The Aesthetics of Waiting
By the time she had emptied roughly half the milk porridge he had served her, Yeo-won set down her spoon. She felt a pang of guilt for leaving any behind, yet she knew that forcing down another bite would only leave her uncomfortably full.
“Have you consumed it entirely?”
“Yes.”
“Even a leopard cat cub would appear to eat more heartily than you.”
“The portion was enormous from the start.”
Yeo-won felt a sudden flare of irritation and shot back at his words. Comparing her to a leopard cat cub—did that mean that in his eyes she did not even register as human?
“Without filling your belly, it will be difficult to endure, will it not?”
At the meaningful weight behind his words, Yeo-won frowned and looked away. The mere thought was enough to kill what little appetite she had left.
When she sat in sullen silence, he gave a low, amused chuckle.
At his casual gesture the dishes before her vanished, replaced by a single teacup.
Steam curled upward from the delicate celadon vessel, its soft blue-green glaze catching the light.
“Drink. It should warm you.”
“Thank you.”
When she lifted the cup, yellow chrysanthemum blossoms floated inside. She had not recognized the porridge, but this she knew at once.
It was chrysanthemum tea.
She remembered her grandfather in her childhood, picking the flowers, drying them, and brewing pot after pot for her. The dried petals had always turned murky and dark, yet these bloomed with delicate beauty on the surface of the water.
One sip filled her mouth with the clean, floral fragrance. Once Shin-wol confirmed she was drinking, he returned his attention to the janggi board.
Tap. Clack. The quiet, rhythmic sounds echoed through the stillness.
With a full stomach and a pleasantly warm body, drowsiness came over her in waves. Yeo-won blinked slowly, rubbing at her heavy eyelids.
Until recently she had been unable to sleep without medicine, yet strangely, ever since encountering Shin-wol, sleep had come more easily.
As her head began to droop, Shin-wol reached out and gently propped up her forehead with his hand.
“If you are sleepy, rest longer.”
“…No, I’m fine.”
Yeo-won stifled a small yawn and forced her gaze back to the board.
Now that she thought about it, she had not seen him sleep once since that day.
According to Cheong-sil, he restored his energy through sleep, yet perhaps a being such as he had no need of it?
She recalled Cheong-sil’s earlier words. A spiritual creature of Shin-wol’s caliber had no need to recover through slumber. When she had asked when he did sleep, Cheong-sil had tilted his head and answered with his usual awkward lilt.
“This one does not know. But sometimes he does. If short, a few days. If long, several months at a time.”
That particular day came back to her—the day she had told him three days had passed and he had replied, as though it were nothing, that it had not been long at all.
On the board an intense battle raged, as though he truly played against a living opponent. He moved his own pieces, then the opposing ones, back and forth in perfect rhythm.
He seemed to have memorized the entire sequence; not once did hesitation touch his fingers. Only the precise, almost mechanical sounds filled the room.
Does playing this way truly bring him any pleasure?
When she stole a glance at him, Shin-wol wore no expression at all. His indifferent, half-lidded eyes were framed by long lashes that cast neat shadows across his face.
Perhaps that was why the sight of him playing janggi looked so achingly solitary to her.
Has he spent hundreds of years like this?
For a span of time so vast she could not begin to measure it, had he lived with an immortal body that needed neither sleep nor rest, always alone in this place where time had stopped? Playing janggi by himself. Occasionally remembering her.
Yeo-won, who had been resting her cheek on her knees, rose abruptly. She circled the board and sat down directly across from him.
Shin-wol watched in silence as she gathered the scattered pieces and arranged them with care.
“It might wake me up a little. Let’s play one round together.”
“Do you know how?”
“Don’t expect much. It’s been a long time since I last played.”
When she lifted her hands, the pieces for each side stood in perfect formation.
Before Shin-wol lay the red Han camp; before her, the blue Chu.
She seemed to know at least the basic rules.
Shin-wol smiled faintly and lifted a horse.
“Shall I learn a move or two from you?”
He set the piece down. After a moment’s thought, Yeo-won moved her chariot. The sound was entirely different from the one he made when playing alone. Chin resting on his hand, Shin-wol narrowed his eyes in lazy pleasure.
How long had it been since he last played janggi with a human? Having only reviewed games in solitude for so long, the presence of a living person across the board stirred an odd feeling in him.
The girl before him frowned in deep concentration, pondering her moves with genuine seriousness.
The piece she finally chose was surprisingly sound.
That child had possessed no real talent for the game, yet it seemed the passage of eras could change even that.
While Shin-wol placed his next move without hesitation, Yeo-won took far longer. When her deliberations stretched on, she would occasionally glance at him, gauging his mood. He waited without the slightest sign of impatience.
This waiting was, after all, one of the true aesthetics of janggi.
