The bus ride to city hall took forty minutes. Eun-chae checked the notes she'd organized on her laptop again as she looked out the window. Rice fields slipped past.
When she arrived at the public service desk, she first had to take a number. There were twelve people ahead of her. Eun-chae sat in a chair, placed the document envelope on her lap, and waited for her turn.
When her number was called, she went to the counter.
“I’m here about registering a lodging business.”
The employee adjusted their glasses and asked, “Are you taking over an existing operation, or is this a new registration?”
Eun-chae was suddenly at a loss for words. She'd never thought about the difference between taking over a business and starting a new one.
“Um... I’m taking over the guesthouse my grandmother used to run.”
“If you’re changing the name on the registration, you can file it as a succession. Did you bring the representative-change documents and a copy of the existing business registration?”
Eun-chae rummaged through the document envelope. She had a copy of the business registration. She didn’t have the representative-change documents.
“I... don’t have those. Where do I get them?”
“They’re over in the forms section. Fill one out and come back.”
Eun-chae got up and went to the forms section. She picked up a few forms and returned to the waiting chairs. There were a lot of blank spaces: business registration number, address, representative’s personal information, reason for the succession.
Her pen stopped in front of the box for the reason. She didn’t know what to write. “Because my grandmother was having a hard time” felt too personal, and there had to be something that sounded more official.
The elderly man sitting beside her glanced at the papers in her hands and spoke to her.
“That’s a succession report. My son filled one out last year.”
“Oh, yes.”
“For the reason, just write, ‘Succession of operation due to the advanced age of the previous representative.’”
Eun-chae copied his words exactly. The old man looked satisfied and returned to his own paperwork.
After finishing the form, she took another number. This time, there were six people ahead of her. While she waited, Eun-chae checked the item in her notes that said, “Fire safety inspection renewal needed.” The certificate from five years ago probably wouldn’t be accepted.
Her number was called.
“Have you filled it out? Let me take a look.”
The employee skimmed the documents, then stopped.
“This certificate of completed fire safety facilities inspection is from five years ago. You’ll need to renew it before we can accept this.”
“Where do I renew it?”
“You need to request an inspection at the fire station. It’s about a fifteen-minute walk from here.”
Eun-chae looked at her watch. It was three in the afternoon. She had no idea whether she could finish everything today.
“If I apply today, when will they come out for the inspection?”
“It usually takes about a week to ten days.”
Ten days. Eun-chae counted the number in her head. Would she have to delay opening the guesthouse until then?
After leaving city hall, Eun-chae sat on a bench and opened her laptop. Her thoughts were tangled. She couldn’t figure out what she was supposed to do first at this rate.
Instead of the notes app, she opened a new spreadsheet. She divided it into three columns.
Before starting / In progress / Completed
She began entering, one by one, everything she’d learned that day.
In the Before starting column: - Apply to renew the certificate of completed fire safety facilities inspection - Prepare documents to join reservation platforms - Retake photos for the website - Repair the kitchen garden fence
In the In progress column: - Fill out succession report (waiting to submit)
In the Completed column: - Confirm copy of business registration - Check building register
Once she filled in the columns, what she was looking at changed completely. The tasks that had been tangled up in her head were organized into three lines, and somehow, her mind settled.
As she walked toward the fire station, Eun-chae added one more item to the In progress column.
- Apply to renew the certificate of completed fire safety facilities inspection (scheduled to submit)
At the fire station, she went to the reception counter.
“I’d like to renew my certificate of completed inspection.”
The employee took the documents and skimmed them.
“Fill out the inspection request form, and we’ll contact you separately about the on-site inspection schedule. It usually takes around ten days.”
“Is there any way to get it done sooner?”
“If you have an urgent reason, you can attach a statement explaining it, and you might be assigned a higher priority. I can’t promise anything, though.”
Eun-chae filled out another statement right there. She wrote, “Opening soon, expedited processing requested.” She couldn’t even tell if it sounded convincing.
After submitting everything, she opened the spreadsheet again on her way out. Beside the item in the In progress column, she added a short note: “Statement submitted.”
