When I moved from a room barely five pyeong to one that was six pyeong, I thought the world had become exactly one pyeong more generous. But that illusion didn’t last three days. My belongings somehow sensed the extra volume floating in the air and swelled to fill every inch of it. In one corner of the room, three plastic storage bins were packed full, and still overflowing, with imported patterned paper and origami paper I’d bought ever since my school days, dreaming of becoming a stationery designer trained overseas.
When I opened the box lid for the first time in ages, the cool, heavy scent of dry paper brushed the tip of my nose. They were imported origami papers and patterned sheets I’d bought whenever I had allowance money, ever since I’d dreamed of becoming a stationery designer in school. Thick chiyogami I’d snatched up, dazzled, in an old stationery shop tucked into a Japanese back alley; geometric art paper I’d chosen after nervously swallowing my saliva at a London museum gift shop; even traditional handmade hanji origami paper dusted with a subtle shimmer. Fifty bundles of paper still sealed in their plastic wrapping were stacked layer upon layer in the corner of the room, where not a ray of sunlight ever reached, displaying their colors with an almost eerie vibrancy.
The paper’s edges were as sharp and stiff as blades. Every time I ran my fingertips over the raised embossing and the grain of the gold foil, I remembered the version of myself around twenty, my heart swelling with the dream of creating some magnificent work. Under the excuse that I would fill the perfect portfolio someday, buoyed by the delusional hope that I would launch a beautiful handmade diary brand someday, I had collected sheets that cost thousands of won apiece as if they were treasure. But that “someday” never came. Too afraid of failing, I never even made a proper cut with my scissors, and the paper had been reduced to nothing more than a heavy burden eating away at my room’s square footage.
I spread a worn white cotton cloth across the floor. Then I fanned out the fifty bundles of paper in a wide arc. Beneath the incandescent light, patterns of red camellias and deep indigo waves shimmered extravagantly. My fingertips trembled faintly as I adjusted my smartphone camera’s angle to capture the paper’s fine texture on-screen. The original cost of the imported paper, with its price tags still attached, easily exceeded 100,000 won, but after hesitating for a moment, I typed “15,000 won” into the price field.
“[As a bundle] Imported origami paper & premium patterned paper, 50 sets—clearing them out. Unused paper I carefully saved while studying design. They’re in excellent condition, with no wrinkles or discoloration at all. I’d love for someone who will use them beautifully to take them.”
When I tapped the Post button, the listing went up with a clear chime. I set my phone down, sank onto the floor, and stared blankly up at the ceiling. The years I’d spent tying myself down in this cramped room because I couldn’t bear to throw away a single thing drifted through my mind. What was it I couldn’t let go of and kept clinging to all this time? Paper—or the possibility of my youth, which I’d once believed would shine brilliantly? Even as I knew that nothing new could be filled in without first emptying something out, a bitter ache welled up inside my throat.
Before ten minutes had passed, a lively notification tone shattered the silence, accompanied by an orange carrot icon.
“[Haetsal-gadeuk]: Hello. The paper is so lovely and neat. Would it be possible to meet at the bus stop in front of the community center? I’m a little slow on my feet.”
I opened the chat and checked the other person’s profile. The manner score beside the nickname was 41.2 degrees. This wasn’t the childish writing of some young kid; every comma and period was neatly placed, and the tone was that of a polite older woman. I’d assumed that someone buying origami paper would naturally be a young mother planning to give school supplies to a little grandchild, or perhaps an art academy instructor. I’d been wrong. The bus stop in front of the community center was barely a five-minute walk from my place.
“[Me]: Hi! Yes, that works. Could we meet on the bench at the bus stop at 4 p.m. today?”
“[Haetsal-gadeuk]: Thank you, dear. It’s cold out, so dress warmly. I’ll be wearing a red wool scarf.”
At 3:50 p.m., I zipped up my thick puffer jacket against the chilly air outside. Once I carefully packed the fifty sets of paper into a sturdy paper shopping bag, the weight traveled straight into my wrist. It was heavy enough that the knuckles of the hand gripping the handles turned white. The weight of the lingering attachment I’d been carrying for years must have been exactly this much. Breathing lightly but heavily, I started down the sloping road toward the community center.
An elderly woman with white hair was sitting on the bench at the shabby bus stop in front of the community center, wearing exactly the eye-catching vermilion wool scarf she’d described. The joints of the fingers resting neatly on her lap were knobby and rough, like the little branches of an old tree that had endured the harsh winds of many years.
“Excuse me, are you ‘Haetsal-gadeuk’?”
When I approached cautiously and greeted her, the woman beamed, folding the fine wrinkles across her entire face into a smile over her reading glasses. She was a little slow getting to her feet, but there was a curious neatness and grace in the way she walked.
“Oh my, yes, I am. You’re the young lady who posted that pretty paper, right? The wind’s awfully chilly, so I’m sorry to have made you come this far.”
“Not at all. It takes less than five minutes to walk from my place.”
