When I had taken the poison with the intention of taking my life, it could have ended there. It was only by a sheer quirk of fate that I was still around. I was living on borrowed time. I often reflected on this. Is it possible that a life on borrowed time turns out to be more substantial and wholesome than the real one?

The latest news of Myŏngsŏk was that he had quarrelled with his host, our closest relation in Susim, and had been turned out of the house and moved into the servants’ quarters, where he had to cook his own meals. I had been intending to send him some money, however little, regularly, as soon as my financial situation got better.

I went to see him one Saturday in February. Most of the day it was drizzling with rain that hurried along the spring. The bus from Chŏnan to Pyŏngch’ŏn via Susim was jam-packed with a market-day crowd. It was not until it stopped at a place called Salti, where a lot of them got off that I managed to find a seat to sit in the back. Even though I was sure we were not far from Susim, I wasn't quite sure whether the bus would stop there. I looked around and asked a man sitting opposite.

‘Could you tell me whether the bus stops at the entrance to Susim?’

‘Yes, lady,’ he said as he closely examined my face. He was wearing shapeless, shabby clothes and his face was tanned to copper-brown. Deep lines on his forehead reminded me of the furrows of a winter field.

‘Who are you going to see there?’

‘Mr Hijun Yun. Do you know him?’

He nodded as he said, ‘Yes, m’am.’ Then he closed his mouth and sat expressionless.

‘He is my great-uncle,’ I added but all I got out of him was a meek ‘Yes, m’am.’