GRANDMA'S REMEDY

OUR SWEET CURSE

Chapter 3: Grandma's Remedy

---

Martha Carter had a philosophy about heartbreak.

It wasn't complicated. It didn't require therapy or medication or any of the modern solutions that people seemed to rely on these days. It was simple, time-tested, and—in her humble opinion—absolutely foolproof.

*Keep them so busy they don't have time to think.*

This was why Edwin found himself, at seven o'clock on a Monday morning, standing in the middle of the chicken coop with a bucket of feed and absolutely no idea what he was doing.

"Just scatter it," Martha instructed from the doorway, where she stood with her arms crossed and an expression of barely concealed amusement. "They're not complicated creatures. They see food, they eat it."

"They're looking at me."

"They're chickens, Edwin. They look at everything."

"They're looking at me *specifically*. That one—" He pointed at a particularly aggressive-looking hen with rust-colored feathers. "—I think she wants to kill me."

"That's Henrietta. She's the alpha. Just show her who's boss."

"How do I show a chicken who's boss?"

"Confidence. Chickens can sense fear."

Edwin took a deep breath, reminded himself that he had once negotiated a multi-million-dollar merger under intense pressure, and scattered the feed with what he hoped was an authoritative gesture.

Henrietta immediately charged at him.

What followed was approximately thirty seconds of pure chaos. Edwin stumbled backward, tripped over a water trough, and landed in a pile of hay that was—thankfully—relatively clean. The chickens swarmed around him, pecking at the spilled feed with complete disregard for his dignity. Henrietta stood on his chest and stared directly into his eyes with what could only be described as contempt.

From the doorway, Martha was laughing so hard she had to hold onto the frame for support.

"Confidence!" Edwin shouted from his position on the ground. "You said confidence!"

"Well, clearly you don't have any!" She wiped tears from her eyes. "Oh, Edwin. I haven't laughed like that in months. Thank you."

"Happy to provide entertainment," he grumbled, gently moving Henrietta off his chest and climbing to his feet. Hay clung to his clothes, his hair, and somehow the inside of his shirt. "What's next on your agenda? Wrestling a pig? Sword-fighting a goat?"

"Nothing so dramatic. We're going to clean out the attic."

Edwin paused in his attempts to remove hay from uncomfortable places. "The attic?"

"It hasn't been properly sorted in twenty years. Your grandfather keeps saying he'll do it, but he never does. I figure you could use the distraction."

She said it casually, but Edwin caught the underlying message. *The attic was full of memories. Sorting through it would be hard. But hard work was good for healing hearts.*

Martha Carter's philosophy in action.

"Fine," he said, brushing off the last of the hay. "But if I find anything weird up there, I'm not responsible for my reaction."

"Define weird."

"Taxidermy. Old love letters from secret admirers. A skeleton."

Martha's expression flickered—just for a moment—before returning to its usual warmth. "You won't find anything like that."

The way she said it made Edwin immediately suspicious.

---

Across the fields, in the Kim household, a different kind of chaos was unfolding.

Kim Su Han—Kimsoo to anyone who knew her—sat on the edge of her bed and stared at the outfit laid out before her. A simple blue dress. Comfortable shoes. Minimal jewelry.

It was the outfit her mother had chosen for Friday's dinner.

The dinner she hadn't been able to attend.

*Again.*

She could still remember the moment it had happened. She'd been ready—actually ready, for once. Hair done. Makeup applied. Determination firmly in place. She'd walked to the top of the stairs, heard the voices below, and...

And the feeling had started.

That cold, creeping dread that wrapped around her chest like a vice. The whisper in the back of her mind that said *if you go down there, something terrible will happen*. The certainty—irrational but unshakeable—that meeting the Carter grandson would somehow trigger the curse.

She knew it didn't work that way. The curse didn't activate just because she was in the same room as a man. It required something more specific. Something more dangerous.

But tell that to her anxiety.

"Kimsoo?" Her mother's voice came through the door, gentle but concerned. "Are you awake?"

"I'm awake."

Sun-hee entered without waiting for further invitation—a habit that Kimsoo had long since stopped protesting. Her mother needed to see her, needed the constant reassurance that she was still there, still alive, still surviving another day.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

"Really fine? Or 'I'm saying fine so you'll stop asking' fine?"

