When Money Felt Like Time
The moment the severance pay hit his bank account, it no longer felt like money. It felt like time. Kang Chi-yeol had been acutely aware of this since morning. The numbers were clearly money, yet in his mind they kept converting into other units: This much will last me this long, One month disappears here, Spend this and there’s no going back. While he was employed, his salary arrived every month without fail, so he had never stopped to consider what it meant for money to become time. Now the opposite was true. The speed at which the balance decreased felt exactly like the speed at which his reprieve was shrinking. The sensation made him restless, yet it also sharpened everything around him with startling clarity.
Since morning he had been sitting at the table with several sheets of paper spread out. One side of his laptop screen displayed a comparison chart of startup costs; the other held multiple screenshots of neighborhood commercial maps. In the center of the paper he had written a single, simple sentence: Where should I start?
The question was larger than he had expected. Deciding to open a chicken shop and deciding where to open it were two entirely different problems. The first was a matter of impulse and resolve; the second was a matter of money, foot traffic, and daily life. Knowing his own temperament, Chi-yeol was certain he would remain stuck on the latter for a long time. He was someone who liked things clearly but always started slowly—not because he was afraid, but because he knew that once he began something, he tended to stay with it for a long while.
He read over the memo he had expected the night before.
Tomorrow’s tasks
- Compare at least two startup consultations
- Visit neighborhood commercial districts in person
- Read more chicken shop startup reviews
- Check bank loan conditions
- Think of friends who run businesses
- Ask myself again whether I truly want to do this
And beneath it all, the sentence he had written in his own hand the previous day remained quietly on the page:
Still… I want to try.
Chi-yeol stared at the short line for a long time before setting the mouse down. To be honest, he had felt a twinge of regret that morning. The desire was genuine, but sincerity alone did not make something real. Even someone who had never dated in their life could have been sincere about love; even after twelve years at a company, the fact that the company had never been on his side remained unchanged. The world looked at conditions before it looked at feelings. Knowing that too well only made him more tired.
He stood up and opened the refrigerator. As always, there was almost nothing inside: two eggs, leftover kimchi, a container of stir-fried anchovies his mother had sent about a month ago, and a bottle of water. Cracking one egg into the pan, he muttered to himself for no particular reason.
“I should live like a person before I become a boss.”
The words sounded strangely clear inside the empty apartment. When he had been working, he rarely had time to talk to himself. There was always someone nearby, messenger notifications pinging, meetings that never ended. Now everything was different. The day was far too quiet. At first the quiet had felt like rest, but as time passed it kept forcing him to look directly at himself—who Kang Chi-yeol was, what he wanted, what he feared, how much money he had left.
After a simple meal, he prepared to go out. He had already decided he would leave the house today. He had realized yesterday that maps and reviews on a screen could not decide anything for him. Seeing a place with his own feet was different from seeing it on a screen. At least when it came to chicken, that much was true. Plenty of shops looked crispy in photos but turned out soggy when eaten; plenty looked respectable from the signboard alone but reeked of old oil the moment you stepped inside. Business was probably the same. In the end, some things could only be known by going there yourself.
Before leaving, he paused in front of the mirror. Instead of a dress shirt he wore a sweatshirt under a jumper, and instead of the briefcase he used to carry to work, he slung on a small backpack. The lighter outfit should have made his heart feel lighter too, yet it only felt more awkward. Walking through the alley on a weekday morning dressed as anything other than an office worker felt unexpectedly unfamiliar. The fact that he found even that unfamiliarity awkward struck him as faintly ridiculous.
As he closed the front door and started down the stairs, the landlady from the floor below was coming up, a shopping basket in one hand. The moment she saw him, she gave him a quick once-over.
“Where are you off to today?”
“I have some things to look into.”
“An interview?”
The question came out so naturally that Chi-yeol hesitated for a moment. Interview. It still felt strange that the word had not yet fully turned toward him. When someone lost their job, the next logical word was supposed to be interview, yet here he was walking in an entirely different direction.
“Ah… no, not an interview.”
“Then?”
There was more curiosity than malice in the landlady’s eyes. Even knowing that, explaining was difficult. A tenant who had never once been late with rent, always greeted people properly, and sorted his trash neatly had suddenly started staying home on weekday afternoons, dressing differently, and wearing the expression of someone deep in thought. Of course she would be curious. In the end Chi-yeol gave an ambiguous smile.
