RUNNING HOME

OUR SWEET CURSE

Chapter 2: Running Home

Edwin woke to the sound of a rooster.

Not a gentle, melodic crow from some respectable distance. No, this was a full-throated, aggressive assault on his eardrums that seemed to originate approximately three inches from his window.

He jolted upright, heart pounding, and squinted at the clock on the nightstand.

5:47 AM.

*5:47 AM.*

In the city, 5:47 AM was the hour when clubs were finally closing and the truly dedicated night owls were stumbling home. It was not, under any circumstances, a time for conscious humans to be awake.

The rooster crowed again, somehow louder than before.

Edwin grabbed a pillow and pressed it over his ears, but the damage was done. His brain, now rudely awakened, refused to return to sleep. It began instead to helpfully replay the events of the past week: Victoria's cold dismissal, the bus ride through increasingly rural landscapes, his grandmother's suffocating affection.

He groaned and threw off the covers.

The guest room—*his* room now, apparently—was exactly as he remembered it from childhood summers. Faded floral wallpaper that his grandmother had been promising to replace since 1995. A creaky wooden bed frame that announced every movement with theatrical enthusiasm. A window that looked out over the back garden and, beyond it, miles of farmland stretching toward a horizon that seemed impossibly far away.

And, apparently, a rooster who had chosen the fence post directly below as his personal stage.

Edwin dragged himself to the window and glared down at the offending bird. It was a magnificent specimen, he had to admit—all iridescent green-black feathers and an impressive red comb. It stared back at him with the beady, unrepentant eyes of a creature who knew exactly what it was doing and felt no remorse whatsoever.

"I will eat you," Edwin threatened through the glass.

The rooster crowed a third time, directly at him, and strutted away with what could only be described as contempt.

"I see you've met Bartholomew."

Edwin spun around. His grandmother stood in the doorway, already fully dressed in her gardening clothes, holding a cup of something steaming.

"That thing has a name?"

"Of course he has a name. He's been with us for three years." Martha crossed the room and pressed the cup into Edwin's hands. Coffee, black and strong enough to strip paint. "Bartholomew keeps the hens in line. Very important job."

"He also seems to think his important job includes waking me up before dawn."

"Early to bed, early to rise." Martha patted his cheek with the casual affection of grandmothers everywhere. "Makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise. You could use all three."

Edwin took a long sip of coffee and decided not to argue. He had been here for less than twenty-four hours; it was too soon to start fighting battles he was destined to lose.

"Breakfast in twenty minutes," Martha continued, already heading back toward the door. "Your grandfather's making pancakes. After that, you can help me in the garden."

"I'm not really a gardening person—"

The door closed on his protest.

Edwin sighed, looked at Bartholomew's retreating form through the window, and resigned himself to his new reality.

Breakfast was, objectively speaking, incredible.

Harold Carter might be seventy-three years old, but the man could cook pancakes like they were an Olympic sport and he was going for gold. They were fluffy, perfectly golden, and served with real maple syrup and fresh butter that had apparently been acquired from a neighbor's cow.

"Mrs. Henderson," Harold explained, sliding another stack onto Edwin's already-overloaded plate. "She keeps dairy cows. Lovely woman. Widowed about five years back, but she runs that farm better than her husband ever did."

"She also makes cheese," Martha added. "I'll take you to meet her this weekend. She's been wanting to sell some of her cheddar at the farmer's market, but she needs someone to help with the business side."

Edwin paused mid-bite. "Why would I help with the business side?"

"You're a consultant, aren't you? Isn't that what you do? Help businesses?"

"I'm a *corporate* consultant. I work with Fortune 500 companies on merger acquisitions and market positioning strategies. I don't know anything about selling cheese at farmer's markets."

Martha waved a dismissive hand. "Business is business. You'll figure it out."

"I'm on vacation."

"You're *healing*," Martha corrected. "And nothing heals the soul like helping others. Speaking of which—" She exchanged a glance with Harold that Edwin immediately recognized as dangerous. "—the Kims are coming to dinner tonight."

Edwin's fork clattered against his plate.

"The neighbors you mentioned yesterday? The Korean family?"

"Lovely people," Harold said, suddenly very focused on his pancakes. "Very excited to meet you."

"How can they be excited to meet me? They don't know me."

