The Same Bathroom, the Same Table, the Same Person

The end of the first-floor corridor at City Hall. I stopped in front of the restroom door, steadied my breath, and glanced around.

It's 11:15 now. Before lunch, right after the meeting. The staff should be on a short break… it ought to be empty at this hour.

I pushed the door open carefully.

And in that moment—

"Oh, Mr. Mayor……!"

An employee standing at the sink saw me and bowed in a flustered panic.

I nodded awkwardly back.

"Oh, hello there."

What followed was pure slapstick. One employee abruptly froze mid-lather, gave his hands a perfunctory rinse, tore off a paper towel, and bolted out without even drying them. Another was washing his hands, but the instant he spotted me he shut off the tap and slipped away into a corner without so much as meeting my eyes.

Left alone at the sink, I muttered at the empty air.

"…Honestly, there's no need to flee the building just because of a restroom."

After that, I set one principle for myself.

"Avoid the restroom during staff breaks."

You could call it my own brand of public-courtesy administration. If sharing a bathroom with the mayor embarrasses them, then it's on me to be considerate.

A few days later, an employee stopped me in the corridor and spoke up, somewhat hesitantly.

"Mr. Mayor… when we, um, ran into each other in the restroom the other day… I hope it wasn't unpleasant for you?"

"No, no, not at all. I was the embarrassed one."

"Everyone was a little startled, honestly. Nobody knew the mayor used the shared restroom."

He laughed awkwardly.

"Would you… ever consider using a private restroom, by any chance?"

I shook my head with a smile.

"No. If we build a mayor's private restroom, all we get is one more wall between us. If it's awkward, I'll be the one to dodge around it."

His expression softened into visible relief, and after a long pause, he added this:

"But… honestly? I kind of like it."

"Like what?"

"That you're really in the same space as us. You use the same restroom, eat at the same cafeteria… how do I put it—you feel like someone who actually works with us. It's made things feel easier."

I listened to him in silence for a moment.

Simply being in the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠same space. So that alone can build trust.

That afternoon, the glances that met me through the glass wall of the mayor's office were a little different from yesterday's. Yesterday's had been curiosity—oh, there he is. Today's was a sense of presence—he's here with us.

Maybe that wasn't the loss of authority at all, but the beginning of the kind of authority that's actually worth having.

The moment I stepped into the cafeteria at lunchtime, the murmur of conversation cut off dead. Several employees froze mid-bite, spoons halfway to their mouths, and one of them stopped ladling soup to stare at me quietly. Holding my tray, I stood there and smiled sheepishly.

"…This is the line, right?"

"Yes!"

Someone shouted it and hurriedly shuffled aside, plate in hand. I took my tray as usual and loaded it dish by dish: braised tofu, seaweed soup, soy-braised potatoes, and today's main—braised saury.

The woman at the kitchen counter asked with a smile, "Mr. Mayor, would you like the mackerel, or the saury?"

"Hmm… let's go with the saury today. Save the mackerel for tomorrow."

Once I'd gotten my food and sat down, the staff at the next table suddenly went quiet. Only the soft clatter of spoons remained; conversation had ceased entirely. I scooped up a spoonful of rice and ventured carefully,

"Is this seat taken?"

"No! Sit here!"

One of them blurted it out, and I took the seat beside them. Throughout the meal, their faces were stiff—mouths frozen at the corners, eyes glued firmly to their rice. So I spoke up.

"…You know, this is my first time having saury like this. It's hard to find this kind of menu around an office, and… it's good, actually. Especially this soy-braised potato. This is genuinely… home cooking."

At that, one of the employees burst out laughing.

"That's exactly what I thought! It tastes just like the braised potatoes my mom makes."

Another ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠employee chimed in carefully, "Mr. Mayor, have you ever tried the stir-fried eggplant they serve here sometimes? It's a total delicacy."

"Stir-fried eggplant? I'll make a point of trying it next time."

Only then did laughter begin to ripple around the table. And with that, the questions started.

