Now the City Is Tended by Its Citizens

"The ecological stream restoration project is finally official."

I smiled down at the papers. There was nothing left to fight over — the debate was finished, a conclusion had been reached, and all that remained was execution.

"I approve the project plan, effective immediately."

I stamped the approval document without a moment's delay, pushing the process through at breakneck pace. Such procedures normally drag on for months, but I had no reason to waste time.

The instant the plan cleared, demolition of the road began.

"We start by ripping up the road covering the stream!"

The covered road capping Yeojin Stream, downtown section included, amounted to barely 500 meters. It was shorter than I'd expected, which meant the work would be anything but complicated.

"If it was this easy, why on earth did nobody do it sooner?"

I shook my head. The answer was simple: greed.

"They blocked this whole thing over a handful of pocket change?"

They had kept the covered road in place and clung to the money it generated — one from running the parking lot on top of it, another from the rising land values, a third from nothing more than the anticipation of future development. In the end, they had stalled the stream's restoration again and again to protect their own interests.

"What they never realized was that the greed would end up squeezing their own throats."

I let out a light breath. It had taken me stepping in personally to put the project back on its original course, and I had gone straight into demolition without an ounce of hesitation.

"We move fast — just like we did with the Car-Free Street!"

With work like this, speed is life itself. Let the implementation plan drag on for a few months and the noise starts up all over again, with stakeholders swarming in to shake the project loose. There was no reason to wait.

"Loaders! Excavators! Throw every machine we've got at it, starting right now!"

Unlike the Car-Free Street with its dawn-raid demolition, this time the work proceeded in broad daylight — partly to keep resident backlash to a minimum, and partly to make it unmistakably clear that this was a project moving through proper official channels.

"There they go again with the noisy construction."

Still, let a project run long and comments like that are inevitable. So to avoid ever hearing them, I devised a plan: mobilize every construction vehicle in and around the region and finish the job in one concentrated, short burst.

"We finish this in one go."

I was out at the site from each morning, supervising in person. I could hardly sit at my desk collecting reports. A construction site is living, breathing reality — and when I commanded from the field, everything moved several times faster. The officials in charge must have been driven half out of their minds.

"Mr. Mayor, please get some rest."

I heard that more times than I could count, but whenever a gap opened in my schedule I was back at the site until well past sunset.

"Is this demolition actually being done right?"

"The work pace seems to be slipping, doesn't it?"

"If you can bring in more machines, bring in every one you can."

Under that kind of prodding, the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠pace picked up. No — it had no choice but to.

Once demolition began, I was forced to confront absurd sight after absurd sight.

"What... is all this?"

What lay inside a stream buried beneath a sewer culvert for fifty years defied imagination. Putrefying sludge and unidentifiable gunk; the streambed had rotted through completely, and the stench was nearly unbearable even through a mask.

But the real shock was still to come.

"What? Buildings have been secretly discharging their wastewater into the storm drain?"

The on-site investigation revealed that several unscrupulous building owners had covertly tapped into the drain and were dumping their wastewater into it without authorization. The pipe had been meant to carry rainwater and groundwater; with contaminated water pouring in, the stream had had no choice but to rot.

"And these are the people who lecture everyone about a clean city?"

I had the buildings responsible tracked down immediately and filed formal complaints against them.

"Make them restore everything to its original state at once. And we'll be billing them for the full cost of remediating the stream they polluted, too."

The demolition wrapped up in just one week — far faster than planned. Every scrap of asphalt was stripped away, the reeking soil hauled off, and the illegal drain connections undone.

"Now the groundwork for restoring the stream is done."

Of course, it was still a stretch to call the place a stream. What remained after the demolition was sheer chaos — earth gouged open everywhere, a bed left black and putrefied. And yet...

"The further the work goes, the more the stream changes."

At first the stench had been so vile that residents walked the area with hands clamped over their noses. But as the sunlight poured in and the polluted sludge was cleared away, the smell faded little by little.

Now it was time to move on to the next stage: building a true ecological stream.

The ecosystem recovered far faster than anyone expected. Barely a month after we stripped out the asphalt and concrete burying the stream and began restoration work, the first changes were being noticed. By early summer the grass had grown thick almost overnight.

"Mr. Mayor, we keep getting reports of otters ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sighted in the stream these days," the official in charge said, sounding genuinely amazed.

"Already?"

I was surprised too. I had expected it, of course, but I hadn't imagined an endangered species like the otter would return this fast. With the stream properly restored, the water had cleared and the small fish it fed on had multiplied naturally. Otters are acutely sensitive to environmental change — had they not judged this stretch safe enough and rich in food, they would never have come back.