"Oh, we've told them all about you." Martha's smile was the picture of innocence. "How successful you are, how smart, how handsome. Mr. Kim was particularly interested when I mentioned you work in consulting. He's been having some trouble with his business plan—"

"I am not consulting for a vegetable farm."

"Of course not, dear. Just some friendly advice over dinner. Neighbor to neighbor."

Edwin looked between his grandparents, searching for an escape route and finding none. The dinner was clearly already arranged. His presence was clearly already expected. Any attempt to back out would be met with guilt, disappointment, and probably a detailed recounting of all the sacrifices Martha had made throughout her life, starting with the eighteen hours of labor she'd endured to bring Edwin's father into the world.

"Fine," he said. "Dinner. But I want to be clear: I'm not interested in meeting their daughter."

"Their daughter?" Martha blinked with theatrical confusion. "Did we mention a daughter?"

"Grandpa told me yesterday. Kim Su Han. About my age."

"Did I?" Harold's eyebrows rose in exaggerated surprise. "I don't recall. Getting old, you know. Memory's not what it used to be."

"Your memory is fine."

"Is it? Can't even remember what day it is."

"It's Saturday."

"See? Completely slipped my mind."

Edwin gave up. There was no winning against these two. They had been married for over half a century; their ability to coordinate schemes was practically telepathic.

"I'm just saying," he continued, determined to make his position clear even if it was pointless, "I didn't come here to meet women. I came here to get away from—" He gestured vaguely. "—all of that."

Martha's expression softened slightly. "We know, sweetheart. And we're not trying to push you into anything. The Kims are genuinely nice people, and it would be rude not to welcome them properly. That's all this is."

"That's all?"

"That's all."

Harold nodded solemnly. "Just a friendly dinner between neighbors."

Edwin wanted to believe them. He really did.

But he'd seen the way they looked at each other. The tiny smile Martha tried to hide. The conspiratorial glint in Harold's eyes.

They were up to something.

He just had to survive dinner without giving them any ammunition.

The garden, as it turned out, was less of a garden and more of a small agricultural operation.

Martha led Edwin past the neat rows of tomatoes and cucumbers, past the herb section that she claimed was "just for cooking" but which included several plants he suspected had medicinal purposes, past the fruit trees and the berry bushes and the flowers that attracted approximately ten thousand bees.

"Your grandfather built that irrigation system himself," she said proudly, pointing to a complex arrangement of hoses and sprinklers. "Took him three years to get it right. The first version flooded the entire back half of the property."

"Impressive."

"It keeps us busy. That's the point, really." Martha handed him a pair of gardening gloves and a small spade. "When you're our age, you need something to do. Something that makes you feel useful."

They worked in companionable silence for a while, Edwin following Martha's instructions on which weeds to pull and which plants to leave alone. The sun rose higher, warming his back. Birds sang in the nearby trees. Bartholomew occasionally crowed from somewhere behind the barn, reminding everyone of his continued existence.

It was... peaceful.

Edwin hadn't expected that. He'd thought he would miss the city—the noise, the energy, the constant stimulation. But there was something soothing about the rhythm of physical work, about watching his grandmother's weathered hands move with practiced efficiency through the soil.

"Your grandfather was heartbroken once," Martha said suddenly, not looking up from the tomato plant she was pruning. "Before we met."

Edwin paused. "He mentioned. Rosie something?"

"Rosie O'Brien. Pretty girl. Red hair. Terrible taste in men, obviously." Martha's lips quirked. "Harold was devastated when she chose the farmer next door. Swore he'd never love again. Sound familiar?"

"It's not the same."

"Isn't it?"

"I've been hurt three times, Grandma. Four, if you count the one who ghosted me completely. At some point, you have to recognize a pattern."

Martha sat back on her heels and looked at him—really looked, with the penetrating gaze of someone who had seen too much of life to be fooled by surface-level explanations.

"The pattern," she said slowly, "isn't about love. It's about the people you've been choosing."

"So I should choose better? That's your advice?"

"My advice is to stop choosing at all." She returned to her pruning. "Harold didn't choose me. He wasn't looking for anyone. He was too busy nursing his wounded pride and pretending he'd never been hurt. And then one day, I walked into his father's general store looking for flour, and that was that."

"That was what?"