“I’m just… looking at some shop locations.”
“A shop?”
“Yes.”
The landlady’s eyes widened slightly before she nodded.
“Thinking of starting a business?”
By this point it felt as though everyone in the neighborhood could see straight through him. Chi-yeol scratched the back of his neck for no reason.
“I haven’t decided yet… I’m just looking around.”
“What kind of business?”
“A chicken shop.”
The landlady’s expression shifted in a subtle way—surprise, concern, and a touch of curiosity all mixed together. Still, her reply was not as harsh as he had feared.
“Chicken can make money if you do it well.”
Chi-yeol looked at her, surprised. He had expected opposition, yet the reaction was unexpectedly mild. Adjusting her basket, the landlady continued.
“But it can also go under fast. There are a lot of smell complaints, and working nights wears you out. Still, if you have the touch, the places that survive do survive.”
“Ah…”
“My friend’s son jumped in without thinking and closed after six months. Don’t be like that—look into it properly.”
Her tone was casual, but the words carried the weight of experience. Chi-yeol nodded.
“Yes. That’s why I’m looking around now.”
“Good. These days, rushing in without thinking is the scariest thing.”
She had started up another step when she turned back once more.
“Still, Mr. Kang, you’re diligent. If you opened a shop, I think you’d treat customers well.”
The words came from an unexpected direction. For a moment Chi-yeol did not know how to respond. He had heard “diligent” countless times at the company, but hearing it from the landlady felt different. It did not sound like praise given right before being discarded; it sounded like something that might actually become material for a new beginning.
“Thank you.”
He answered with genuine feeling. The landlady waved her hand as if it were nothing and continued upstairs. Left alone on the stairs, Chi-yeol found himself smiling for no reason. Diligent, so he’d treat customers well. One sentence did not suddenly raise his chances of success, but at least it no longer felt like a ridiculous fantasy to even try.
As he walked through the neighborhood, he checked the alleys he had marked one by one. The main roads had expensive rent and heavy foot traffic, but the monthly cost was terrifying. Deeper residential alleys had lower rent, yet customers would have to come on purpose. If he planned to focus on delivery the calculation would change again, but for some reason the idea of a delivery-only shop held no appeal. He felt the shop needed at least a small dining area—somewhere people could see faces, where the smell of frying drifted outside, where someone might open the door and walk in. Chicken, he believed, suited that kind of place better.
When he reached the third alley, his feet stopped in front of a real estate office. Flyers for available properties were stuck to the glass door: small retail space for lease, negotiable key money, partial fixtures included. Chi-yeol hesitated for a long time over whether to open the door. Isn’t it too early? I’m not even serious yet—am I just dipping my toes in? What if I go in and they think I’m ready to sign a contract right away? All sorts of thoughts rose at once. But he also knew that thinking this way meant he would never do anything at all. In the end he slowly pushed the door open.
The office was warm. Property listings covered the walls, and at the desk in the back sat a man who looked to be in his fifties. The agent looked up at Chi-yeol and immediately assessed him with the practiced eye of someone who could tell at a glance whether a person had come to look at apartments, commercial spaces, or had simply wandered in.
“Yes, welcome.”
“Hello.”
“What are you looking for? Studio? Commercial space?”
Chi-yeol swallowed once. The moment he said it out loud, it would feel real.
“I’d like to look at commercial spaces.”
The agent’s gaze shifted slightly.
“What kind of business are you thinking of?”
“A chicken shop.”
The man pulled his chair in a little closer and laced his fingers together.
“For chicken, we need to decide first whether you’ll focus on delivery or include seating as well.”
“I’d like to have at least a little seating.”
“What about your budget?”
At that question Chi-yeol was pulled back to reality once more. Budget. In the end, that was always the core. Not heart, not passion, not dreams—just how much was possible. He answered carefully.
“I’m still calculating, including loans… nothing too large. I’m thinking small-scale.”
The agent nodded and began flipping through a folder.
“With chicken, residential areas can bring smell complaints, and the late hours mean you have to consider neighboring businesses too. Still, if you secure a good spot in the neighborhood, it tends to be steady.”