Kimsoo managed a weak smile. "Somewhere in between."

Sun-hee sat down on the bed beside her, smoothing the blue dress with absent fingers. "I'm not upset about Friday, you know. Neither is your father."

"I know."

"We understand. We've always understood."

"I know, Eomma."

"I just want you to know that the Carters were very kind about it. They didn't push or pry. They said—" Sun-hee's voice caught slightly. "—they said there's no pressure. That they're patient people."

Something complicated twisted in Kimsoo's chest. Gratitude? Shame? A combination of both?

"They sound nice," she said.

"They are nice. All three of them." Sun-hee paused, and Kimsoo braced herself for what was coming. "The grandson—Edwin—he seemed particularly understanding. He's been through some difficulties himself, apparently. A bad breakup."

"Eomma..."

"I'm not saying anything! I'm just... making an observation."

"An observation with matchmaking subtext."

"There's no subtext. I'm simply noting that he's a kind young man who might understand what it's like to struggle. That's all."

Kimsoo closed her eyes. Her mother meant well—she always meant well—but she didn't fully grasp the impossibility of what she was suggesting. A kind young man who might understand. As if understanding would change anything. As if kindness could overcome a curse that had already claimed so much.

"I'm going to help Appa with the farm today," she said, changing the subject with the grace of long practice. "The tomatoes need checking."

Sun-hee accepted the redirect with visible reluctance. "Alright. But eat breakfast first. Real breakfast, not just coffee."

"I will."

"And maybe later we could go into town? There's a new art supply store that opened. I thought—"

"Maybe."

It was the best Kimsoo could offer, and they both knew it. *Maybe* meant *probably not, but I love you for trying*.

Sun-hee kissed her forehead and left without another word.

Kimsoo sat alone in her room, surrounded by art prints and books and all the remnants of a life she'd been building before everything fell apart. On her desk, a half-finished sketch of a landscape sat waiting for attention she couldn't muster.

Somewhere out there, on the neighboring farm, was a man named Edwin Carter who had been through difficulties. Who might understand.

But understanding wasn't the same as being able to help.

And nobody could help her.

---

The Carter attic was, in a word, terrifying.

Not in the haunted-house sense—there were no cobwebs or suspicious stains or inexplicable cold spots. It was terrifying in the way that all repositories of accumulated life are terrifying: boxes upon boxes of memories, stacked in precarious towers that threatened to topple at the slightest touch.

"Twenty years," Edwin repeated, surveying the chaos. "You haven't cleaned this in twenty years."

"Your grandfather has a strong attachment to... everything." Martha handed him a box cutter. "We're going to go through it systematically. Keep, donate, or trash. No sentimentality."

"You just said he's attached to everything."

"Which is why I'm having *you* do it. You have no emotional investment in—" She pulled out a random item from the nearest box. "—a broken lamp shaped like a flamingo."

"That's... a choice."

"Your grandfather won it at a carnival in 1987. He was very proud of himself."

Edwin took the flamingo lamp and placed it in what he designated as the "absolutely not" pile. It was the first item of many.

They worked through the morning, with Martha providing commentary on each discovered artifact. Old photo albums that made her smile and occasionally tear up. A box of records that Harold had sworn were valuable but were actually warped beyond usefulness. Christmas decorations from the 1970s that featured an alarming amount of tinsel.

And then, buried near the back, Edwin found something unexpected.

It was a small wooden box, plain and unassuming. But unlike everything else in the attic, it was clean—no dust, no cobwebs. As if someone had been handling it recently.

"Grandma? What's this?"

Martha's reaction was immediate and telling. She went very still, and something flickered across her face—a complex emotion that Edwin couldn't quite read.

"That's... personal," she said finally. "You can leave that one alone."

"Is it love letters from secret admirers?"

"Edwin."

The warning in her voice was gentle but firm. This was a boundary, clearly drawn.

"Sorry." He set the box aside without opening it. "I was just curious."

Martha took a breath, seeming to debate something internally. Then she sat down on an old trunk and gestured for Edwin to join her.

