By the time we got home, the sun had already set.

The outskirts of the village, a wooden wall that seemed ready to crumble at a touch.

Wind slipped through every gap in the windows, the floor creaked with every step.

Still… it was familiar.

The smell of this house, the wind carrying the scent of earth through the door cracks.

This was home.

“I’ll handle dinner tonight. Mom, you lie down for a bit.”

I grabbed the apron hanging by the kitchen, shook it out, and tied it around my waist.

Mom, who hadn’t been able to smooth her wrinkled brow earlier, simply nodded this time.

Seeing that expression, she must have been really tired.

I strode to the stove and added more firewood.

Rolling up my sleeves in front of the flickering flames.

Honestly… I’m quite good at cooking.

Back in Korea, when I lived alone, I once memorized a string of YouTube cooking videos.

Now, I couldn’t even watch them again. Ah, I missed those days.

I raided the fridge to magically make bibimbap, shaped croquettes from rolling potatoes.

Of course, I eventually returned to ramen and convenience store meals.

But at that time, I had genuinely cared about the recipes.

I didn’t expect that sense to work here too.

Seasonings were limited to salt, vinegar, and occasionally garlic.

Meat was rare, oil even harder to come by.

Still, I managed.

Cooked, boiled, simmered, stir-fried…

“Yeah, this should be edible.”

Mom sat quietly at the table, watching me.

Her hands moved slowly over the faded tablecloth.

Rough, dry hands.

Hands that had spent a lifetime raising a daughter.

I avoided her gaze and stirred the pot busily.

Looking into those eyes too long… it would make my heart ache.

Sometimes I thought.

‘Should I really try running a shop?’

I knew roughly how to bake bread, make soup, salads, or roast vegetables…

A small signboard, selling warm meals slowly with Mom.

…But the problem was always the same.

“No money, money.”

I tossed another log into the fire and let out a small laugh.

Dreams are pretty, but reality is harsh.

All I had was this pot, Mom and me, and my own two hands.

Still, well…

Even just the smell of cooking filling the air, and Mom saying it’s delicious—

There were times when I envied nothing in the world.

Today was one of those days.

“Corn soup… dry bread… cabbage salad. If I set it up like this… oh, it looks decent?”

I murmured, stirring the small pot.

The worn kitchen, the creaking floor, a stove that could only hold two flames at once.

Yet the smell of the corn soup spreading in that space was surprisingly convincing.

Meat? That only appeared in storybooks.

Today’s ingredients were:

A few corn kernels completely dried out,
A few pieces of hardened bread,
And half a cabbage on the verge of wilting.

I cut away the slightly moldy parts.

By this standard, it was a fine meal. At least, for our home.

“Our daughter… you’ve set all this with practically nothing at home?”

Mom’s voice came from behind, and I quickly turned, smiling.

“No matter how poor, you have to keep up appearances. Pride still matters.”

She smiled at my words, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

She quietly averted her gaze—must be blaming herself again.

“Ah… I didn’t even give her anything, and she grew up like this…”

I set down the ladle and sat quietly across from her.

I think I’ve heard those words a hundred times.

Yet every time, my heart still tightened.

‘I would’ve felt sorry too.’

In this world, or the previous one.

Poverty always gives the same feeling to parents.

Wanting to give, but unable to.

That feeling builds into guilt and apology.

I knew how heavy that was.

Even in Korea, looking at my younger sister lying in the hospital—my expression mirrored Mom’s.

I slowly placed my hand over hers.

“Mom, this is enough. I’ve come this far because of you.”

I hoped those words brought even a little comfort to her.

Even if nothing changed, I wanted her heart to feel warmth.

Honestly, I’m somewhat hardened to hardship.

Back in Korea, working three part-time jobs, paying rent, heart racing every time I checked my balance.

Compared to that, here is just colder, hungrier, and a bit harsher.

And… Mom is here.

That alone is reason enough to cook again.

The warm corn soup slowly filled the bowls.

The hard bread softened in hot water.

A modest spread, anyone might think “is that all?”

Yet at this moment, this simple table felt warmer and more precious than any noble feast.

As the smell of corn soup just began filling the house that evening,

A thud came from the door.

…Hmm, a bit heavy for the wind?

I paused mid-stir, Mom put down her spoon.

Next moment, the front door slammed open.

“Ah, sorry. I nudged it a bit and—oops, it broke?”

The man’s casual tone made my eyebrows rise.

A bit?

Hey, that door had survived storms until now. If it broke just from your nudge, we’d already be living on the street.

I quietly lowered the stove flame and glanced toward the door.

As expected.

Four men, stubbled faces, broad shoulders, thick arms, cold, hard gazes.

No clubs, but the aura said, “try me.”

Mom instinctively stepped behind me.

“What… do you want?”

Her voice was small.

But clear to me.

Trembling breath, moisture in her words.

And the familiar tension conveyed through their shoulders.

I silently grabbed Mom’s sleeve.

Moments repeated since childhood.

Loan sharks at the door.

Yes, here they were.

I wondered why they hadn’t come earlier this month.

One man sniffled in a familiar tone.

“You’ve been paying interest for months, leaving the principal untouched~ Our boss is worried, you see?”

“The interest for this month… I believe it was already paid a few days ago.”

I stepped forward for Mom.

My body reacted first.

I didn’t want her to get hurt.

Instead of an answer came sneers.

“That’s for us to decide. Did you check the books? No, right?”

I took a sharp breath.

Interest calculated as they wished, charging for breaking the door on top of that.

If I let my guard down, tonight Mom might be dragged off instead of the ladle.

This is the Middle Ages.

Law? Doesn’t exist.

Who complains to whom unless you’re a noble?

I looked at their boots.

Dust still clinging.

Thin whips dangling at their waists.

Honestly, scenes like this were no longer shocking.

I realized then how tragedy could come from familiarity.

“Ah… the interest has gone up this time.”

Even after hearing that twice a month, it still disgusted me.

The tone sounded playful, but beneath it was their true intent—looking down on us, ignoring us.

A weight pressed on my chest.

No amount of deep breaths made the air feel lighter.

A few days ago, they barged in with the same line.

Raising interest like a threat, in a world where no one could stop them.

Here, law is just a letter for the wealthy.

And we existed outside that law.

Interest used to crush a family.

“We work the hours we’re told, earn the wages we’re told.
If you suddenly raise interest, it’s unacceptable.”

Mom’s voice was quiet but firm.

A stranger might mistake it for soft, but I knew how many sighs and calculations were packed into those words.

She always lived like this. Speaking only words hardened to prevent breaking.

Yet they laughed at her mockingly.

Then boldly spoke again.

“See~ there’s an easy way.
Your daughter can work it off, right?
She’s not too young, her body’s fine.”

Instinctively, my toes tensed.

I tried to hold back, but my body reacted first.

“The so-called easy way is the hardest for our family.”

Mom spoke. Quietly, but clearly.

Through her small shoulders, she looked taller than anyone I’d ever seen.

Yes, we would survive.

A world that sends sons to war and trades daughters—

Mom and our home refuse to comply.

And I knew.

Her steadfast embrace had protected me.

And it was the only reason I had to protect it in return.

Any choice would bring regrets.

But at least this— I wanted to live without shame.