The Alley That Dreams of a Signboard

He stepped out of the narrow alleyway that dreamed of a signboard and walked into the nearby bunsik shop. The smell of gochujang that had been teasing him for a while now finally prodded at his stomach. Lunch hour had passed, so several tables stood empty, and the ajumma sat at the register watching a drama. Chi-yeol ordered tteokbokki and a few pieces of fried food. Truthfully, he wasn’t starving so much as he simply wanted to eat something inside this alley. If he was going to run a business here, he wanted to feel this time of day, this atmosphere, this flow of customers with his own body.

The tteokbokki wasn’t overly spicy and carried a gentle sweetness. The fried items weren’t freshly made, so they were a little soggy, but they weren’t bad in their own way. Chi-yeol chewed slowly as he looked around the shop. One woman eating a late lunch alone, two middle schoolers waiting for a takeout order, and one delivery driver. It wasn’t flashy, but the flow never quite stopped. He was lifting a piece of tteok with the tips of his chopsticks when a thought suddenly struck him. A chicken shop would ultimately have to fit into this kind of flow. Not a place that exploded once and vanished, but one that slipped into the daily life of the alley and stayed for a long time. For that to happen, flavor mattered, of course, but so did the character of the space. He wondered whether this alley could accept that kind of character. He still had no certainty about that question. But it wasn’t a definite no, either.

When he rose to pay, the bunsik shop ajumma spoke first.

“I’ve been seeing you for days now.”

Chi-yeol looked momentarily puzzled. “Pardon?”

“You’re the one who keeps coming to look at that storefront across the way, right?”

A look of realization crossed Chi-yeol’s face. The ajumma saw it and laughed right away.

“Planning to open a shop?”

This neighborhood really spreads rumors fast, he thought. Chi-yeol smiled, a little embarrassed. “I’m still thinking it over.”

“What are you going to do?”

“A chicken shop.”

The ajumma pursed her lips and tilted her head for a moment. “If it’s chicken, you’ll need to handle the smell properly. A lot of houses around here leave their windows open at night.”

“Yes, I’m looking into that as well.”

“Still, the location itself isn’t bad. The bunsik shop that was there before didn’t completely fail. The owner just closed it because her body couldn’t handle it anymore.”

She spoke matter-of-factly, as if simply explaining the neighborhood situation. Chi-yeol unconsciously straightened his posture a little.

“What’s the customer flow like?”

“Lunch is mostly locals rather than office workers. Evenings bring students after academy and a few people getting off work. Weekends are quiet. It’s not a jackpot, but whether it works depends on the person running it.”

That honest answer felt refreshing. Not a jackpot, but it depends on the person. Because it wasn’t exaggerated, it felt more trustworthy. Chi-yeol thanked her and left the bunsik shop.

As he walked the alley again, he turned her words over in his mind. Handle the smell properly. It didn’t completely fail. Not a jackpot, but it depends on the person. They sounded plain, yet precisely because of that they felt realistic. A temperature that neither inflated someone’s dream nor crushed it. Maybe running a business was supposed to begin at exactly this kind of temperature.

When he got home, he turned on his laptop right away. He rewrote everything in separate categories: the consultation details, the store’s condition, the alley’s atmosphere, and estimated costs. The premium was more burdensome than he had expected, but the fact that some of the existing facilities could be salvaged was clearly an advantage. At the same time, he recalculated how to minimize initial renovation costs, whether he could use secondhand equipment, and above all, whether he could handle the deposit and monthly rent. The more numbers he entered, the more the Excel cells filled up, yet his heart felt increasingly empty.

In the end, money was always short. That truth wasn’t new at all, but when he placed his own starting line on it, the pain cut deeper. He pressed his forehead with one hand and leaned back in his chair.

“Is it impossible?” he muttered quietly. The room was so silent that the words sounded strangely loud.

Is it impossible.

That sentence rose in his mind several times a day. And it was always followed by another.

Still, I want to try.

He sat with his eyes closed for a long time. Then his phone suddenly rang. It was Jo A-ra.

“Yeah.”

“Boss.”

“What?”

“Why do you sound like that? Did someone run off with your money?”

Chi-yeol let out a small chuckle. “It hasn’t reached that stage yet.”

“He says ‘yet.’ That’s scary. Did you go look at the shop again?”

“I did.”

“How was it?”