As she walked to the bus stop, Eun-chae suddenly found herself smiling. This was the kind of spreadsheet she used to make every day at work. Back then, it had made her feel suffocated. Now, strangely, her hands felt light.
She boarded the bus, took a window seat, and looked over the spreadsheet one more time. The Before starting column was still much longer. Even so, the thought of moving things into the Completed column one by one made her feel strangely hopeful.
When Eun-chae arrived at the guesthouse, Grandma was in the yard inspecting the lettuce.
“How’d it go?”
“They said it’ll take ten days. But I organized everything I have to do today.”
Eun-chae opened her laptop and showed Grandma the chart. Grandma stared at the screen for a long while before saying, “What is this? Why’d you make it so complicated?”
“It’s not complicated. It’s easier this way.”
Eun-chae turned the screen a little more toward her.
“Whenever I finish something, I move it from here to there. Like this.”
She dragged the “Confirm copy of business registration” item into the Completed column with her mouse. The cell turned green.
Grandma watched her quietly, then asked, “Does moving one thing really change anything?”
“It does. You can see that something got done.”
Eun-chae leaned back in her chair. She gazed out the window at the sunset for a moment.
“I used to make charts like this at work every day. But back then, I felt suffocated every time I looked at one. The work never got any shorter. It just kept piling up.”
Grandma sat down beside Eun-chae without answering.
“But now?”
“Now... it’s strangely fun. I can see things disappearing one at a time.”
Eun-chae looked over the Before starting column again. The list was still long: website photos, the kitchen garden fence, reservation platform documents. Even so, she didn’t feel rushed.
“Isn’t it strange? I have the exact same pile of work.”
“It isn’t the same.”
Grandma’s answer was short. Eun-chae turned to look at her.
“What’s different?”
“At the company, you’re doing it because someone else told you to. This, you’re doing because you want to.”
Eun-chae turned those words over in her mind. It was true. It felt unfamiliar that the same chart, the same format, could make her feel so different.
“Gran, how did you know that?”
“Because I lived that way for thirty years.”
Grandma got to her feet and gave Eun-chae’s shoulder a light tap.
“But don’t overdo it just because you’re having fun. Fun doesn’t do you any good if you wear yourself out.”
“Okay.”
Eun-chae turned her attention back to the laptop. Beside “Fill out succession report” in the In progress column, she added a short note.
*Return to city hall tomorrow, goal: complete submission*
Outside the window, the kitchen garden was bathed in evening light. The lettuce sprouts had grown a little more than they had yesterday.
Eun-chae closed the laptop and turned to Grandma.
“Gran, why did you start this in the first place? The guesthouse.”
Grandma leaned against a veranda post and paused for a moment before answering.
“Your grandpa wanted to.”
“Grandpa did?”
“When he was young, he bought this land and said that after we retired, we should make a living letting guests stay here. I was against it.”
“Why?”
“I couldn’t see what was so great about letting strangers into our home. But your grandpa kept insisting, so in the end, we decided to build it.”
Eun-chae sat with her knees drawn up. It was the first time she’d heard the story.
“What was it like once you actually started?”
“It was hard. But...”
Grandma turned her gaze toward the yard. The evening light lay low across it.
“When the guests ate breakfast and said, ‘I feel like I can finally breathe here,’ I kept wanting to hear them say it. I suppose that was the reason.”
Eun-chae turned the words over in silence.
“Did you keep going even after Grandpa died?”
“If I quit, it would mean the thing he wanted to do had ended. I didn’t want that.”
Grandma turned her head toward Eun-chae.
“But now my body won’t keep up. What else can I do?”
For a moment, Eun-chae couldn’t say anything. There seemed to be thirty years of weight in Grandma’s calm voice.
“Gran.”
“What?”
“I want to find a reason like that for myself, too.”
Grandma smiled faintly instead of answering. Then she stood and said, “You will. Don’t rush it.”
Darkness had settled over the yard before they knew it. The lettuce sprouts in the kitchen garden glimmered in the last light of sunset.