"When I was your age," she said, "I made a mistake. A big one. And that box... it contains the reminders of that mistake."

"What kind of mistake?"

"The kind you never quite get over." She met his eyes with unusual seriousness. "Before your grandfather, before I was the woman you know, I was someone else. Someone who made bad decisions for what I thought were good reasons. And sometimes, when I need to remember why I became who I am, I look at what's in that box."

Edwin didn't know what to say. He had always thought of his grandmother as... complete. Fully formed. The idea that she had a past, a history of mistakes and regrets, was unexpectedly humanizing.

"You don't have to tell me," he said. "I didn't mean to pry."

"I know you didn't." Martha patted his hand. "I'm just saying—everyone has chapters they don't talk about. It doesn't make them bad people. It makes them *people*."

She stood up, brushing off her clothes with her characteristic efficiency. "Now. Let's see what other horrors your grandfather has been hoarding up here."

The moment passed, but Edwin couldn't quite shake the weight of it. His grandmother had secrets. His grandmother had made mistakes. His grandmother had been young and confused and imperfect, just like him.

It was strangely comforting.

---

Back at the Kim farm, Kimsoo was having a significantly worse morning.

It had started well enough. She'd managed to eat breakfast (real breakfast, as promised). She'd dressed in practical clothes for farm work. She'd walked out to the vegetable fields with something almost approaching purpose.

And then she'd seen the neighbor's dog.

Mrs. Henderson's golden retriever, to be specific—a friendly, enthusiastic creature named Butterscotch who had apparently escaped his yard and decided to explore the Kim property. He came bounding toward Kimsoo with his tongue out and his tail wagging, the picture of canine joy.

Kimsoo loved dogs. This should have been fine.

But Butterscotch wasn't alone.

Behind him, calling his name and running to catch up, was a young man. Tall, dark-haired, and—Kimsoo's heart sank—clearly headed straight toward her.

*It's fine,* she told herself. *It's just a neighbor retrieving his dog. Nothing dangerous about that. The curse won't—*

The young man got closer, and Kimsoo realized two things simultaneously.

First: this wasn't Edwin Carter. This was someone she'd never seen before—probably a farmhand or visiting relative.

Second: he was looking at her with the kind of expression that set off every alarm bell in her head.

Interest. Attraction. *Intent.*

"Hey!" he called out, slightly breathless. "Sorry about Butterscotch—he's an escape artist. I'm Jake, by the way. Jake Henderson. Mrs. Henderson's nephew. I'm visiting for the summer."

Kimsoo took an involuntary step backward.

"I'm—I have to go," she said, the words tumbling out too fast.

"Wait, I didn't catch your name—"

But she was already moving, walking as quickly as she could back toward the house without actually running. Her heart was pounding. Her palms were sweating. The familiar cold dread was spreading through her chest.

*He was looking at you.*

*He was interested.*

*You know what happens when someone is interested.*

She made it inside just as her father was coming out of his study, a puzzled expression on his face.

"Kimsoo? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. There was just—someone—the neighbor's nephew—"

David's expression shifted from puzzled to alert in an instant. "Did something happen?"

"No. He was just talking to me. That's all. But I couldn't—I didn't—"

She couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't explain the irrational terror that gripped her every time someone showed even the slightest romantic interest. The fear wasn't of them—it was of herself. Of what her curse would do if she let anyone get too close.

David pulled her into a hug, the way he had when she was a child and the world had seemed so much simpler.

"It's okay," he murmured. "You're okay. Nothing happened."

"I know nothing happened. That's not the point."

"I know it's not."

They stood like that for a long moment, father and daughter, united against a problem neither of them could solve. When Kimsoo finally pulled back, her eyes were dry but her hands were still shaking.

"I hate this," she said quietly.

"I know."

"I hate being afraid of *nothing*. Of normal conversations. Of friendly people."

"I know, sweetheart."

"It wasn't always like this. I used to be normal. I used to be able to—"

Her voice broke. David guided her to the living room couch and sat beside her, his hand warm and steady on her shoulder.

"You're still you," he said. "The curse took a lot, but it didn't take *you*. You're still the girl who can talk for hours about Renaissance paintings. You're still brilliant and funny and strong."