"That was *that*." Martha smiled at the memory. "We argued for ten minutes about whether his flour was overpriced—it was, by the way—and by the end of it, we were both hopelessly smitten. Not that we admitted it for another six months. Harold was too stubborn, and I was too proud."

Edwin tried to imagine his gruff, teasing grandfather as a young man, wounded by love and determined to never try again. It was surprisingly easy.

"What changed?"

"Nothing changed. Everything changed." Martha shrugged. "We stopped fighting what was meant to be. Once you do that, the rest falls into place."

"What was meant to be," Edwin repeated flatly. "So you believe in fate?"

"I believe that some things are bigger than our plans. Bigger than our fears." She patted his knee and rose to her feet with a grace that belied her years. "I'm not saying you have to fall in love, Edwin. I'm just saying that if you spend all your energy building walls, you might miss something wonderful trying to find its way in."

She headed back toward the house before he could respond, leaving him kneeling in the dirt with a spade in one hand and too many thoughts in his head.

Fate.

*Fate.*

He didn't believe in fate. Fate was a convenient excuse people used to justify bad decisions. "It was meant to be," they said, when what they really meant was "I didn't think this through but it worked out anyway."

Victoria had talked about fate too. About how they were "destined" to be together. Look how that had turned out.

Edwin stabbed the spade into the soil with more force than necessary and resumed weeding.

He was here to heal. Not to fall in love. Not to believe in cosmic nonsense.

And nothing—not his grandmother's stories, not his grandfather's knowing looks, not some mysterious neighbor girl who may or may not exist—was going to change that.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of domestic activity.

Harold enlisted Edwin's help in fixing a loose board on the porch ("just takes two hands and five minutes, you'll see"), which turned into replacing three boards, which turned into repainting the entire porch railing because "well, we're already out here."

By the time they finished, Edwin's arms ached, his back was protesting, and he had discovered muscles he didn't know existed.

"Good work," Harold said, surveying their handiwork. "You've got a natural talent for this."

"I have paint in my hair."

"Character. Adds character."

They shared a beer on the newly-repaired porch, watching the sun begin its descent toward the horizon. The sky turned shades of orange and pink that no city sunset could match.

"About tonight," Harold said carefully, "your grandmother means well."

"I know."

"She just wants you to be happy."

"I know that too."

"The Kims really are good people. Mr. Kim—David, he goes by—is a former software engineer. Made his money in Silicon Valley, got tired of the rat race, decided to try something different." Harold took a sip of his beer. "His wife, Sun-hee, is a retired professor. Art history, I think. Very cultured woman."

Edwin waited for the inevitable addition.

"And their daughter—"

"Here we go."

"—is apparently quite something. We haven't met her properly yet. She keeps to herself mostly. Helps on the farm, goes into town occasionally, but she's not what you'd call social."

This was unexpected. Edwin had been bracing for a sales pitch—beautiful, smart, perfect for you—not a description of a recluse.

"Why does she keep to herself?"

Harold shrugged. "No idea. The parents don't talk about it much. Sun-hee mentioned once that Kimsoo went through something difficult before they moved here, but she didn't elaborate."

Something difficult. Edwin knew all about going through something difficult. He felt an unwilling flicker of kinship with this girl he'd never met.

"Maybe she just doesn't like people," he offered.

"Maybe." Harold's tone suggested he didn't quite believe it. "Anyway, she's supposed to come tonight. Sun-hee said she promised to make an appearance."

"I'm not interested."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it's true."

Harold finished his beer and stood up with a groan. "Well, let's get cleaned up. Your grandmother will have my hide if I show up to dinner covered in paint."

Edwin followed him inside, trying not to think about the mysterious Kim Su Han.

She kept to herself. She'd gone through something difficult. She didn't like people.

In other circumstances, those might have been qualities he'd find intriguing.

But these weren't other circumstances.

These were the circumstances of a man who had sworn off romance entirely.

And he was going to stick to that, no matter how curious he might accidentally become.

The Kims arrived at exactly 6:30 PM.

Edwin watched from the living room window as a modest blue sedan pulled up the driveway. Two figures emerged from the front seats—a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair, and a petite woman in an elegant but understated dress.

No one emerged from the back seat.

His grandparents were already at the door, greeting the new arrivals with the enthusiastic warmth of people who had spent too long without company. Edwin hung back, suddenly awkward. He had spent years navigating corporate dinners and networking events, but something about this felt different. More personal. More consequential.

