Chapter 9c The Last Shore Cafe
The Last Shore Cafe
The hotel and the black sand beach look like the kind of place a drama production designer would create for a female lead who has bravely decided to “find herself” after a bad breakup.
The first few days are a study in quiet, awkward adjustment. Hondongi graduates from hiding under the bed to scratching the door with the transparent windows leading to the balcony, which I decide to count as a major breakthrough.
I, on the other hand, find it hard to relax and ‘just enjoy life,’ no matter how cliché that sounds. The interviews, fittings, rehearsals, and shoots are gone. Now my only appointment is coaxing a traumatized dog to eat a single piece of kibble. And somehow, that makes me restless.
So, I give myself a new job. My latest career is an absurdly specific blend of private investigator and professional dog therapist.
The mission, should I choose to accept it, is to find a ghost.
My clues are the faded photograph of the postcard on my phone and the appearance of the buildings mentioned by my aunt on the phone.
The search is, to put it mildly, a masterclass in failure. I spend my afternoons driving my rental car through winding coastal roads, getting lost approximately every fifteen minutes. I’ll pick a new town, find a local cafe, and awkwardly try to explain my situation to the bemused owner.
“I’m looking for a woman,” I say, trying to sound like a normal person—not a stalker. “She’s from Seoul, in her late fifties. Owns a coffee shop here in Jeju.”
The response is always the same: a polite, pitying smile and a vague, unhelpful suggestion. Jeju, it turns out, is full of women from Seoul in their fifties who have run away to open coffee shops.
But the search gives my days a purpose. It’s a slow, meditative process. In Seoul, I was a product, a headline, a scandal. Here, I’m just the weird city girl with the scared dog who asks a lot of strange questions. It’s a significant improvement.
After one week of this, I’m ready to give up. The initial, hopeful energy has evaporated, leaving behind a familiar, bitter residue of disappointment.
I’m sitting at an outdoor table in a small, unfamiliar town I’d almost driven past, nursing a lukewarm coffee and scrolling through real estate websites for my inevitable, shame-faced return to Seoul.
Hondongi is lying at my feet, and for the first time, he isn’t trembling.
He’s just watching the sunset, a deep, contented sigh escaping him.
“Well, at least one of us is having a good time,” I mutter to him.
And that’s when I see it.
Across the street, nestled between a hardware store and a tiny post office, is a small, charming cafe with faded blue shutters, red brick walls, and a hand-painted sign. The sign, written in a familiar, slightly rushed script, reads: The Last Shore Cafe.
The name is a punch to the gut. It’s so absurdly, painfully perfect that it feels like a line from a script I didn’t know I was in. I know, with a world-tilting certainty, that this is it.
I stand up, my chair scraping loudly against the pavement.
Hondongi looks up at me, startled. The walk across the street feels like the longest, most terrifying walk of my life.
Every step is a question. What will I say?
What if she doesn’t want to see me? What if she’s happy, and I’m just a ghost from a life she’s tried to forget?
I stop in front of the blue door, my heart doing somersaults against my ribs. The café is warm and quiet, filled with the late afternoon sun.
I take a deep breath. And I walk in.
The bell above the door chimes—a soft, delicate sound. The smell of coffee and cinnamon immediately enters my system, a scent so deeply tied to my earliest childhood memories it makes my eyes water.
And behind the counter, her back to me, is a woman. She’s wiping down the espresso machine, her movements practiced and sure. She’s older, her hair a little grayer, her frame a little softer, but it’s her. I know it with the same certainty that I know my own name.
She turns, a polite, professional smile on her face for the new customer. And then she sees me.
The world stops.
The smile freezes, then crumples. Her face—a face I’ve only seen in faded photographs for the past fifteen years—goes pale.
Her eyes, which are my eyes, widen in stunned, terrified recognition.
The cup in her trembling hand slips, clattering against the saucer with a sharp, piercing sound that seems to swallow the entire world.
There are no dramatic shouts. No tearful reunions. Just a quiet, stunned silence that stretches for an eternity. She’s the spitting image of me, only with a few more wrinkles and gray threads in her hair.
“Min-hee…” she whispers, her eyes starting to form tears. “Min-hee…” that seems to be the only word she knows how to say now.