"I don't feel strong."

"Strong isn't about feeling strong. It's about getting up every morning when you'd rather stay in bed. It's about trying, even when trying is terrifying." He squeezed her shoulder. "You came outside today. You were going to work in the fields. That's strength."

Kimsoo leaned against her father's side, the way she had when she was small. He smelled like coffee and dirt and the organic fertilizer he was so proud of. Like home.

"The Carters' grandson," she said. "Is he..."

"Is he what?"

"Is he like Jake Henderson? Looking for..." She couldn't say the word. Couldn't even think it without the cold creeping in.

David was quiet for a moment. "From what your mother says, he's the opposite. He came here to get away from all that. Swore off romance entirely, apparently. Bad experiences."

Something in Kimsoo's chest loosened, just slightly. "Really?"

"Really. According to Martha, he has a whole list of rules about never falling in love again."

For the first time that morning, Kimsoo felt the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. A man who had sworn off romance. Who didn't want anything from anyone. Who was, in his own way, as closed-off as she was.

"That's... kind of funny, actually."

"How so?"

"Just—of all the neighbors we could have gotten. Someone who's actively avoiding exactly the thing I'm afraid of."

David chuckled. "Life has a strange sense of humor."

"Or irony."

"Or that."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the tension of the morning slowly bleeding away. Outside, Kimsoo could hear the distant bark of Butterscotch—presumably being wrangled back home by his owner's nephew.

She should probably apologize for running off. Jake Henderson was probably confused and possibly offended. It wasn't his fault that her entire existence was a complicated mess of supernatural curses and irrational fears.

But not today.

Today, she would stay inside. Read a book. Maybe work on that half-finished sketch. Tomorrow—or next week, or next month—she would try again.

That was how she survived: one day at a time, one attempt at a time, one small victory at a time.

And if those small victories never added up to anything bigger?

Well.

At least she was still alive to count them.

---

Edwin found the letters after lunch.

They were in a box labeled "MISC" in his grandfather's cramped handwriting—a catch-all designation that apparently included old receipts, broken watches, and a bundle of envelopes tied with faded ribbon.

He almost put them aside. The morning's conversation about his grandmother's secrets had made him wary of digging too deep. But curiosity was a powerful force, and the letters weren't in Martha's mysterious wooden box—they were in his grandfather's miscellaneous pile.

Fair game.

The first envelope was addressed to Harold Carter, dated 1968. The handwriting was elegant, feminine, and definitely not Martha's.

*Dear Harold,*

*I know you said not to write, but I can't help myself. Please understand—*

Edwin stopped reading.

Rosie O'Brien, he realized. This had to be from her. The woman who had broken his grandfather's heart before Martha came along.

He should put it back. This was private, personal, none of his business.

He kept reading.

*—I made a mistake. James is steady and his farm is successful, but he doesn't make me laugh the way you do. He doesn't look at me the way you do. Every day, I wonder what my life would have been if I'd chosen differently.*

*Please, Harold. If there's any part of you that still cares—*

The letter continued for two more pages, growing increasingly desperate. By the end, Rosie was practically begging Harold to take her back, to save her from the boring life she'd chosen.

But of course, he hadn't.

Because by 1968, Harold had already met Martha. Had already been swept up in arguments about flour prices and surprise proposals and a love that would last fifty-two years.

"Find something interesting?"

Edwin jumped, shoving the letter behind his back like a guilty teenager. Harold stood in the attic doorway, an unreadable expression on his face.

"I wasn't—I mean, I was just—"

"You found the letters from Rosie."

There was no point in denying it. Edwin nodded, shamefaced.

To his surprise, Harold laughed.

"That's alright. I forgot those were up here." He made his way across the cluttered space and settled onto the old trunk with a sigh. "What year did you get to?"

"1968."

"Ah. That's when she got really persistent." Harold shook his head with something like fondness. "She wrote to me for almost three years after we broke up. Begging, pleading, making promises. I never answered."

"Why not?"

"Because I'd already met your grandmother. And once you've met someone like Martha, everyone else becomes background noise." Harold reached out and took the letter from Edwin's unresisting hands. "Rosie was beautiful and charming and she broke my heart into a thousand pieces. But the day I married Martha, I thanked her for it."