"Edwin!" His grandmother's voice cut through his hesitation. "Come meet the Kims!"

He took a breath and stepped onto the porch.

David Kim was exactly as Harold had described: the kind of man who looked like he'd spent decades in front of computer screens before discovering the outdoors. His handshake was firm but not aggressive, and his eyes crinkled with genuine warmth when he smiled.

"The famous Edwin Carter. Your grandparents have told us so much about you."

"All terrible things, I hope."

David laughed. "Mostly glowing praise. You'll have to work hard to live down their expectations."

Sun-hee Kim was small and elegant, with the kind of natural grace that made every movement look choreographed. Her English was impeccable, with just the faintest hint of an accent that spoke of years spent moving between languages.

"It's wonderful to meet you," she said, taking both of Edwin's hands in hers. "When Martha told us her grandson was coming to stay, we were so happy. Young people bring such energy to a place."

"I don't know about energy." Edwin gestured to his still-aching muscles. "Your definition of 'young' might need some recalibrating."

Sun-hee's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Oh, you'll adjust. A few weeks of country air and country work, and you'll feel twenty again."

They all moved inside, Martha herding them toward the dining room where an impressive spread of food had been laid out. Pot roast again, but also several Korean side dishes that Sun-hee had brought—kimchi, japchae, something with tofu that smelled incredible.

Edwin found himself seated next to David, across from Sun-hee, with his grandparents at either end of the table.

There was an empty chair next to Sun-hee.

Everyone noticed. No one mentioned it.

"So, David," Harold said, passing the pot roast, "how's the farm coming along?"

What followed was an animated discussion about organic farming techniques, soil composition, and the surprising difficulty of convincing local restaurants to pay premium prices for premium vegetables. David, it turned out, had the passionate enthusiasm of a convert—someone who had discovered a new calling later in life and threw himself into it completely.

"The biggest challenge is certification," he explained. "Getting the organic label requires three years of documented chemical-free farming. We're in year two, so we're still operating at a loss."

"But the quality is there," Sun-hee added. "You should see the tomatoes. They're extraordinary."

"I'd love to see the farm sometime," Edwin found himself saying. "My grandfather mentioned you're working on a business plan?"

David's face lit up. "Harold said you're a consultant? Yes, we've been trying to put together something coherent, but neither of us has a business background. Silicon Valley was all about building products and hoping someone else figured out how to sell them."

"I could take a look at what you have. No promises, but fresh eyes sometimes help."

"That would be incredible. Thank you."

Martha caught Edwin's eye across the table and smiled with barely concealed triumph. He had walked directly into her trap and hadn't even noticed.

*Damn it.*

The conversation flowed easily after that. Sun-hee asked about Edwin's work in the city, and he found himself explaining corporate consulting in the most digestible terms possible. David shared horror stories from his startup days. Harold told increasingly exaggerated tales of farming mishaps that made everyone laugh.

It was nice. Normal.

Edwin almost forgot about the empty chair.

Almost.

Halfway through dessert—Martha's famous apple pie, which lived up to every memory Edwin had of it—Sun-hee's phone buzzed.

She glanced at it, and something flickered across her face. Worry? Frustration? It was gone too quickly to identify.

"Please excuse me for a moment." She rose from the table with practiced grace and stepped into the hallway.

The rest of them continued eating, but the mood had shifted. David's smile seemed more strained now. His eyes kept darting toward the hallway where his wife had disappeared.

"Is everything alright?" Martha asked gently.

"Oh, yes. Fine." David's voice was a little too bright. "Just some farm logistics. You know how it is."

Edwin didn't buy it, and judging by the look his grandparents exchanged, neither did they. But they were all too polite to push.

Sun-hee returned a few minutes later, her expression carefully neutral.

"I'm so sorry," she said, reclaiming her seat. "Kimsoo sends her apologies. She's not feeling well and won't be able to join us tonight."

The empty chair seemed to grow more prominent.

"Nothing serious, I hope?" Harold asked.

"No, no. Just a headache. She gets them sometimes." Sun-hee's smile was flawless, but Edwin had spent years reading corporate executives trying to hide bad news. She was lying—or at least not telling the whole truth. "She was looking forward to meeting everyone. She's just... she has difficult days sometimes."