"Mr. Mayor, do you ever have instant ramyeon for lunch?"

"To be honest, yesterday I wanted a cup ramyeon so badly, but there were people outside the window, so I gave up."

The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠table erupted. And in that moment, I understood. A cafeteria isn't just a place to eat. It's a place where you calibrate the temperature of an organization—a place where colleagues become human beings to one another.

Near the end of the lunch hour, one of the employees said to me, cautiously, "Mr. Mayor… today's actually the first time we've met."

"Is that so."

"Before I joined City Hall, the 'mayor' always felt like something very far away. But… seeing you today… you're just, well, one of our colleagues."

I listened and nodded slowly.

"I'll keep it that way. Rather than someone sitting high above, I'd rather be someone who walks alongside you."

From that day on, seeing the mayor in the staff cafeteria was no longer a strange sight. And little by little, the mayor behind the glass wall became a person who simply existed among the people.

"Hey, he's here early again today?"

In the elevator on the morning commute, Jeong Ye-na of the Citizen Space Design Division murmured to the colleague beside her, coffee in hand.

"Who?"

"The Mayor. I got here around 8:10, right? His office light was already on. I couldn't believe it, so I looked through the glass, and there he was, sitting at his desk writing something."

"…That's basically an air traffic control tower. Is he the gatekeeper of City Hall now?"

"Exactly. Things have gotten weird lately. Someone asked him straight up, 'Do you even clock in for work, Mr. Mayor?' and apparently it went dead silent."

"Whoa, seriously? How did he react?"

"He just smiled and said, 'I came down here to work with you all.'"

"…Wow."

The two of them locked eyes and exchanged a nod and a strange, knowing look.

That was around when a strange new culture took root.

"The Mayor's at work again today?"

"Today's clock-in was 7:58, apparently. Two minutes faster than yesterday."

Someone jokingly declared they'd build a mayor's commute clock, and before long, a "mayor's morning check-in photo" started making the rounds in the office group chat.

The problem didn't stop there. The day Mayor Yeo Mu-jin left the garlic scapes untouched at the edge of his tray in the cafeteria, the garlic scapes vanished from the menu the very next day.

"Huh? Where are the garlic scapes?"

"The Mayor doesn't eat them. So we left them out today."

Hearing that, I stood there holding my tray in silence for a while.

"That was just… what I felt like eating that day, that's all……"

"If the menu doesn't suit you, we can change it, sir."

"No, no. I absolutely love garlic. I love it. Garlic."

The kitchen lady laughed, and I chewed on a mouthful of mortification along with my rice as I took my seat.

That evening, Kang Seol-heon pushed open the door to the mayor's office without knocking. Her face was flat, but her eyes were laughing.

"Mr. Mayor, public sentiment is becoming unmanageable."

"What sentiment, exactly?"

"Your palate, your arrival time, the angle of your smile, the frequency of your waves—all under active analysis. The question 'Is he actually a real person?' is being answered with 'Yes, confirmed, he doesn't eat garlic scapes.'"

I raised both hands and laced my fingers behind my head in surrender.

"Is this all because of the glass wall?"

"Less the wall itself… more that you're just very visible to people."

"We have CCTV for that, you know."

"That's for meetings and formal occasions. Having staff know how many times you chewed each bite of lunch… isn't that going a bit far?"

I laughed and lifted my coffee cup.

"Next time, maybe I'll write numbers on my spoon. 'One bite,' 'two bites,' like that."

"…That's a little terrifying, sir."

That night, a post appeared on City Hall's anonymous online board.

I read it and fell into thought for a moment.

Getting closer, it turns out, is tiring and embarrassing like this—but maybe it's the process of a seed called trust taking root.

"Mr. Mayor, just a second!"

On my way into work, in front of City Hall's main entrance, I was bowing my head in quick acknowledgment and hurrying along when that familiar tone called out from somewhere and brought me to a stop.

"You're the Mayor, right? I… I saw you on TV back then."

