"By the end of today?"
Eun-chae asked again. A brief silence passed on the other end of the phone.
"Yes. The buyers are looking at another property too. They said if you don't give us an answer today, they might go with that one instead."
Eun-chae glanced toward the yard. Grandma had already gone into the main house.
"We... haven't made a decision yet."
"Oh, I see. Then when do you think you could give us an answer? If today won't work, we need to know by tomorrow morning at the latest."
"I'll get back to you by tomorrow morning."
After hanging up, Eun-chae stood there for a long while. The phone in her hand went dark, then lit up again.
When she went into the kitchen, Grandma was preparing dinner. The steady sound of a knife rang out over the cutting board.
"Gran, the real estate agent just called."
The knife stopped.
"What'd they say?"
"They want an answer by tomorrow morning. They said they're looking at other places too."
Grandma turned her gaze back to the cutting board. Her fingertips moved a little more slowly than before.
"So you haven't changed your mind?"
"No."
"I told you to sleep on it and think it over again."
"It'll be the same even after I sleep on it."
Grandma set down the knife. She wiped her hands on her apron and faced Eun-chae.
"If you're serious, then decide today. There's no point putting it off until tomorrow morning."
Eun-chae drew in a deep breath.
"Gran, I'm really going to do it."
The kitchen fell quiet for a moment. The only sound was the rice cooker releasing steam.
Without a word, Grandma took off her apron and hung it on a chair. Then she went into her bedroom and came back with an old notebook.
"What's that?"
"The real estate agent's number. I've been using this one for thirty years."
Grandma set the notebook down in front of Eun-chae. Pages packed with handwritten numbers came into view.
"Call them yourself. If you're going to do it, you need to make the call."
Eun-chae picked up the notebook. The paper was old, its edges faded yellow. Her fingertips tightened around it.
"But, Gran."
"What?"
"Are we going to keep the guesthouse name, Sandeul Haven Guesthouse? Or can I change it?"
Grandma thought for a moment before giving a short answer.
"Do whatever you want, Eun-chae."
"Really?"
"It wasn't even a name I came up with. Your grandfather did. If it's going to be yours now, do whatever you want with it."
Eun-chae was silent for a moment, still holding the notebook. The idea that she was allowed to change the name felt more significant than she'd expected.
"I'll think about it."
"Fine. The name isn't urgent. The call is."
Grandma tapped the notebook with her fingertip. Eun-chae came to her senses and opened it. Thirty years of handwriting filled every page. Some of the ink had bled so badly that it was hard to read.
"Which one of these is the real estate agent's number—"
"Third page from the back."
Eun-chae turned the pages. In faded ballpoint pen, it said, "Dasom Real Estate—Mr. Park." A string of numbers was written beside it.
She took out her phone and dialed. The line rang twice before someone answered.
"Dasom Real Estate."
"Hi, I'm calling about the Sandeul Haven Guesthouse property you visited earlier."
"Oh, yes, yes. You're the granddaughter, right?"
"Yes. I'm calling to give you our answer."
There was a brief rustling sound on the other end.
"You're not selling after all?"
Eun-chae glanced at Grandma. Instead of answering, Grandma gave a small nod.
"No, we're not selling. I'm going to take over and run it."
"Oh, I see. All right. I'll let the buyers know."
The call ended. Eun-chae remained still for a while, phone in hand.
"Is it done?"
Grandma asked.
"It's done."
A brief silence passed through the kitchen. Only then did Eun-chae feel the strength leave her legs. She sat down in a chair.
"But, Gran, I really don't know anything. How do I take bookings? What about cleaning? What time do I serve breakfast—"
"Slow down."
Grandma cut her off as she sat down beside Eun-chae.
"Deciding is enough for today. I'll teach you the rest one thing at a time, starting tomorrow."
Eun-chae nodded. Outside the window, the last light of sunset was disappearing beyond the roof.
That night, Eun-chae lay in her room and opened her suitcase. For the first time, she took everything out and put it away in the closet. As she hung up a shirt, a copy of her resignation letter fell out of the inner pocket.