"We completely understand," Martha said warmly. "Please tell her we hope she feels better. There will be other dinners."

"Yes. Other dinners." Sun-hee nodded, but something in her voice suggested uncertainty.

The rest of the evening passed pleasantly enough. They finished dessert, moved to the living room for coffee, and spent another hour in easy conversation. But Edwin couldn't shake the feeling that something was off—that the Kim family was carrying a weight they hadn't disclosed.

*Kimsoo went through something difficult before they moved here.*

Harold's earlier words echoed in his mind. What kind of difficult? What kind of something? And why would a young woman fake illness to avoid meeting neighbors at a simple dinner party?

Not his business, Edwin reminded himself. Not his problem. He was here to avoid romantic entanglements, not to solve mysteries about reclusive neighbor girls.

But curiosity had always been his weakness.

It was nearly ten when the Kims finally left, with many promises to have dinner again soon and repeated assurances that Edwin would come by the farm to look at their business plan.

Edwin helped his grandparents clean up, carrying dishes to the kitchen while they washed and dried with the efficiency of long practice.

"They're nice people," he said, setting down a stack of plates.

"Told you." Harold accepted a dish from Martha and began drying it. "Good neighbors are hard to find."

"What do you think is going on with the daughter?"

The question hung in the air for a moment. Martha and Harold exchanged one of their wordless communication glances.

"We don't know," Martha admitted finally. "We've only met her once, and very briefly. She came by to drop off some vegetables when they first moved in. Seemed sweet, if a bit... reserved."

"Sun-hee mentioned something about her having anxiety issues," Harold added. "But I got the sense there was more to it."

"She seemed upset about the phone call," Edwin observed. "More than just 'our daughter has a headache' upset."

Martha sighed. "Whatever it is, it's their private business. We can be good neighbors without prying."

"I wasn't going to pry."

"No, but you were curious." She gave him a knowing look. "I saw your face when they mentioned her. You wanted to know more."

Edwin opened his mouth to deny it and then closed it again. What was the point? His grandmother had been reading him like a book since he was three years old.

"Just natural curiosity," he said instead. "She sounds like an interesting person."

"Mm-hmm."

"That's not—I'm not interested in her like *that*."

"Of course not."

"I'm not. I'm just saying—if someone is avoiding social situations to the point of faking illness, there's usually a reason. And as a human being, I'm naturally curious about the reasons other human beings do things."

"Very logical."

"It is logical. It's completely logical."

Martha patted his cheek with a damp hand. "You should get some sleep, sweetheart. Bartholomew waits for no one."

Edwin groaned at the reminder. "Isn't there something we can do about that rooster?"

"What, get rid of Bartholomew? He's been with us for three years!"

"I wasn't suggesting getting rid of him. Just... relocating him. To the back of the property. Where sound doesn't travel."

"Bartholomew likes his spot by your window."

"Of course he does."

"He's very particular."

"I can tell."

Harold clapped him on the shoulder. "You'll get used to it. City boys always do, eventually."

Edwin sincerely doubted that. But he was too tired to argue.

He said goodnight to his grandparents and trudged up the stairs to his room. The bed creaked its familiar greeting as he sat down. Through the window, he could see the dark shapes of trees against the star-filled sky, and beyond them, the faint lights of what must be the Kim farm.

Kim Su Han was over there somewhere. Hiding in her room. Avoiding people. Carrying some secret that made her parents exchange worried glances when they thought no one was watching.

Not his business.

Not his problem.

He pulled out his phone and opened the document he'd created on that miserable night in his apartment.

*RULES FOR EDWIN CARTER'S NEW LIFE:*

*1. No dating. Ever. Under any circumstances.*

*2. No romantic entanglements of any kind.*

*3. No romantic movies, books, or songs.*

*4. No believing in fate, soulmates, or romantic nonsense.*

*5. No exceptions.*

*6. SERIOUSLY, NO EXCEPTIONS.*

He should add a seventh rule, he thought. *No becoming curious about mysterious neighbor girls.*

But that would require admitting he was curious, which he absolutely wasn't.

He was just... aware. That was all. Aware that there was a person nearby who seemed to be struggling with something. As a fellow human being who was also struggling with something, he felt a natural empathy.

That was it.

Nothing more.

Edwin turned off his phone, lay back on the creaky bed, and stared at the ceiling.