"Thanked her for breaking your heart?"

"For clearing the path. For making me ready to see what was standing right in front of me." Harold tucked the letter back into its envelope with careful, reverent movements. "Pain isn't meaningless, Edwin. It's preparation. Every person who hurts you, every relationship that fails—they're teaching you something. Showing you what you don't want. Getting you ready for what you do."

Edwin thought about Victoria. About Sarah and Michelle and Jennifer. About the parade of disasters that made up his romantic history.

"What if what they're teaching me is that I shouldn't try at all?"

"Then you've missed the lesson." Harold's eyes were kind but firm. "The lesson isn't 'give up.' The lesson is 'choose better.' And sometimes, choosing better means not choosing at all—letting life choose for you."

"Like it chose Grandma for you?"

"Exactly like that." Harold stood up with a groan, his knees protesting the movement. "I wasn't looking for anything when Martha walked into my father's store. I was closed off, bitter, determined to never let anyone hurt me again. Sound familiar?"

"...maybe."

"And then there she was, yelling at me about flour prices, and I forgot every single rule I'd made for myself." Harold grinned at the memory. "Don't underestimate life's sense of humor, Edwin. It has a way of finding the cracks in our walls."

He left Edwin alone in the attic, surrounded by decades of accumulated memories and one faded bundle of letters from a woman who had lost her chance.

---

That evening, Sun-hee Kim made a decision.

She was going to take Kimsoo to town.

Not tomorrow. Not "maybe." Today.

"I know you don't want to," she said, before Kimsoo could protest. "I know it's hard. But you haven't left the property in two weeks, and the art supply store is having a sale on watercolors."

It was a calculated move. Sun-hee knew her daughter's weaknesses, and art supplies ranked high on the list.

Kimsoo hesitated. "What if..."

"What if what? What if someone looks at you? What if someone talks to you?" Sun-hee's voice was gentle but unyielding. "Sweetheart, I'll be right there. We'll go in, get the watercolors, and come out. Fifteen minutes."

"You always say fifteen minutes."

"And it's usually closer to thirty. But you always survive, don't you?"

The logic was infuriatingly sound. Kimsoo had never actually died during a trip to town. The fear had always been worse than the reality.

Always.

"Fine," she said. "But if someone tries to ask for my number, I'm leaving."

"If someone tries to ask for your number, I'll beat them with my purse. It has a hardcover book in it."

Despite everything, Kimsoo laughed. Her mother had a particular talent for threatening violence in a way that was somehow comforting.

They drove into town as the sun was beginning its descent toward the horizon. Willowbrook's main street was quiet at this hour—most of the shops closed by five, except for the general store and the one restaurant that served as the town's entire dining scene.

The art supply store was new, tucked between the hardware store and what had once been a barbershop. It was small but well-stocked, with the kind of organized chaos that spoke of a passionate owner.

"Oh," Kimsoo breathed when they walked in.

The walls were lined with canvases of every size. Brushes hung in neat rows. Tubes of paint were arranged by color, creating a rainbow that stretched across an entire wall. And in the corner, displayed with obvious care, was a collection of watercolor sets that made Kimsoo's artist heart sing.

She forgot, for a moment, about curses and fear and the constant weight of anxiety. She was just a girl in a store full of beautiful things.

Sun-hee watched her daughter's face light up and felt something loosen in her chest. This was why they'd moved here. This was what they were fighting for—these moments, however brief, when Kimsoo could be herself again.

"Take your time," she said. "I'll look at the sketchbooks."

Kimsoo drifted toward the watercolors like a moth to flame. She picked up sets, examined color swatches, compared brush quality with the practiced eye of someone who knew what she was looking at.

She was so absorbed that she didn't notice the other person in the store until she literally bumped into them.

"Oh—sorry—I wasn't—"

She looked up.

It was an older woman, maybe seventy, with silver hair pulled back in a practical bun and eyes that sparkled with curiosity. She was holding a set of acrylic paints and studying Kimsoo with frank interest.

"You're one of the Kim girls, aren't you? From the farm?"