A middle-aged woman in a face mask stepped up in front of me. She clutched a mayoral campaign flyer in one hand, and application papers for a passport poked out of her bag.

"I never thought I'd get to meet you like this. I'm the residents' representative for my apartment complex, and we're in an uproar over the shared parking lot right now. That's something you really need to look into, Mr. Mayor……"

I raised a hand carefully.

"Ma'am, it's truly good to see you. If you file for a meeting and submit it through the official channel, I promise I'll review it personally."

Her face showed a flicker of disappointment, but she nodded.

"Aw, I figured a young mayor would be easier to chat up, but I suppose rules are rules."

I smiled at that. "That's right. Young as I am, I do try to keep the rules."

And it wasn't just that day. At lunchtime, as I was heading into a restaurant near City Hall, three students passing by said,

"That's really the mayor, they say."

"Hey, isn't that the guy from that YouTube video?"

I turned my head at the words, and one of the three shouted, "Mr. Mayor! Fighting!"

"Uh… yes, thank you!"

Without thinking, I raised a fist in solidarity—though honestly, I was a little flustered.

My MBTI is an I, you know……

These days, more and more people spoke to me on the street. In the shopping district, at crosswalks, on the way to site visits. People approached carrying the expectation that "the mayor's young, so he'll understand us"—and that expectation was never a light one to carry.

"You look tired, Mr. Mayor."

Kang Seol-heon set down her coffee cup and said it quietly.

Instead of answering, I took a long pull of my coffee.

"People talk to you a lot more out there these days. 'Mayor, can I ask you something?' 'Mayor, I follow you on Instagram!' 'Mayor, since you're young, you should do TikTok too.' What even is all that?"

She tapped at her keyboard as she spoke. "It's all fatigue from 'approachability.'"

"Approachability?"

"Yes. Seeming easy to reach is a good thing—but it also means people expect things easily, and get disappointed just as easily."

I nodded. "Is that why politicians keep drifting further and further away?"

"Yes. Which is why… don't you ever become one of them, Mr. Mayor."

At that, I looked up and smiled a little. "I'll try. Still… I'd say we've gotten quite close lately, haven't we?"

"Mr. Mayor, at this point you're basically… the neighborhood big brother."

"Big brother?"

"They say you're approachable because you're young."

I burst out laughing. "Ha… but Chief of Staff, I'm really not the type to strike up conversations."

"So from now on, are you going to run away whenever someone talks to you?"

"I'm genuinely considering it."

That evening, one citizen's online comment caught my eye.

I quietly set down my phone.

This city. Let it stay awkward—but never distant. Let it be weary—but never lose its warmth.

When the day's work was done, I would often stand for a while and gaze at the lobby beyond the first-floor glass wall. The space that bustled with people by day lay quietly empty by night, and the lights reflected softly off that glass.

By day, the wall felt like a window where I faced the people; by night, it felt like a mirror that reflected what was inside me.

"Mr. Mayor, look at this."

Kang Seol-heon held something out. A small yellow Post-it note.

She said it had been stuck to the "Free Suggestion Memo Board" on the first-floor corridor bulletin board of City Hall.

I stared at the note for a long time.

Not a policy, not a number, not a performance report—just a single short sentence. And yet, strangely, it stayed with me.

A few days later, an employee passing me in the corridor murmured, almost to himself, "Still… that ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠man is a real person, after all."

Kang Seol-heon looked up and asked, "What do you mean, a real person?"

"Before, I didn't even know if the mayor existed. But these days… I run into him in the elevator sometimes, we wait in the cafeteria line together, and when we cross paths in the restroom we even manage an 'uh… hello'……"

He paused for a moment, then added quietly,

"And honestly? Having a mayor you can actually talk to—it's a good thing."

I knew these stories were piling up, one by one. That night, I stood for a moment before the glass wall.

And toward the lobby beyond it—toward the empty City Hall lobby—I quietly raised my hand and waved, slowly. Whether anyone was watching, or no one at all. That, too, was me, doing my part today as a mayor you can talk to.