A Warm Goodbye

Although there was a lingering misunderstanding that Enheim’s agency had pulled off a clumsy media play, the “personality controversy” stigma attached to Jae-in was finally fading. Naturally, the agency’s hardline stance of clearing his entire schedule began to shift.

This meant that Jae-in, after holding out for a full week, finally had to return to Seoul.

“It’s such a pain that you don’t even have a phone, Hyung. Just you wait, Ji-ho Hyung. I’ll whine my way back down here somehow. When I do, let’s figure out a proper way to screw over Star Ent.”

Jae-in didn’t notice, but the Enheim manager who had come to pick him up gave Ji-ho a strange look upon hearing those words. As the car door closed, Jae-in’s voice could be heard feigning innocence: “What? Nothing happened.” A moment later, the van carrying Jae-in pulled away.

‘I’m just glad Jae-in’s situation got sorted out.’

Watching the black van disappear toward the rising sun, Ji-ho felt a sudden sense of emptiness. Over the past week, he must have grown accustomed to the constant sound of Jae-in’s chattering.

But the sentimentality was brief. Ji-ho began walking along the path. Though it was still too early to call it morning, it took a while to reach the village entrance where the community hall was located.

Since it was harvest season, the village rice paddies were covered in a golden hue, providing a beautiful sight. Some residents were already out operating farm machinery.

“Hey there, Ji-ho! Looks like your friend left.”

“Did you sleep well? Please let me know if there’s anything I can help with!”

Ji-ho shouted back a greeting to Mr. Kim from the hardware store, who was waving from a distance. The reply was long and hard to catch entirely, but it seemed to be a promise to check his heating system before the weather turned cold.

‘It’s already October; the weather is cooling down fast. Will I still be here in the winter?’

Perhaps because he had talked so much about idol life with Jae-in, these idle thoughts kept surfacing.

Ji-ho stopped for a moment to take in the panoramic view of the village. The tidy scenery and the crisp morning air were refreshing—enough to soothe his heavy heart.

He resumed his walk.

This time, he ran into Mi-rin, who was on her way to school since the new semester had started last month.

“Oppa!”

“On your way to the bus stop? Oh, Jae-in went back to Seoul earlier. He asked me to tell you he’s sorry he couldn’t say goodbye in person.”

“What? Oh, no! I… just meeting Jay Oppa was more than enough for me.”

Thanks to Ji-ho’s request, Mi-rin—a dedicated “Floor”—had enjoyed a brief meeting with Jae-in. Originally, Ji-ho hadn’t wanted to burden Jae-in while he was struggling, but since things had worked out in the end, it was a different story.

In an era where marketing gimmicks like random photocards and multiple album versions are rampant, Jae-in had been genuinely moved to hear that Mi-rin had saved up her allowance just to buy one basic album. He had excitedly offered fan service, but Mi-rin, who was mature for a middle schooler, said she was satisfied with an autograph and hadn’t approached Ji-ho’s house since.

‘Maybe this is the most ideal relationship between a fan and an idol.’

A pure fan who trusts their artist until the end, and an idol who doesn’t give up on fixing things so as not to disappoint them. Looking at the two of them, Ji-ho had thought of “Glows,” the fans who used to love him.

Had they been disappointed in him for running away so cowardly? Had they turned their backs on him, thinking his disappearance without explanation was an admission of guilt?

“Actually, I acted cool in front of Jay Oppa, but I went home and cried because I was so happy. Because of that, my dad… he misunderstood and asked if I liked you, Ji-ho Oppa. Just ignore him if he says something weird.”

“Huh? Haha, I hope the village leader doesn’t start hating me. You did a great job keeping Jae-in’s visit a secret. I think it’s okay to tell people now. It looks like his situation is resolving well.”

“Right? The people who were cursing him on the internet are already moving on to other idols. They didn’t even properly apologize for framing Jay Oppa. Everyone is so mean.”

Ji-ho made a mental note to keep it a strict secret that the culprit was actually Ra-min, a fellow member. Considering the behavior of the Enheim members Jae-in had described, he felt a bit sorry for Mi-rin, who firmly believed in their polished public image.

“…So, the Floors decided to keep posting the same explanation over and over. I’m trying to get to school early today because our school tablets don’t have internet restrictions. I think I can do it faster there than on my phone.”

“Aren’t those tablets for studying? Hmm, maybe I should tell Jae-in that his fan here isn’t studying very hard.”

“N-No! I study really hard!”

“Really?”

“I swear! I’m going to go to university in Seoul and definitely go to an Enheim concert!”

Ji-ho stopped teasing her there. After some small talk, the two arrived near the community hall.

Mi-rin stopped as if she had one more thing to say.

“Oppa… th-thank you. That day was a perfectly happy day for me. I’d only ever dreamed of it. Th-thank you so much!”

Thinking she had said something embarrassing, Mi-rin shouted her thanks and dashed toward the bus stop. Since her friends seemed to be on the bus that had just arrived, Ji-ho quickly turned toward the hall. A soft smile lingered on his lips as he walked inside.

“Is that Ji-ho?”

Life in the countryside starts at dawn, so it was only natural for several residents to be at the community hall. The heavy harvest workload also meant there was much to coordinate.

“Hello. How has everyone been?”

The hall, which had been relatively quiet, began to buzz with Ji-ho’s entrance.

“Oh, Ji-ho. Did your friend leave? I felt like I didn’t want to go straight home today, and I guess it was so I could see you.”