Kimsoo's heart rate spiked, then settled. An older woman. Not a threat. "Yes. Kim Su Han. Kimsoo."

"Martha told me about you." The woman extended a hand. "I'm Patricia Henderson. I live on the property east of the Carters."

Henderson. The woman with the cows. The one with the nephew.

Kimsoo shook her hand cautiously. "I think I met your nephew today. Briefly."

"Jake mentioned something about that. Said you seemed to be in a hurry." Patricia's eyes were shrewd but not unkind. "He's a good boy, but he can be a bit... eager. I hope he didn't bother you."

"No, he was fine. I was just..." Kimsoo trailed off, unsure how to explain.

"Having a difficult day?" Patricia nodded as if this was perfectly understandable. "We all have those. No need to explain."

The simple acceptance was unexpectedly disarming. Kimsoo felt some of the tension drain from her shoulders.

"My mother says you used to paint," she heard herself say.

"Still do, when the arthritis cooperates. Mostly landscapes these days. The hills around here are beautiful, especially in autumn." Patricia tilted her head, studying Kimsoo with renewed interest. "You're the one who studied art history, aren't you? Sun-hee mentioned it."

"I... yes. Before we moved."

"I've always loved art history. Never understood it, mind you, but loved it. Maybe you could come by sometime, tell me what I'm doing wrong with my paintings."

It was an invitation. A simple, friendly invitation with no romantic undertones whatsoever. An older woman asking a younger one for art advice.

And yet Kimsoo's first instinct was still to refuse.

She caught herself. Took a breath. Remembered her father's words: *Strong isn't about feeling strong. It's about trying.*

"I'd like that," she said.

The words felt foreign in her mouth. She hadn't agreed to see anyone outside her family in months.

But Patricia Henderson smiled, warm and genuine, and something in Kimsoo's chest loosened just a fraction more.

"Wonderful. I'm usually home in the afternoons. Just come by whenever you're ready." She patted Kimsoo's arm with grandmotherly affection. "Now, I'd better get these paints before my check bounces. Lovely to meet you, Kimsoo."

She was gone before Kimsoo could respond, leaving behind only the faint scent of lavender and the strange, unfamiliar feeling of having made a connection.

Sun-hee appeared at her elbow, sketchbooks in hand. "Who was that?"

"Patricia Henderson. The neighbor."

"The one with the cows?"

"And the nephew."

"Ah." Sun-hee's tone was carefully neutral. "And how was that?"

Kimsoo thought about it. Really thought, instead of defaulting to her usual anxiety-driven response.

"It was... okay," she said slowly. "She invited me to come see her paintings sometime."

"And will you?"

"Maybe."

But this time, *maybe* sounded a little less like *no* and a little more like *I'm thinking about it*.

Sun-hee hid her smile behind the sketchbooks and led her daughter to the register.

---

That night, Edwin lay in bed and stared at the ceiling.

The letters from Rosie O'Brien were still floating through his mind—all that desperation, all that regret, sent to a man who had already found something better.

His grandfather's words echoed: *Don't underestimate life's sense of humor. It has a way of finding the cracks in our walls.*

Edwin's walls were thick. He'd built them that way on purpose. But he was starting to realize that walls weren't just keeping things out—they were keeping him in.

Trapped.

Isolated.

Safe, yes. But also alone.

He thought about the Kim family. About the daughter who couldn't come to dinner. About the worried glances her parents exchanged when they thought no one was watching.

Whatever she was dealing with, it was clearly bigger than his broken heart. And somehow, that put things in perspective.

His phone buzzed.

A text from his mother: *How are you doing? Your father and I are worried. Call when you can.*

He typed out a response: *Better. Actually better. Tell Dad I'm learning to wrangle chickens.*

He sent it before he could second-guess himself.

Outside, the countryside was quiet. No sirens, no traffic, no noise of other people living their separate, hectic lives. Just darkness and stars and the occasional distant hoot of an owl.

And somewhere, on a farm he could almost see from his window, a girl he'd never met was probably lying awake too.

For the first time since coming here, Edwin felt curious about someone.

Not attracted—he reminded himself firmly. Not interested in *that* way.

Just... curious.

It was a start.

---

**End of Chapter 3**

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