She stared at it for a long time, then put it in the bottom drawer.
The next morning, Eun-chae sat at the kitchen table with the notebook spread open in front of her. She was reading through the densely packed handwriting, tracing each entry one by one.
"Gran, do you really remember all the contacts in this notebook?"
Grandma answered from in front of the stove as she stirred the soup.
"Remember? They're all written down right here."
"But earlier, you told me the page number without even looking for it."
Grandma set down the ladle and came over to the table. She sat beside Eun-chae and flipped through the notebook.
"I've used it for thirty years. My hands know that much."
"Isn't that the same as remembering?"
"I don't know it by heart. I know it with my hands."
Grandma pointed to a page. Its corner was especially worn.
"This is the rice shop. This one's the rice mill, and this is the owner of the laundromat. When you flip to them several times a year, your hand goes there first even if you don't memorize them."
Eun-chae mulled that over. At work, she had to search for, save, and set reminders for everything before she could remember it. The feeling of knowing something with her hands was unfamiliar.
"It'd be easier if we scanned this and saved it on my phone."
"You can. But then you probably won't be able to find anything."
"Why not?"
"Because you'll forget what you saved. I could tell just by looking at your phone's photo gallery."
Eun-chae started to argue, then closed her mouth. When she'd opened her photo gallery last night, there had been hundreds of files she hadn't even realized she'd saved.
"Still, shouldn't we manage bookings and guest information with a system? I feel like there's a limit to what we can do with a notebook."
For the first time, Grandma looked like she agreed.
"Handle that your way. I don't know about those things, but you do."
"I don't, either. But I'll figure it out."
Grandma stood and went back to the stove. The soup was just about to boil over.
"Eat first. I told you I'd teach you one thing at a time starting today."
Eun-chae closed the notebook. The texture of the paper lingering on her fingertips stayed with her strangely long.
After breakfast, Eun-chae returned to her room and opened her laptop. She placed Grandma's notebook beside it and brought up a search window.
She started by searching for "how to start running a guesthouse." Dozens of blog posts appeared. Business registration, lodging business permits, fire-safety inspections. Unfamiliar words filled the screen.
Eun-chae opened a notepad and wrote them down one by one.
- Obtain a business registration certificate - File a lodging business report with the relevant city or county office - Certificate of completion for fire-safety facilities - Register with booking platforms (Airbnb, Yanolja, and others)
The longer the list grew, the busier her fingertips became. The feeling of putting together a proposal at work returned to her for the first time in a long while.
Next, she searched for "lodging business reporting procedures." She went to the local city hall website and checked the list of required documents. Her ID, the building register, a fire-inspection confirmation. She thought Grandma might already have some of them.
"Gran, do you happen to have something like a building register?"
Grandma, who was watching television in the living room, answered.
"There's a stack of documents in the bedroom drawer. Go look through them."
Eun-chae went into the bedroom and opened the drawer. Yellowed documents had been sorted into several clear folders. The building register, an old fire-inspection confirmation, even a copy of the business registration certificate were all there.
"Gran, you had all of this?"
"Of course I did. I've been doing this for thirty years."
Eun-chae photographed the documents one by one and transferred them to her laptop. The fire-inspection confirmation was dated five years ago. It looked like it needed to be renewed.
She went back to the search window and typed in "how to register a guesthouse on booking platforms." Several service names appeared on the screen. Eun-chae compared their commission rates and registration procedures, taking notes.
About an hour later, she looked away from the screen and rubbed her stiff neck. Stretching, Eun-chae looked out the window. The lettuce sprouts in the kitchen garden were soaking up the morning sunlight.
She looked over her notepad again. Her to-do list had already spilled onto a second page. It was longer than any proposal she'd put together at work.
Strangely, it didn't feel overwhelming.
Eun-chae closed the laptop and went out to the living room.
"Gran, I'm going to city hall today to ask what other documents I need."
Grandma took her eyes off the television and looked at Eun-chae.
"You think you can go by yourself?"
"I won't know until I try."
Grandma looked at Eun-chae for a moment, then gave her the faintest smile yet.
"All right. Go see what you can do."