“Exactly. The atmosphere in the hall finally livens up now that you’re here. I was going to stop by your house to give you this, but Bok-gu’s grandmother kept nagging me not to disturb you while you were playing with your friend.”

“For me?”

The “weekend farm” ladies, who had bought houses in the village to use as villas, were particularly happy to see him. One of them, who was always complimenting Ji-ho on his looks, pulled something out of a paper bag and draped it over his shoulders.

“Is this the knit you were working on? You’ve finished it already?”

When it wasn’t the busy farming season, the village women often gathered at the hall to do various crafts. Among them, the lady who ran a knitting shop in the city was exceptionally skilled; she had picked up her needles as soon as the weather cooled after summer.

“Oh, it’s perfect. Even when I tell customers making things for their sons to pick bright yarn, there aren’t many men who look good in cream colors. But Ji-ho, it looks like it was made for you. I just guessed the size… hmm, do you want to try it on?”

“This is for me?”

“Of course. I used thick yarn so you could wear it when you go back to Seoul this winter. It might be too warm for now, but it’ll be cozy when the weather gets cold.”

It was clearly a men’s sweater. Though Ji-ho had admired her skill, he had assumed it was a gift for her family or something for sale. He hadn’t expected it to be for him.

“There are plenty of nice clothes in Seoul, what a waste of effort, tsk tsk.”

“Handmade is different, Hyung-nim. Getting a pattern like that is hard even for a machine.”

“Ji-ho, hurry and put it on. You can just wear it over what you have now.”

Dazed, Ji-ho put on the sweater. Feeling the soft texture against the back of his hands, he wondered if it was okay to accept such a gift. Before he could even say thank you, someone else approached him, distracting him again.

“Right, I have to give this to Ji-ho, too. It’s baekseolgi (white rice cake) made from this year’s first harvest. It’s best when it’s freshly steamed and warm… I should just ask them to make another half-batch.”

The lady from the corner store seemed to have saved some rice cakes for Ji-ho, who had missed the village feast because he was busy with Jae-in. Another resident mentioned that an elder had insisted they shouldn’t even open the box until Ji-ho could have some.

“You don’t need to make more. These still look soft. And it’s too much for me to eat alone anyway.”

The unexpected barrage of gifts didn’t end there.

“My daughter and son-in-law went to Jeju Island and bought this. They said kids these days like this kind of thing. You have no idea how much of a fuss everyone made about only taking care of you, Ji-ho.”

Ji-ho had a complicated expression as he received a souvenir a resident had bought for him. The product, featuring a cute Dol Hareubang character, was certainly interesting, but the problem was that it was a Griptok—a phone accessory.

“Oh, Hyung-nim. Who complained? You were the one whining because you wanted to show Ji-ho the photos from your trip but couldn’t.”

“Even so, he gave out all those tangerine breads in the hall. They were sweet and tasty; what a shame Ji-ho couldn’t have any.”

“I knew that, so I saved some for him!”

And then the village leader and his wife arrived.

“Sir, when should I return the griddle and tools you lent me?”

“Forget it. Just keep them. We have plenty at home. You’ll need them when another friend comes down.”

The cast-iron griddle was one thing, but tools like the mini brazier and fire blower looked like expensive camping gear, which had made Ji-ho nervous while using them. Based on the collection, they seemed to be the hobby gear of the leader, who used to enjoy hiking.

“But they look expensive. I can’t just keep them.”

“How much more are you going to use them anyway? If you need them, you can pack them up and take them to Seoul when you leave.”

“Oh, you. Don’t tell him to take them; tell him to leave them at home so he can use them when he visits with friends later. I’ll bring some blankets over for Ji-ho in a bit. Even with the floor heating, there’s a draft, so you need a thick cover at night.”

The residents had always been kind and warm to Ji-ho, but it seemed they had become even more attentive while he was away. Watching them give so much, Ji-ho felt a wave of emotion. He wasn’t sure what to call this feeling—a mix of being moved and a slight churning in his stomach.

He had a faint realization.

The residents must have heard that a guest from Seoul had visited, and they likely assumed Ji-ho would be leaving soon. Though they couldn’t say it outright, they were expressing their sadness at the thought of his departure by taking care of him like this.

‘Even though I don’t even know if I can return.’

There were residents who wondered why a young man had come to live in such a remote place. They found it strange that Ji-ho didn’t communicate with the outside world, unlike their grandchildren who were glued to their phones.

But they all treated Ji-ho with affection without asking a single question. They were eager to give him whatever they could, told him to rest whenever he offered to help, and showed with their whole being that they had missed him.

Maybe this is what a real family-like relationship is.

A relationship where you don’t have to struggle to be helpful, where you don’t have to walk on eggshells to avoid being a nuisance, and where bonds grow deep without having to leverage shared history. In this village, there were people who didn’t require Ji-ho to exert himself unilaterally.

And yet, Ji-ho still wanted to leave. He wanted to return to Pentagram. That realization was a bit bittersweet, but—

‘If—just if—I’m given another chance, then… I shouldn’t act like I did before.’

He remembered Jae-in asking if he was a pushover. He thought of himself shrinking back, unable to refute Kwon-ho’s assessment. The passive attitude of always giving in to the members was vivid. The moment he overheard Yong-ha and Ha-neul’s conversation but couldn’t confront them.

‘Never again.’

If only to honor the hearts of the villagers who cherished him, Ji-ho resolved never to let his existence be diminished again. Even if it meant becoming selfish, even if it meant acting only for his own greed, he felt like he wouldn’t care anymore.