Some customers start to notice. Instantly, a familiar, cold reserve kicks in. I keep my nod small and make no sound, quickly reaching up to pinch the wet fabric of my mask, trying to dry the tears before they betray me entirely.
***
That night, I’m sitting at a small, worn wooden table in her apartment above the café. The space smells like her. My mother.
I didn’t realize how strange—and how good—it would feel to think and say those words out loud again.
My mother.
Words I used to dodge in casual conversation, just to keep people from feeling awkward.
Words that once sparked quiet jealousy when someone mentioned their own—raving about the homemade cooking or complaining about their call.
Words that carried confusion, anger, and a longing I never wanted to name.
She sets a bowl of sundubu-jjigae, in front of me.
Simple, homemade, steaming faintly. It’s the first real meal she’s made for me since I was a teenager.
The weight of that hits me harder than I expect.
My throat tightens, and for a moment, I almost cry—but I just wipe my eyes and pick up the spoon.
We eat in silence. Not angry. Just dense with what we’ve never said.
Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I set my spoon down.
“Why?” The word slips out like a breath I’ve been holding for years.
She doesn’t ask what I mean. Her fingers curl together on the table, knuckles white. When she finally speaks, her voice is soft and tired.
“Do you remember how your father was, back then?”
I nod. I feel something twist inside me.
“The drinking,” she says, staring down at the bowl. “The debt. The way the light just… disappeared from our house, little by little. I was drowning, Min-hee. Every morning I woke up, it felt like my lungs were full of water. I couldn’t breathe.”
She looks up. Her eyes are glassy, but her voice stays even.
“And I looked at you. You were so bright, so full of life. You had just begun your life as an idol and moved into the dorm with the other girls. And I was terrified that if I stayed, my sadness would smother that light—that I’d pull you under with me.”
Her voice wavers then, just slightly.
“I thought the best way to be your mother was to disappear. To let you swim on your own.”
After a short pause, something shifts. It’s not forgiveness—not yet—but a willingness to look at things through her eyes.
I begin to see her not as the woman who abandoned me, but as someone who chose herself over rotting in despair.
Someone who risked everything so I might have a chance at something better, however flawed her logic was.
I don’t reach for her hand yet. I just breathe, letting that truth settle. Letting the years of anger twist into something quieter: comprehension.
We sit together for a while, neither of us speaking, the air between us filled with something I haven’t felt in years—possibility. Possibility that we can start over, however messy and slow it might be.
When I finally stand, I slip on my jacket and scoop up Hondongi. “I should go,” I say softly.
She nods, then hesitates. “Min-hee,” she says, her voice trembling just a little. “I know I don’t have the right to ask for much. But… if you ever need a place to come back to, a home—” she pauses, searching my face, “—I’m here. I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere again.”
For a second, I can’t speak. The words hang between us, fragile and real, the kind that don’t need an answer right away. I just nod, holding her gaze long enough for her to know I heard.
***
Three months later, I’m still in Jeju. I’m helping my mother at The Last Shore Cafe, our relationship a fragile, tentative thing we’re rebuilding one over-steamed cup of milk at a time. I am, unsurprisingly, a terrible barista. But I’m learning.
We talk. Not about the heavy stuff—not yet. We talk about little things: the weather, the customer who complains about his cappuccino foam every single day, the neighbor’s tree that’s slowly creeping into the cafe entrance.
It’s a start.
I’m walking Hondongi along the black sand beach from the postcards.
He’s no longer a trembling mess. He is a goofy, happy dog, convinced he can catch the seagulls he’s absolutely never going to catch.
He’s healing. And so am I.
I snap a few photos on my analog camera, then some on my phone—selfies with Hondongi—and send them to Gigi, Bora, my aunt, and Shin, telling them they have to come visit during summer vacation.
I smile, a genuine smile that feels easy, and slide the phone back into my pocket.
I look out at the endless ocean, wind whipping through my hair, salty spray cooling my cheeks. For the past fifteen years, my life has been a script: every hour planned, every line rehearsed, every emotion carefully curated for the cameras.
Now? No script. No call sheet. Not even a map.
And the quiet, thrilling mess of it all feels an awful lot like peace.
***