After so long, the sensation was not unpleasant.
Watching her struggle and fret across the board was even somewhat entertaining.
They continued their silent battle until the game ended in a manner far more hollow than expected.
“Checkmate.”
In only thirty moves every one of her pieces had been captured. The abrupt conclusion left her irritated, yet Shin-wol continued to laugh softly in front of her, as though it were the most amusing thing in the world. At length he spoke.
“Your skill is utterly wretched.”
“…I know. That’s why I told you not to expect anything.”
Yeo-won pouted, embarrassed, and looked away. She stared down at her captured palace and murmured that it was a shame.
Her ability was so mediocre that it felt as if she had spent every ounce of it on the opening moves alone.
At best, she understood the nature of the pieces and moved them accordingly.
“Then why have you taken the seat across from me?”
While tugging her palace back into position, Yeo-won shot him a sidelong glare.
“It’s not as if you can only play when you’re good at it… Was I truly that terrible?”
Her shoulders drooped.
She never should have offered. The notion that he looked lonely might have been nothing more than her own projection; perhaps he simply enjoyed playing alone.
As Yeo-won sat there dejected, Shin-wol gave a quiet laugh.
“It was certainly tedious.”
At those words she withdrew her hands from the pieces entirely.
If he was going to phrase it that way, it stung.
Still, the difference in skill was overwhelming, so she supposed it was fair. Every move he made carried weight and danger.
Unlike her grandfather’s relaxed, leisurely style, Shin-wol attacked with moves she could never have anticipated. She had been fully occupied simply trying to defend.
Just as she considered standing, Shin-wol tapped one of the pieces she had placed and spoke.
“Still, your first move was not without merit.”
He stared at the board for several seconds as though committing the position to memory, then returned every piece to its starting square.
“Are you going to play another round?”
“Indeed.”
“You said it was tedious.”
“I did not say it was uninteresting.”
That playful twist of words again. He gave a small nod, indicating she should move first. Yeo-won let out a disbelieving laugh.
She could not be certain of anything when it came to him, yet at this moment she understood clearly. He wanted to play janggi with her—even if the game was dull and clumsy.
Of that one thing, at least, she was sure. For some strange reason the realization kept pulling soft laughter from her lips.
“Then this time, shall I learn a move or two?”
When Yeo-won narrowed her eyes and smiled brightly, Shin-wol’s expression stiffened for the briefest instant.
She did not notice. Determined to win this time, she began to consider her moves with grave seriousness. Suddenly Shin-wol asked,
“From whom did you learn janggi?”
“From my grandfather.”
“It appears you were not taught properly.”
After long deliberation she moved her chariot, but he dismantled the play without a flicker of hesitation. Yeo-won gave him a small glare and continued.
“Grandfather never taught me how to win.”
Whenever he drank makgeolli and grew pleasantly tipsy, he would habitually bring out the janggi board and seat her across from him.
“The first time, he only explained the rules and the characteristics of the pieces. That was all.”
She had been forced to learn strategy and technique by observation alone. She remembered how, whenever her clumsy younger self made a foolish move, her grandfather would kindly take it back.
Perhaps excited by the memories of her grandfather after so long, Yeo-won continued in a gentle, steady voice.
“So I asked him once how to win, but he said that simply having someone sitting across from him was enough. He never told me, not until the very end.”
Even until the day he passed away. The bitter thought slipped out. Yeo-won squeezed her eyes shut against the sudden, crushing weight of drowsiness, then opened them again and gave her head a light shake. Yet the sleep she had been holding at bay only grew heavier, threatening to swallow her whole.
That was why she kept talking, desperate to stay awake.
“But now that I think about it, he must have been lonely. He once told me the person he used to play with had passed away early. So he said that simply having someone to play with like this was already a joy.”
She tried to move another piece, but her eyes kept drifting shut and her thoughts refused to connect. Despite her efforts, her vision blurred more and more.
“If only I had been as strong as you… Grandfather might have enjoyed it a little more…”
With those final words, after placing her last piece, Yeo-won leaned against the window frame and fell deeply asleep. When he looked at the board, her palace had been captured. The game was over.
It was, of course, Shin-wol’s victory, yet he gazed at the board with a faintly dissatisfied expression.
He prodded the piece near his own palace with one finger and murmured,
“I failed to see that.”
In the brief moment he had been distracted, her piece had advanced surprisingly deep. Had the game continued a little longer, his own palace might have fallen and the outcome reversed.
Behind the sleeping girl, a single lantern floated upward and began to sway gently from side to side. Watching the lantern express its mood with its entire being, Shin-wol gave a soft laugh.
“Yes. Not bad at all.”
Beyond the veil of unconsciousness, the beloved voice reached her, praising her with warm affection.