The words were oddly reassuring. He had not started with the usual “There are plenty of good locations.” The agent pulled out several listings and spread them across the desk. Chi-yeol sat down and examined them one by one—deposit, monthly rent, size, key money, current business type, condition of fixtures. Seeing the numbers and conditions lined up on paper made the possibility of actually owning a door, a kitchen, and a signboard under his own name feel gradually more real.
“This one’s in the alley over there. Used to be a small snack shop. Not very big, but the kitchen is fairly clean. The downside is foot traffic isn’t heavy.”
The agent pointed to the first listing.
“This one’s behind the main road. Delivery would be fine, but seating would be weak. Key money is a bit high, though.”
Second.
“This one’s a little old, but there are bars and pubs next door, so there are people at night. You might need to do something about the oil smell, though.”
Third.
Chi-yeol nodded repeatedly as he looked at the papers, yet a corner of his mind grew increasingly tangled. Every location had its reasons. Cheap places were cheap for a reason; attractive places came with burdens that were difficult to carry. The ordinary truth that nothing in this world was free felt strangely exhausting when it arrived in this form.
Reading Chi-yeol’s expression, the agent smiled.
“It’s always like this at the beginning. There’s rarely a place that makes you think, This is it! right away.”
“Yes. It’s… harder than I expected.”
“That’s how business locations are. Especially with chicken—people think it looks easy to start, so they jump in, but once you’re inside it’s not easy at all.”
The words lingered strangely. People think it looks easy to start, so they jump in. Chi-yeol felt his own heart catch exactly on that point. Honestly, chicken was a familiar food he ate often, so it had seemed less unfamiliar than other businesses. But he was in the middle of confirming that the familiarity might be an illusion. Still, he did not want to ignore this unfamiliarity. It was better to know how difficult it was now, while he still could.
The agent finally pulled out a map and spread it open.
“If you’ve already walked around, try setting a few criteria before you look. More people isn’t automatically better, and cheaper isn’t automatically better either.”
“Criteria?”
“Yes. For example, whether people are still in the alley after six in the evening, whether delivery motorcycles can enter easily, whether the layout would cause smell complaints, what other businesses are nearby. You only see those things by actually walking.”
Chi-yeol immediately opened the memo app on his phone. The agent watched him and chuckled.
“You’re thorough.”
“I’ve always been… that type.”
“That kind of personality has its pros and cons in business. It helps in the beginning, but sometimes you calculate so much that you miss the right timing.”
Chi-yeol paused at those words. It felt like the most accurate thing he had heard all day. He had always been meticulous, and thanks to that he had rarely made catastrophic mistakes. At the same time, he knew he was also the type who arrived one step late at the decisive moment—whether it was romance, promotions, or any of life’s big decisions. He wondered what would happen if he calculated too much this time and ended up doing nothing at all.
After leaving the real estate office, he walked the locations the agent had pointed out. Some spots looked fine during the day but showed no sign of evening customers; others had many bars and seemed lively at night but felt too rough for someone like him to endure. When he reached the third alley, his steps slowed.
The alley was not large. It required one turn off the main road—neither completely isolated nor noisy. A few small restaurants, a snack shop, a laundromat, a hair salon, and an old stationery store lined the street. It was past lunchtime, so the alley was quiet, yet the footprints on the ground and the stacks of drink boxes in front of doors suggested it was not entirely dead.
Chi-yeol walked slowly, examining the shops on both sides. Then, midway down the alley, a half-lowered shutter caught his eye. A short notice was taped to the glass above it: Lease Inquiry. A phone number was written in smaller letters beneath.
He stopped in front of it. The shutter was only halfway down, so the interior was not completely hidden. Old tiled flooring, grease stains on the walls, the outline of a missing refrigerated display case, and a kitchen layout that looked better than expected. It seemed to have been a restaurant before. Feeling self-conscious about pressing his face too close to the glass, he took a step back and looked at the entire shop again. It was not large, but it did not feel cramped either. Two or three tables would probably fit without trouble, and it did not look as desolate as a delivery-only shop.
In that moment he felt a picture forming in his mind with surprising naturalness: menu board on the right wall, fryer in the back, a small packing area near the entrance, a counter that was not too large. The signboard… what would the signboard say?
Chi-yeol startled himself with the thought. He had not even signed a contract, did not know the price or the condition, yet he was already thinking about the signboard. Without realizing it, he let out a small laugh.
“I must be out of my mind, seriously.”