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## Chapter 4: A Night of Counting Stars
“You can get in here, Mr. Gi-jun. This is my car. It’s cute, but... it’s spacious inside.”
Where Haruna pointed stood a beige, box-shaped kei car.
It looked similar to Korea’s compact Kia Ray, but it was a little smaller and rounder.
The license plate was yellow.
A symbol indicating that it was a Japanese kei car.
I began speaking in Japanese for her sake.
“It’s cute. It really suits you, Haruna.”
She smiled and replied in Japanese as well.
“Right? I named it ‘Toto.’ It’s a little embarrassing because it sounds like a dog’s name, though...”
She opened the car door with a playful smile.
I got into the passenger seat.
The steering wheel was on the right, and the passenger seat was on the left.
It was the moment I truly felt that I was in Japan.
“Isn’t it cramped? You’re tall, Mr. Gi-jun.”
“No, the ceiling is higher than I expected, so it’s fine. It’s cozy.”
Honestly, my knees were brushing against things a little, but it wasn't uncomfortable.
If anything, I didn't mind the sense of closeness this small space created.
Vroom.
The car started moving with the sound of the engine.
“There really are a lot of kei cars in Japan. Half the cars I saw on the way here were kei cars.”
The roads really were a sea of yellow license plates.
“Yes. There are many narrow roads in Japan, you see. Especially on rural roads like those in Itoshima, it’s difficult to drive a large car.”
Haruna continued explaining as she skillfully turned the steering wheel.
“And there are big tax benefits, too, and the maintenance costs are low. Highway tolls are discounted as well, so they're very practical. I heard Koreans like large cars. Is that true?”
“Yes. There’s a tendency to think that a big car is a sign of success. Even I used to drive around in a huge pickup truck.”
Suddenly, I thought of my truck back in Seoul.
That heavy mass of steel that was always loaded with equipment, its accelerator constantly pressed to overtake someone.
Compared to that, this little car seemed to have no greed at all.
Slow but steady, moving at its own pace.
It reminded me of Haruna.
The scenery of Itoshima passed by outside the window like a panorama.
Wide-open plains without any tall buildings.
The rice paddies that had just been planted were filled with water, reflecting the blue sky and clouds like mirrors.
Low mountain ridges in the distance, with glimpses of sunlight shimmering on the sea beyond them.
“The scenery is... really... like a painting.”
“Isn’t it? This is my favorite driving route. Even when I get caught at a traffic light here, I don't get annoyed. Doesn't Korea have places like this, too?”
“Hmm... I suppose... If I had to name one, perhaps Mukho Port on the east coast?”
“Mukho Port?”
“Yes. Muk-ho Port.”
Quiet classical music played from the radio inside the car.
There was something strangely comfortable about the atmosphere.
I suddenly wanted to know more about her.
“Haruna.”
“Yes?”
“I've been curious about this for a while... Why did you start learning Korean? You’re quite fluent.”
She glanced at me through the rearview mirror and smiled.
“Ah, I still have a long way to go. Formal speech is okay for the most part, but informal speech and trendy expressions are really difficult.”
“Usually people start because of K-pop or dramas. Do you have a favorite idol?”
It was just a casual question.
Naturally, I expected her to name a famous male idol group.
But the answer I received completely defied my expectations.
“No... I don't really know much about idols.”
She tapped her fingers lightly against the steering wheel for a moment before carefully speaking.
“I learned it... because of poetry.”
“Poetry?”
“Yes. Yun Dong-ju’s poem, ‘Night of Counting Stars.’”
“Yun... Dong-ju?”
It was the last answer I'd expected.
Come to think of it, I'd heard somewhere that some Korean residents in Japan, as well as Japanese people, periodically recited the poems of the late Yun Dong-ju as a way of mourning him.
But hearing his name from a young woman in a rural Japanese town was still incredibly unexpected.
She continued.
“I happened to read a translated collection of his poems, and it really hurt my heart. But in the afterword, the translator had written something like this: ‘I’m sorry that I couldn't convey one hundred percent of the rhythm and emotions contained in the original poem.’”
Her voice became slightly subdued.
“That made me wonder. What did the original actually feel like? ‘The sky in which the seasons pass is filled with autumn’... I wanted to read that sentence in the exact language the poet himself wrote it in. I thought the resonance of the words would be different from the translated version.”
“Hmm...”
Yun Dong-ju.
A resistance poet who died in Fukuoka Prison during the Japanese colonial period.
To Koreans, his name represented both pain and pride.
But to Japanese people, especially young people who hadn't received a thorough education about that history, it would surely be an unfamiliar name.
“Do you know about Yun Dong-ju? Do you know what kind of life he lived?”
At my question, her expression became serious.
“Yes. I learned about him while studying. I also learned that he... died here in Fukuoka.”
We were driving along a quiet national highway, but the atmosphere inside the car had grown somewhat heavy.
“Actually... at first, I just thought they were beautiful poems. But after learning the history, every time I read them, my heart feels so heavy. I also feel ashamed... and sorry.”
She paused for a moment, as though thinking deeply about something, before continuing.
“There was a time when people were forbidden from using that beautiful language. And it was something terrible that my country did. So I... every time I read his poems, I apologize to him in my heart. I tell him that even though it's late, there are Japanese people who are reading his poems and treasuring them like this. So please, wherever you are, write your poems freely.”
I could feel the sincerity and trembling in the end of her voice.
As someone who loved literature, and as a human being who understood the debt left behind by history, she was expressing a profound mourning and respect.
It struck a tender place in my heart.