Then something even funnier happened: reports began arriving that snakes had appeared as well.

"Mr. Mayor, a civil complaint just came in about a snake sighting," Division Chief Park Yeon-ho said, scratching his head.

"What's the problem with a snake showing up? It means the ecosystem has come back to life, that's all."

"That's true enough... but the residents are anxious all the same. Shouldn't we at least put up a few signs reading Beware of Snakes?"

I chuckled.

"Come on now. Is there a single urban stream anywhere in this country with a Beware of Snakes sign?"

Chief Park fell silent for a moment. Come to think of it, he had probably never heard of such a case in his life.

I waved a hand lightly.

"This is a publicity opportunity, if anything. Talk to the PR office and get some wildlife YouTubers out here. Isn't this exactly the kind of content that performs?"

"Ah... I suppose we could use it that way."

Chief Park nodded.

"When a small incident becomes an issue, people come away thinking well of us. It just proves what an ecologically rich stream Yeojin Stream is, doesn't it?"

And so we decided to promote Yeojin Stream under the unusual banner of "the urban stream where snakes appear." What mattered was that people came to see the place not as just another park, but as a space where real nature lived and breathed. There were any number of ways to let the public know the ecosystem had been restored.

As Yeojin Stream's ecosystem recovered, the surrounding business district began to take root at a startling pace. What had started as a simple restoration project was now being recognized as a brand-new attraction.

"Mr. Mayor, I hear the cafés around there are doing great business lately," the official said, his voice bright with excitement.

Sure enough, as people wandering over from the Car-Free Street drifted naturally toward the stream, the cafés nearby began to bustle. The novelty of sipping coffee to the sound of running water apparently appealed, and more and more visitors were posting photos on social media.

Weekends told an even more interesting story. People were coming in from as far as Gwangseong City.

"Honestly, I never expected this many people at Yeojin Stream," Chief Park Yeon-ho marveled.

"The Car-Free Street was a hit too, remember? This is the same momentum carrying over."

With the Car-Free Street project's success, attention had flowed naturally toward the Yeojin Stream restoration. Now that there was a place to enjoy nature right in the heart of downtown, people were embracing it as the city's newest "hot spot." And then came one more effect nobody had predicted.

"Mr. Mayor, the YouTubers are pouring in."

YouTube creators had begun filming Yeojin Stream — especially those covering ecological restoration, urban regeneration, and healing spots — and the stream's name was reaching a wider and wider audience. Even I would sometimes stumble across it while scrolling YouTube Shorts.

"So now it's making a name for itself even without us lifting a finger."

The time had come to think about how to build on the momentum.

Right now it is still spring, so no dramatic change leaps out at anyone yet. The weather is mild and the water level stable, and it's only natural that people don't yet feel in their bones what a restored ecological stream means for daily life. But summer will come, and with it the monsoon rains — and then everything changes.

Yeojin Stream has long been notorious for backing up and flooding its banks at the first rainfall. Merchants and residents lived in constant dread of the floods that struck every single year; hauling goods indoors and stacking sandbags in front of their doors at the sight of clouds was simply a way of life.

This time will be different. Once the restored stream reclaims its original function, Yeojin Stream will no longer be a source of fear but a shield standing guard over the city. The proof will show itself soon enough. If this summer passes without a single flood loss, that alone will be the most powerful "felt effect" the citizens could ask for — and I am looking forward to that change more than anyone.

Of course, one transformed stream won't change the city overnight. But I am certain it will be the detonator for reviving the old downtown. If this stretch can establish itself, in continuity with the Car-Free Street, as a place where nature and people truly meet, then the city's center may yet drift back to the old quarter.

And yet, every time I push through a change like this, impatience wells up inside me.

If only I could build it like a game of SimCity — snap, and it's done.

Administration is a slow, tangled business. To get a single project done, you have to draft a plan, secure the budget, clear review after review and administrative procedure, negotiate contracts, and only then break ground... The steps pile up without end, and actual construction routinely takes anywhere from several months to several years.

So I changed my strategy. Instead of perfecting a plan before acting, I would set the work in motion first and tidy up after.

At first there was no end of grumbling around me.

"Mr. Mayor, aren't you pushing this too recklessly?"

"Skip the procedures and it'll come back to bite you later."