He wondered what Kim Su Han looked like. Whether she really had headaches or if that was just an excuse. What "something difficult" meant in her family's coded language. Whether she ever looked out her window at night and saw the lights of the Carter farmhouse in the distance.

*Stop it,* he told himself firmly. *You don't even know her. You've never met her. She's probably completely ordinary and your imagination is just running wild because you're bored.*

The thought wasn't particularly convincing.

He rolled onto his side and forced his eyes closed.

Tomorrow, he would help his grandmother in the garden. He would fix whatever else needed fixing on the porch. He would maybe go into town and see what passed for civilization in Willowbrook County.

He would not think about Kim Su Han.

He would not wonder about her secrets.

He would not imagine scenarios in which they might accidentally meet—at the general store, perhaps, or on the road between their farms, or at some local event that his grandmother would inevitably drag him to.

He would not.

He *would not*.

Edwin fell asleep still telling himself that, with the conviction of a man who was already losing a battle he didn't know he was fighting.

The next few days settled into a rhythm.

Edwin woke at dawn (thanks to Bartholomew), ate breakfast (thanks to Harold's cooking), worked in the garden or around the house (thanks to Martha's endless list of tasks), and fell into bed exhausted each night (thanks to muscles that had apparently never been used before).

It was physical labor in a way his office job had never been. His hands developed calluses. His back learned to bend without complaining. His skin turned a shade of tan that would have required three weeks of beach vacation to achieve in the city.

And slowly, despite his best efforts, he found himself thinking less about Victoria.

Not forgetting—the wound was too fresh for that. But the constant ache had dulled to something more manageable. The moments between thinking about her grew longer. The anger that had burned so hot in those first days cooled into something more like resignation.

She had made her choice. He had made his.

What was done was done.

"You're smiling more," Martha observed one morning, as they knelt side by side in the herb section. "I like it."

"Must be all the rosemary. Isn't that supposed to improve mood?"

"That's for memory. You're thinking of lavender."

"Then it must be the lavender."

Martha laughed and swatted his arm with her gardening glove. "It's the fresh air and honest work. That's what it is. Nothing heals a heart like getting your hands dirty."

Edwin looked at his hands—dirt under his fingernails, small cuts from rose thorns, the beginnings of calluses on his palms. A week ago, he would have been horrified. Now, they just felt like evidence of a life being lived.

"Maybe you're right," he admitted.

"Of course I'm right. I'm always right. Your grandfather figured that out about forty years ago."

"Heard that," Harold called from the porch, where he was allegedly fixing a squeaky step but appeared to be mostly drinking coffee and supervising. "And for the record, it was closer to forty-five years."

Martha rolled her eyes with the affection of long practice. "My point is, you're doing better. And I'm proud of you."

The simple words hit Edwin harder than he expected. He'd spent so many years trying to prove himself in boardrooms, to clients, to women who ultimately didn't care. He'd almost forgotten what unconditional pride felt like.

"Thanks, Grandma."

"Now." She brushed off her hands and stood up with the energy of a woman half her age. "Speaking of doing better—have you thought any more about visiting the Kim farm?"

And there it was. The inevitable pivot back to the neighbors.

"I've been busy."

"You've been avoiding."

"I've been productively avoiding."

Martha gave him a look that said she wasn't fooled for a second. "David called yesterday. He's got his business plan ready for you to look at. Sun-hee invited us all for dinner on Friday."

"All of us?"

"All of us. Dinner at their place. They're insisting on returning our hospitality." A pause. "Kimsoo will be there this time. Sun-hee promised."

Edwin felt something complicated twist in his chest. Anticipation? Anxiety? Curiosity?

None of the above, he decided firmly. He felt nothing. He was an emotional void.

"I don't want any matchmaking," he said.

"No matchmaking."

"I mean it, Grandma."

"So do I. It's just dinner. You'll look at the business plan, we'll eat Sun-hee's cooking—which is apparently extraordinary—and you'll meet the neighbors properly. Nothing more."

She said it with such perfect innocence that Edwin almost believed her.

Almost.

"Fine," he heard himself say. "Friday. Dinner. But if there's any hint of matchmaking—"

"There won't be."

"—I'm leaving immediately."

"Understood."

They shook on it, there in the garden, with the morning sun warming their backs and Bartholomew crowing triumphantly from his fence post.

Edwin had a feeling he was going to regret this.