How many people in Korea actually read Yun Dong-ju’s poetry this deeply?
Yet here, inside a small car in Itoshima, across the sea, I had met one of his most sincere readers.
“...Haruna.”
I cleared my throat slightly before continuing.
“You really are a wonderful reader. I'm sure the poet Yun Dong-ju would be happy, too.”
At my words, she smiled shyly.
“I’m glad you say that. Actually, I was a little careful about talking about this in front of a Korean person.”
“No. If anything, thank you. As a Korean.”
We remained silent for a while.
She gently turned up the volume on the radio again.
The scenery of Itoshima passing outside the car window seemed a little more lyrical than before.
“We’re here! This is the biggest home center around here.”
After about twenty minutes of driving, we arrived at a large shopping center.
The parking lot was already crowded with countless kei cars and trucks.
“Wow, it’s bigger than I expected.”
“Right? They have everything here. From construction materials and tools to household goods. I come here sometimes when I need materials for my glass crafts, too.”
The moment we stepped inside, I caught a smell that was inevitably familiar to me.
The smell of dried wood.
The smell of oil.
And the smell of metal.
It was a clean, organized store scent, somewhat different from the material suppliers in Seoul, but it was more than enough to awaken the “carpenter DNA” inside me.
“All right, shall we start shopping?”
I pulled out a cart.
Haruna followed behind me with curiosity written all over her face.
“First, I need to sand everything, so I need sandpaper. Where's the abrasives section?”
“This way!”
Following Haruna's directions, we arrived at the tool section.
All kinds of sandpaper and grinding stones were displayed across the wall.
I stood in front of the shelves and began choosing sandpaper.
“Hmm... 120 grit, 220 grit, and maybe 400 grit for the finishing...”
“Grit? What's that?”
Haruna pointed at the numbers printed on the sandpaper packages.
“It’s a unit that indicates how coarse it is. The lower the number, the larger and rougher the particles. The higher the number, the finer they are.”
I took out two sheets of sandpaper and handed them to her.
“Try touching them. This is 120 grit, and this is 400 grit.”
She carefully rubbed the surface of the sandpaper.
“Oh! They really are different. This one is rough, while this one is smooth.”
“At first, you have to use something coarse to strip away the accumulated grime and damage. Then you gradually move to finer sandpaper to smooth out the surface. If you start with something fine, it won't remove the grime. And if you keep using something coarse, you'll leave scratches in the wood.”
“Wow... I see. So it's not just about rubbing it.”
“You could say it’s similar to a person’s heart. Just like there’s an order to treating a wound.”
At my thoughtless remark, Haruna stared intently at me.
I looked away and put the bundle of sandpaper into the cart.
“Next, oil stain.”
We moved to the paint section.
Countless color samples greeted me.
I pictured the color of the wooden pillars in the annex.
They had darkened with age, but underneath, the zelkova and cedar still carried a reddish hue.
“Clear would be too light... Walnut would be too dark.”
I compared a can of oak stain with one in a natural color before looking at Haruna.
“Haruna, do you want the annex to have a brighter atmosphere, or would you prefer something calmer?”
“Hmm... I like calm. Something that retains the feeling of the old days.”
“Then let's go with dark oak. Basically, it gives the wood a substantial feel while bringing out its natural grain.”
I placed a one-liter can of oil stain into the cart.
I also selected brushes, masking tape, wood glue, and sockets and wires to replace the old light fixtures.
Choosing the items, checking their ingredients, and placing them into the cart.
It was a familiar sequence of actions.
Then—
“Mr. Gi-jun.”
“Yes?”
“Do you know that you look really... cool right now?”
Haruna suddenly spoke beside me as she held onto the cart handle.
“What? What do you mean?”
“You just seemed like a comfortable older brother in the car, but now you really look like a professional. Your eyes are different.”
She raised her thumb and gave me a playful smile.
Feeling embarrassed for no reason, I scratched the back of my head.
“You only think that because you haven't seen me wearing work clothes and covered in sawdust. If you saw that, you'd run away.”
“Oh, come on. No way. A man who works is so sexy.”
At the word “sexy,” I coughed.
Haruna burst into laughter.
At the checkout counter.
The employee scanned the barcodes and announced the total.
“4,580 yen.”
Haruna tried to take out her wallet.
“No, of course I’m paying! You're fixing my house. I can't make you pay for the materials, too.”
“It's fine. I'm the one who should pay for this.”
“Ah! Mr. Gi-jun, but...”
“While I'm here, I don't know how long I'll be staying... but I'm buying these so I can be comfortable in that annex. And...”
I took the receipt and looked at her.
“I can't feel satisfied unless I choose and buy my own tools. It's basically an occupational condition.”
“Occupational... condition?”
“Later, show me somewhere nice. Somewhere not too far away. That'll be enough.”
Haruna pouted but nodded.
“Okay. But tonight, I'll make you something really delicious! Look forward to it.”
“Oh, I will.”
We headed toward the parking lot with our hands full of shopping bags and loaded the materials into the trunk.
Why did my hands feel particularly light as I loaded the materials?
Perhaps because of the hope that something could be fixed.
Or perhaps because of the excitement of having someone to share that process with.
Haruna sat in the driver's seat and shouted with determination,
“All right, shall we go? Let's go save our house.”
“Yes, let's go. Major surgery is waiting for us.”
I smiled and climbed into the passenger seat.
The small kei car, Toto, started up energetically.
On the way back, the song playing on the radio sounded as lyrical as one of Yun Dong-ju's poems.
The night of Itoshima was beginning to feel as beautiful as a night spent counting stars.