The Visit (1) – The Peculiarity of the Peng Clan (彭家)
An inn attendant knocked at the door.
By the window sat Soun.
A collection of evening tales rested open on his knees as he slowly turned the pages.
Light filtering in from outside settled evenly across the paper.
His gaze moved quietly along the lines of text.
At the table in the center of the room sat Jang Jimin.
It was usually Soun's place for writing.
She held the brush upright and carefully wrote the four characters he had given her—Cheonhwa Dongin (天和同人).
After drawing one stroke, she paused to steady her breath before continuing with the next.
The pressure of the brush against the paper was even.
The ink did not blur, and the lines remained slender and alive.
The playful expression she often wore had given way to composed tension.
She did not seem merely to practice the characters, but to trace their meaning.
The room was quiet.
Only the curtain stirred slightly in the breeze slipping through the window.
The sound of pages turning alternated with the faint whisper of brush on paper.
Their positions had been reversed.
One read of worlds within stories, while the other pondered the meaning held in four characters.
The scene fit together precisely, without disturbance.
Perhaps he had been thinking of the Cheonsan Wanderer.
Since that day, Soun had not spoken of him again.
The heart does not settle by words alone.
Nor does it settle simply because time passes.
Why she belonged to Cheonsan, why she did not fully belong, whether she and the Wanderer were husband and wife—
on such matters he showed not the slightest curiosity.
That made things easier.
There are things in this world better left unasked.
To others they may seem light, yet to the one who bears them they are heavy.
And such weight must be carried alone.
Each person bears a word engraved deep in the chest.
For Jimin, it was like unfinished homework, recalling what she had long ago left behind.
What was left, what was departed from, what she sought to discard, and the present shaped by those choices—
we live within such continuities.
We wish those meanings carried less weight, and hope they grow lighter.
Soun, however, would say otherwise.
As fire rises upward and blends naturally with the sky, he would say one must live in that manner.
Did he mean she should harmonize with the Cheonsan Wanderer?
Or that she should harmonize with her present condition?
Jimin wrote Cheonhwa Dongin (天火同人) again and again.
She adjusted each stroke and spacing, revising and reconsidering its meaning.
That is why the learned can be troublesome.
They seem to fit the existential burdens of a person neatly into a single phrase and say that is sufficient.
There are problems one carries through life without resolving.
One believes there is no answer.
One thinks it is a private agony.
One suffers alone, even though the neighbor next door has already resolved the same matter.
Yet the answers were recorded long ago.
In the history and classics of those who lived before us, methods of resolution were carefully preserved.
One does not see them because one's eyes do not reach them.
One does not hear them because one's ears are closed.
One believes oneself bound in contradiction and thus fails to perceive what is already there.
Soun would present it in a single line from a classic text.
He never elaborated at length.
He would simply toss out one sentence.
He was a small boy, yet inwardly seasoned.
Clear on the outside, but old at heart.
"Young master! A visitor has come!"
It was an afternoon bathed in gentle sunlight streaming through the window.
Only the soft sounds of turning pages and brush against paper filled the room.
Then hurried footsteps climbed the stairs, breaking the calm.
It was the inn attendant.
His breathing was uneven, his steps unsteady, and even his halt outside the door was abrupt.
The knock was short and urgent.
The moment a reply came from inside, he pushed the door open without waiting.
His face bore clear urgency, and he spoke almost in a shout.
"If it is a visitor, where is the calling card?"
"Pardon? A calling card?"
Confusion crossed the attendant's face.
He knew that when one visited another's residence, it was proper to first send a calling card.
Yet it had become little more than formality, rarely practiced in the busy capital.
And the man waiting downstairs did not seem likely to observe such etiquette.
Moreover, the person before him was but a young boy.
In the attendant's eyes, merely a youthful guest.
To hear such a boy speak of formal calling cards felt out of place.
Soun had little worldly experience; he simply spoke as he had read in books.
To him, it was the proper way.
The attendant felt reluctant inwardly but did not show it.
The guest was a guest.
It was not devotion to professionalism, but the necessity of making a living.
He bowed repeatedly.
It was not courtesy but habit.
He had been taught to behave thus.
When one bows, some press harder.
Those who cannot lift their heads at home often assert themselves outside precisely because others bow.
The attendant did not bother to explain that in the capital calling cards were seldom used.
He merely lingered at the doorway.
Soun spoke calmly.
"I do not know who it is, but ask him to send up a calling card and request permission first. After that, I shall inform him whether it is acceptable."