It didn't feel like leaving—
it felt like continuing.
The horse picked up speed.
Wind brushed his face.
The scent of home faded,
and the smell of soil, grass, and morning air clung to him again.
Seongjin held the reins loosely.
There was no need to rush.
Where he had to go was clear,
and where he could come back to was clear as well.
He didn't go to the battlefield,
and he didn't go to the mountain,
and he didn't go to the merchant house.
He was going back to where people worked—
to the place where hands held earth.
The morning sun rose fully.
Under that light, the road continued in silence.