Chi-yeol briefly explained what he had seen that day—the layout, the alley’s atmosphere, what the bunsik shop ajumma had told him, the monthly rent and premium, even the parts of the ductwork that needed repair. A-ra listened, asking questions here and there. When Chi-yeol finally said, “When I ran the numbers, it’s pretty tight,” the line went quiet for a moment.

“But your face looks like someone who wants to go for it.”

“You can see my face over the phone?”

“I can. I get the feeling.”

Chi-yeol let out a small sigh. “My heart is leaning toward it.”

“Then you need to look at the numbers more. You don’t throw the heart away.”

That answer was strangely simple and clear, and he liked it. He had always thought that if the numbers didn’t add up, you had to abandon the dream, but A-ra said the opposite. Don’t throw the heart away—look at the numbers more. Of course she didn’t mean it would be easy. It was simply an attitude that didn’t treat giving up and reviewing as the same thing.

“You really put things simply.”

“There should always be one simple person next to a complicated one.”

“Who’s complicated?”

“You, boss. Completely.”

Chi-yeol didn’t want to admit it, but he couldn’t argue either.

“So are you signing the contract?” A-ra asked.

“Not ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠yet.”

“Good call.”

“Why?”

“If you’d jumped on it right away, I would have stopped you. But if you’re going to keep looking at it, that means it’s real.”

Chi-yeol held the phone to his ear and looked out the window. The glow of sunset hung thinly on the building walls. He spoke in a low voice.

“A contract is scarier than I thought.”

“Of course. The moment you sign, it becomes your responsibility.”

“Yeah.”

“But boss.”

“What?”

“Someday you have to do it. If you’re really going to.”

It was a short, decisive statement. Instead of answering, he let out a small breath. A-ra added in a voice without any teasing.

If you’re not going to do it, quit now. If you are, then at some point you have to sign. Staying stuck in the middle forever is the most painful thing.

That was exactly right. Kang Chi-yeol had always lingered in the middle for a long time. There had been many moments when he could neither fully give up nor fully leap in, simply letting time slip by. He didn’t want to do that again this time. No matter how frightening it was, eventually he would have to write his name on that one line someday. The question was whether that day was today, or after a little more preparation.

After hanging up, Chi-yeol opened his notebook. On a fresh page beneath the title, he wrote in large letters:

Just writing down the items made his head feel a little clearer. Anxiety didn’t disappear when organized, but at least it showed its face. Once you knew its face, you could at least fight it.

He had been about to settle for instant ramen for dinner but stopped himself. Instead he took side dishes out of the refrigerator and set the table properly. For some reason, today it felt wrong to just get by with ramen. What he needed right now wasn’t comfortable food so much as a meal prepared with at least a little human dignity.

While eating, the empty storefront he had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠seen earlier and the word “contract” kept alternating in his mind. Contract. There was a strange weight to that word. He had seen countless such documents while working at the company, yet a contract where his own name was the main party felt like an entirely different object.

After finishing the meal, he wrote the shop name again.

Chiyeolhan Chicken

This ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠time he wrote it a little bolder. Beneath it, he added a small line.

The first door I open in my own name.

His fingertips trembled slightly once he had written it. It sounded grandiose, and he immediately wanted to cross it out, yet strangely he didn’t want to erase it.

As the night grew deeper, the room became even quieter. Chi-yeol didn’t lie down on the bed but sat at the dining table for a long time. Numbers on paper, business cards, notebook, pen, cell phone. They looked like his entire world right now.

Finally, he wrote a short note in his phone’s memo app.

After writing the last sentence, he slowly lifted his head.

Still, I want to see it again.

That sentence was the core. More than the shop speaking to his heart, more than the numbers being frightening, it was the heart that, despite knowing all of it, still wanted to look again. Maybe a beginning was ultimately something like that. If you knew everything you couldn’t do it, and if you knew nothing you couldn’t do it either, but when you encountered a place that made you want to go back anyway, a person took one more step forward.

Before turning off the light, Kang Chi-yeol opened his notebook once more. The letters written at the very top remained clear even in the darkness.

Chiyeolhan Chicken

He lightly pressed the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠letters once with his fingertip, as if they might someday become a real signboard. Then, in a very small voice, he murmured.

“If I actually reach the contract stage… it’ll be real.”

Those words were fear, yet at the same time they somehow sounded like a promise.