But a mayor who spends his whole term honoring procedure ends his term having done nothing. Not that I trampled the law — within its frame, there was plenty the mayor's authority could accomplish quickly. Anything that could be done by deploying administrative staff on a modest budget moved along nicely.

So I chose to create the fait accompli first and let the administration catch up. That was how I had always operated, and how I was operating still. Because that, in the end, was the only way to make an administration truly move.

One absurd, faintly ridiculous thing happened along the way.

Under the River Act, trees may not be planted within a river's space. The reasoning was simple: in a flood, trees could be torn out by the roots and swept downstream, snagging on bridges or smashing through them. And so the law flatly prohibited planting trees along a river.

Then one day, the division chief in charge approached me and spoke with great care.

"Mr. Mayor, we've received a request from an environmental group."

"What sort of request?"

"Representative Song Ji-hyeon is asking whether we might plant some trees along the stream. She says they'd be pleasant ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to look at, and that it gets far too hot for citizens out walking in the summer."

I had to laugh. If anyone knew the River Act inside and out, it was Song Ji-hyeon. She surely understood the letter of the law perfectly well — with so many demands coming in from residents, she had simply passed the request along anyway.

"So what you're telling me is that back when this was a sewer and not a stream, we could plant trees to our hearts' content — and now that we've gone and restored it into an actual river, we can't plant a single one?"

The chief nodded, looking pained.

"Legally speaking... yes, that's about it."

I feigned a moment of deep deliberation, then said with studied innocence:

"But tell me — what if somebody came along at dawn, planted a few trees, and left?"

The chief blinked at me.

"Pardon?"

"If someone snuck in at dawn, planted trees, and slipped away — couldn't we simply pretend we never noticed?"

The chief's mouth hung slightly open.

"So... what you're saying, Mr. Mayor, is that we look the other way?"

I smiled, saying everything and nothing.

"Precisely. We're hardly obliged to stop trees from growing on their own, are we?"

The chief let out a long sigh — and then, in spite of himself, broke into laughter.

"Understood. Well... so long as it wasn't us who planted them on purpose, I suppose..."

And just like ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that, trees planted by "someone" began taking root along Yeojin Stream, one after another. Officially, no one has ever known where they came from.

When construction on the ecological stream wrapped up, I gave Park Yeon-ho, chief of the Eco-Environment Division, an instruction: prepare a plan for how we intended to manage the place from here on.

A few days later he appeared at my desk with a single document in hand.

"Mr. Mayor, this is the maintenance and management plan."

I took it, read it, and sighed. Just as I'd expected.

"So the plan is to hand it over to the Yeojin Facilities Corporation?"

Chief Park nodded with an awkward smile.

"Yes... they already have the infrastructure in place, and the staffing costs and systems are all set up."

There was logic in what he said. But the document read like a blank canvas with nothing painted on it — just the corporation's logo stamped in the corner.

I shook my head.

"We built this space from nothing. Squeezing it into the old mold strips it of all meaning."

"I understand, but if a private group takes over management, there's the question of oversight, and budgets, and—"

"That oversight is exactly what we're here to change."

I planted both hands on the desk and leaned forward.

"The era of city hall trying to do everything is over. A space the citizens use should be centered on the citizens."

In the end, I ordered the operation and maintenance of Yeojin Stream converted to a private-commission model. Basic facility upkeep and safety inspections would remain with the Yeojin Facilities Corporation, but program operation, space programming, and citizen education would be led by civic organizations. When a government agency runs things directly, it moves mechanically, exactly as far as the budget allows — no flexibility, no creativity. From the citizen's side of the counter, it registers as nothing more than a stifling administrative service that runs only as far as the money goes.

So I picked up the phone and called Representative Song Ji-hyeon myself.

"Representative, would your coalition be willing to take on the ecological programming and operational management of Yeojin Stream?"

She had gone quiet for a long moment after answering — clearly, the call had blindsided her completely.

"We've done nothing but fight for years, haven't we? Boxed into that same old frame — development or anti-development."

"Then let's build something together this time. A space we made together — let's tend it together."

Representative Song hesitated before answering, choosing her words with care.

There was a tangle of feeling threaded through her words. For years, city hall and civic groups had met only from opposite sides of the line; suspicion and mutual checking had been the daily routine. But that had to change now, because a city's future is never built by one side's strength alone.

"City hall can't throw itself into every single thing. Only when civil society does its part — and shares the responsibility — does a city become truly sustainable."

Sounding like a page straight out of a textbook. And to have to say it not from some official podium but person to person, privately — flustering, awkward, and yet what choice was there? Such is the office of mayor.