I politely handed over the heavy shopping bag with both hands. The woman accepted it, loosened the handles, and gazed quietly inside. Then her eyes lit up as she let out one exclamation after another.
“Oh my goodness… How can paper be so lovely and sturdy? The colors look just like a spring flower garden. It’s such a shame that you can’t find Japanese imports or thick patterned paper like this at the neighborhood stationery stores anymore. Thanks to you, I’m getting quite a feast for my eyes.”
The way she stroked the bundles of paper was so precious and careful that her deep affection for them came through at once. Her gaze was far too serious for someone who had bought paper just to fold toy airplanes or paper tiles for her grandchild. I couldn’t hold back my curiosity.
“Are you buying it to help your grandchild with an origami assignment? This paper has a much higher weight and is much stiffer than regular origami paper, so it might hurt a young child’s fingertips a little when they try to fold it.”
The woman laughed brightly out loud and shook her head.
“No, it’s not for my grandchild. I bought it purely to fold myself. I’m a student in the beginner origami class over at the community center.”
The woman carefully removed her leather gloves and held out her hands. The backs were covered in pale age spots and prominent veins, while her knuckles were stiff and jutting out as if she had rheumatism. But the tips of her nails were neatly and cleanly trimmed, with the faintest hint of pink.
“Now that I’m well past seventy, I can feel my fingertips stiffening every morning when I open my eyes. Even holding a spoon makes my hand tremble because I’ve lost my grip strength. When I went to the hospital, the doctor told me that I had to keep moving my fingers and using my mind so they wouldn’t stiffen up. So I worked up the courage to sign up for the origami class at the community center last month. Once I start folding cranes, frogs, roses, little boxes, and things like that in order, I lose track of how three or four hours pass. When I line up the two corners of the paper perfectly, sharp as a knife, and press them down firmly with my fingernail, that crisp, honest sound makes me feel so refreshed. Ah, my hands aren’t dead yet—they’re still alive. I can still make something neat and proper, too.”
The moment I heard the woman’s calm confession, something deep inside my chest gave a heavy thud, as if it had been struck by a stone.
Why had I kept these papers locked away in the darkness of a corner for so long? All those days when I was too afraid to even begin because I might not produce a perfect design, because my clumsy handiwork might invite other people’s ridicule, because the finished result might not live up to my expectations. To me, paper had been nothing more than an object of fear, something that would confirm a failure waiting to happen. But the woman in her seventies wasn’t folding square sheets to create a perfect work of art. She was folding them simply to keep herself from stiffening with age, to prove to herself that she was still alive. The thing that had truly gone rigid wasn’t the old woman’s fingers, but my young heart, which had shrunk back in fear of failure.
The woman pulled a neatly folded 10,000-won bill and a 5,000-won bill from the inside pocket of her thick coat and pressed them into my hand. The bills were smoothed perfectly, as if she had ironed them herself so they wouldn’t be wrinkled. Then she rummaged around in the opposite pocket for quite a while before taking out two milk candies wrapped in shiny silver foil and gently placing them in my palm.
“I brought these from our dining table. They’re sweet and very tasty. A young, lovely lady like you gave me such precious paper for next to nothing, so I’ve received a very big gift. I’ll fold them prettily, show them off to my friends at the community center, and line them up along the windowsill at home, too.”
“…Thank you, ma’am. Be careful not to catch a cold, and I hope you enjoy the origami class all the way to the end.”
My throat tightened, and I barely managed to say goodbye. I stood there for a long time, staring blankly at the woman’s back as she slowly walked away from the bus stop. Her vermilion scarf fluttered lightly in the chilly winter wind, and behind her, as she walked clutching the large shopping bag to her chest, the warmth of learning and dazzling vitality that had forgotten her age rose like a shimmering haze.
I returned to my studio apartment, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. Even without turning on the lights, the faint glow of sunset stretched in through the crack beneath the entryway door. In the corner of the room that had always been so packed there was barely room to stand, where plastic storage bins had been stacked in layers, one of the heaviest middle drawers now stood perfectly empty.
Without even taking off my coat, I dropped down in front of the empty space. I gently ran my palm over the bottom of the drawer where the bundles of paper had been. Beyond the cool touch of the plastic, a small, clear patch of space—about two palm-lengths wide—had opened up in my room.
I took the two yellow milk candies from my pocket and arranged them neatly on the corner of my desk. I unwrapped one and put it in my mouth. A rich, sweet milky-butter flavor spread warmly from the tip of my tongue through my whole body.
My room was still cramped, barely five pyeong, and tomorrow morning, when I opened my eyes, nothing would change about the bleak life of an unemployed person endlessly scrolling through job sites. But just as you fold a square sheet in half, then fold it diagonally again, and eventually create a crane that soars toward the sky, I felt that maybe I, too, could slowly smooth out the wrinkles in my hardened heart and start something again.
Into the corner of my room, emptied of the weight of fifty bundles of paper, a small handful of clear, steady sunlight was slowly beginning to seep.