But then again, he'd regretted a lot of things lately.

What was one more?

Friday arrived with alarming speed.

Edwin spent the day in a state of low-level agitation that he refused to examine too closely. He changed his shirt three times before settling on a simple blue button-down. He actually combed his hair. He even considered shaving but decided that was a step too far into "trying to impress someone" territory.

"You look nice," Martha said when he came downstairs.

"I look normal."

"You look like you made an effort. Same thing."

Harold was already waiting in the pickup truck, wearing what appeared to be his version of formal wear—clean jeans and a shirt with buttons. He gave Edwin a knowing look as they climbed in.

"Nervous?"

"Why would I be nervous? It's just dinner."

"Right. Just dinner." Harold started the engine with a cough and a rumble. "That's why you changed your shirt four times."

"Three times."

"Martha counted four."

"Martha should mind her own business."

"Martha's been minding other people's business for seventy years. Don't expect her to stop now."

The Kim farm was about a ten-minute drive down winding country roads. As they approached, Edwin could see why David had fallen in love with organic farming. The property was beautiful—rolling hills covered in neat rows of vegetables, a charming farmhouse with a wrap-around porch, and a large barn that had been painted the quintessential red.

Sun-hee was waiting on the porch when they arrived. She looked elegant as ever in a simple sundress, her smile warm and welcoming.

"You came! We're so happy. Please, come in—David's just finishing something in the kitchen."

The inside of the Kim house was a blend of Korean and American aesthetics—modern furniture mixed with traditional artwork, family photos alongside landscape paintings. It felt lived-in and comfortable in a way that expensive city apartments never managed to achieve.

David emerged from the kitchen wearing an apron that said "Kiss the Farmer" and carrying a tray of appetizers.

"Edwin! Good to see you. I hope you're hungry—Sun-hee made enough food for an army."

"I learned to cook for Korean grandparents," Sun-hee explained. "They were deeply suspicious of any meal that didn't involve at least fifteen dishes."

The appetizers were indeed incredible—dumplings that David proudly announced were made with vegetables from their own farm, along with various pickled items and something crispy that Edwin couldn't identify but immediately loved.

They settled into the living room with drinks, and David produced a thick folder that Edwin recognized as a business plan.

"I know this is supposed to be a social dinner," David said, "but I couldn't resist. Just take a look when you have a chance. No pressure."

Edwin flipped through the first few pages. The plan was detailed, if a bit unfocused—the passion was evident, but so was the lack of business experience.

"I can work with this," he said. "You've got good instincts. Just need some structure."

David's face lit up like a child on Christmas morning.

They spent the next half hour discussing target markets and pricing strategies, with Harold and Martha occasionally interjecting with local knowledge about who bought what at the farmer's market. Sun-hee excused herself to check on dinner, but not before shooting David a look that clearly communicated *don't overwhelm the poor boy*.

It was during a pause in the business discussion that Edwin finally asked the question that had been hovering at the back of his mind all evening.

"Is your daughter joining us tonight?"

The mood in the room shifted subtly. David's smile became a little fixed. Harold suddenly found his drink very interesting.

"She's getting ready," David said. "She'll be down for dinner."

"Is she still not feeling well?"

"She's... better." The hesitation was almost imperceptible. "Kimsoo has her good days and bad days. Today is a good day."

Something about the way he said it—*good days and bad days*—made Edwin think again about Harold's words. *She went through something difficult.* What kind of difficult created good days and bad days?

Before he could wonder further, footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Everyone in the room turned toward the doorway.

Edwin held his breath without quite knowing why.

A moment passed. Then another.

And then Sun-hee appeared, alone, her expression carefully neutral.

"Kimsoo sends her sincere apologies," she said, each word measured and precise. "She's having one of her... episodes. She won't be able to join us tonight."

The disappointment in David's eyes was obvious, even as he tried to hide it. "It's alright. These things happen."

"I'm so sorry," Sun-hee continued, turning to Martha and Harold. "She was really trying this time. She was dressed and ready and then..." She trailed off, shaking her head.

"Please don't apologize," Martha said warmly. "We understand. Whatever she's going through, she shouldn't push herself on our account."

Harold nodded in agreement. "Tell her we're thinking of her. And that there's no pressure. We're patient people."

Sun-hee looked genuinely moved by their kindness. "Thank you. You don't know how much that means."

Edwin didn't say anything. He wasn't sure what to say.

But something had sparked in his chest—something that felt uncomfortably like concern. This girl, this Kim Su Han, was clearly struggling with something significant. Something that made her unable to face a simple dinner with neighbors. Something that made her parents exchange those careful looks and speak in those measured tones.

*Not your problem,* he reminded himself. *Not your business.*

But the spark didn't go away.

Dinner was excellent, as promised.

Sun-hee had prepared a feast—Korean BBQ with all the accompaniments, multiple banchan dishes, rice, soup, and a dessert involving sweet rice cakes and red bean paste that made Martha ask for the recipe three times.

The conversation flowed easily, carefully avoiding the topic of the absent daughter. They talked about the farm, about the adjustment from city to country life, about the various characters who populated Willowbrook County.

"Have you met Mrs. Henderson yet?" Sun-hee asked Edwin. "The woman with the dairy cows?"

"Not officially. Grandma's planning an introduction."

"She's wonderful. Very direct. The first time I met her, she told me my hairstyle was wrong for my face shape and offered to fix it."

"Did you let her?"

"I did. She was right." Sun-hee touched her hair self-consciously. "She's right about most things. It's infuriating."

They laughed, and for a moment, it felt like just any normal dinner between neighbors. Easy. Uncomplicated.

And then David said, "Kimsoo liked her too. Mrs. Henderson, I mean. They had a nice conversation about art once. Apparently Mrs. Henderson used to paint."

The name hung in the air.

"Kimsoo likes art?" Edwin asked, before he could stop himself.

"She loves it." Pride crept into David's voice. "She was an art history minor in college. Her room is full of prints and books. She can tell you everything about any painting from any period."

"She was going to be a museum curator," Sun-hee added. "Before..."

She stopped. The sentence trailed off into loaded silence.

"Before you moved here?" Harold prompted gently.

"Yes." Sun-hee's smile was brittle now. "Before we moved here."

The conversation moved on, but Edwin filed away the information. Art history. Museum curator. A life interrupted by something that had brought the whole family to this remote corner of the country.

The mystery of Kim Su Han was growing deeper.

It was nearly nine when they finally left, with many thanks and promises to do it again soon. Sun-hee pressed containers of leftovers into their hands, insisting that they would go to waste otherwise.

The drive home was quiet.

Harold focused on the dark road. Martha stared out the window. Edwin sat in the back seat, thinking.

"Something's wrong with that girl," Harold said finally. "Really wrong."

"Harold." Martha's voice was gently warning.

"I'm not gossiping. I'm observing. Did you see David's face when she didn't come down? And Sun-hee—she looked like she was about to cry."

"Whatever it is, it's their business."

"I know it is. I'm just saying... something's wrong."

Edwin leaned forward between the front seats. "Have you heard any rumors? About what happened before they moved here?"

"Nothing specific." Harold shook his head. "Mrs. Henderson might know more—she has a way of finding things out—but she's never said anything."

"Maybe there's nothing to find out. Maybe she just has anxiety."

"Maybe." Harold didn't sound convinced.

They pulled up to the Carter farmhouse, and everyone climbed out in silence. The stars were brilliant tonight, scattered across the sky like someone had spilled a jar of diamonds.

"I liked them," Martha said as they walked to the door. "The Kims. Whatever they're dealing with, they're good people trying their best."

"They are," Harold agreed.

Edwin thought about the look on Sun-hee's face when she'd announced that Kimsoo wouldn't be coming down. The careful control. The hidden devastation.

He thought about David's pride when talking about his daughter's love of art. A life that had been heading somewhere before it wasn't.

He thought about a girl he'd never met, hidden somewhere in that farmhouse, unable to face the simple act of meeting neighbors.

*Not your problem.*

*You're here to heal, not to solve other people's mysteries.*

He said goodnight to his grandparents and climbed the stairs to his room. Bartholomew had apparently gone to sleep for once, leaving the night peacefully quiet.

Through his window, Edwin could see the distant lights of the Kim farm.

Somewhere over there, Kim Su Han was probably in her room too. Looking at her art prints. Reading her books. Waiting for morning to bring another good day or another bad one.

He didn't know her.

He'd never met her.

He shouldn't care.

And he didn't.

***** end of chapter 2******

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