Autumn in Daegu unfurled like an oil painting: the ginkgo trees lining Dongseongno glowed in molten gold, their leaves drifting slowly onto the ancient stone sidewalks. The city’s venerable pulse beat between modern high-rises and traditional hanok rooftops, a tapestry woven of past and present. It was here, beneath the sweeping silhouette of Apsan Mountain, that Ha-neul first encountered Min-joon.
Ha-neul was twenty-eight, a doctoral candidate in East Asian philosophy at Kyungpook National University. With her soft-spoken wisdom and quiet confidence, she moved through Daegu’s bustling markets—Seomun Market’s labyrinth of stalls, the fragrance of hotteok and kimchi jeon heavy in the cool air—with an almost meditative grace. She wore a simple chima jeogori in deep indigo, the skirt flaring around her ankles, and in her satchel lay a well-loved copy of Zhuangzi, its pages yellowed but cherished.
Min-joon was twenty-nine, a rising chef at a Michelin-starred restaurant perched on the eighth floor of Shinsegae Centum City. He had grown up in Chilgok, the child of farmers who tended the terraced rice paddies that spilled down the slopes of Palgong Mountain. His hands bore the faint scars of work in the fields—calloused fingertips that now kneaded dough into exquisitely delicate mandu wrappers. His laugh was bold, his eyes alive with curiosity.
On that crisp November afternoon, both found themselves drawn, as if by fate, to the Duryu Park Irish-themed café “Four Provinces,” celebrated for its fusion of Celtic folk songs and Korean herbal tisanes. Ha-neul had come to meet her advisor; Min-joon to finalize a collaboration with a local distillery experimenting with persimmon-infused soju. A stray gust sent a swirl of amber leaves through the open door, and Min-joon’s gaze followed them—straight to Ha-neul, seated alone by the window, eyes closed, savoring the scent of mugwort tea.
Their collision was gentle. Min-joon, rising from his seat, tripped on the wooden leg of Ha-neul’s chair. His napkin billowed like a fallen sparrow; tea sloshed. He reached out instinctively, steadying his movement—and in that moment, their eyes met.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, cheeks burning. “I didn’t see you.”
Ha-neul opened her eyes. She studied him calmly—the deep curve of his brow, the dark fleck in his pupils that spoke of kindness. Without a trace of irritation, she smiled. “It’s alright,” she said, voice soft yet resonant. “Autumn winds have a way of sweeping us off course.”
He bowed in apology, retrieved the napkin, and wiped the droplets from her table. Their hands brushed. A tiny spark, like the first ember of coals hidden beneath ashes, flared between them. Behind him, the café’s speakers played an Irish ballad; around them, the chatter of students and the clink of teacups created a gentle hum. In that mingled soundscape, time slowed.
Min-joon stood uncertain. “May I—?” he began, gesturing to the empty chair across from her.
Ha-neul cocked her head, as though reading a quiet invitation in his tone. “Please,” she said, and gestured to the seat.
He sat, smoothing the front of his denim jacket. The air between them hummed with unspoken questions. She picked up her teacup; he picked up his notes. Neither spoke for a heartbeat. Then she nodded toward his papers. “Planning something special with persimmons, I see,” she observed.
He blinked, surprised by her notice. “Yes,” he admitted. “A limited-edition persimmon soju, inspired by the fruit orchards around Chilgok-gun. It’s part of a tradition stretching back to the Silla Dynasty, when Daegu’s valleys were celebrated for their sweet persimmons.”
She grinned, delighted. “You’ve done your research.” She set her cup down and leaned forward. “Tell me more.”
Over the next hour, they spoke of ancient kings and modern gastronomy. Ha-neul wove stories of Queen Seondeok’s secret gardens on the slopes of Palgong Mountain; Min-joon described the chemical alchemy of fermenting fruit. Their voices blended—hers calm and lyrical, his warm and earnest—until the afternoon sun dipped below the café’s stained-glass windows, and the barista announced closing time.
They parted with promises unspoken, the world between them charged with possibility. Ha-neul walked along the banks of the Sincheon Stream, leaves crunching like secrets underfoot. Min-joon retraced his steps to Duryu-dong Station, heart pounding as he checked the time on his watch: 5:52 PM. The date—November 17—glowed in neon on the platform’s digital board, marking the moment their worlds had intersected.
In the days that followed, Daegu shimmered with the magic of approaching winter. The Daegu International Fireworks Festival on the banks of the Geumho River had just concluded, leaving in its wake embers of firework ash and the echo of oohs and ahhs. At Kyungpook National University’s library, Ha-neul thumbed through manuscripts on Daoist ethics, her mind drifting to the café where she had met Min-joon.
He, meanwhile, labored in the kitchen at Gaon, coaxing sugar into caramel for his next persimmon taffy accompaniment. His coworkers teased him: “Again with the young scholar?” they laughed. But Min-joon only smiled, recalling Ha-neul’s bright gaze. In his world of spices and fermentation, she was a rare ingredient—a cool draught amid boiling broth.
Fate wove its tapestry subtly. One morning, Ha-neul’s advisor asked her to accompany him to the Seomun Market to collect rare hanji paper for an upcoming conference on East Asian calligraphy. As they browsed the warren of narrow aisles, Ha-neul paused at a vendor’s stall laden with fresh oysters—a speciality shipped from the southwestern coast. She asked the vendor, in a soft voice, about the morning tide.
“Shall we try one?” her advisor suggested. Ha-neul nodded. As the vendor shucked the first oyster, Ha-neul brought it to her lips—and exactly at that moment, Min-joon appeared, carrying a basket of persimmons destined for the same market. Their eyes locked across the lantern-lit corridor, bright as votive candles in a temple. Ha-neul felt her insides tremble.
“Don’t they say oysters bring clarity?” her advisor murmured, noting Ha-neul’s blush.
Min-joon approached, cheeks warmed by both the morning chill and recognition. “Ha-neul-ssi,” he greeted, bowing gently. “I hoped I’d see you again.”
She smiled, savoring the moment like the oyster’s brine. “Min-joon-ssi,” she replied, “the city is generous in its surprises.”
He held out a perfectly plump persimmon, its skin luminous in the market’s morning light. “For you.”
She accepted it, her fingers brushing his. A ripple passed between them. “Thank you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “May I taste it here?”
He nodded and watched her bite into the fruit. The sweetness was crystalline, the flesh tender. “It’s from the orchards up near Donghwasa,” he explained, “where the altitude and sun exposure coax that deep orange hue.”
Ha-neul closed her eyes, letting the flavor bloom. “It’s extraordinary,” she breathed.
Min-joon glanced around the crowded market. “Would you walk with me? There’s a tea house I love near Daedong Cathedral. They serve tsingtao with mugwort cookies. I thought—”
Ha-neul inclined her head. “I’d like that.”
They strolled along the Cheongnaeco Trail, the cathedral’s neo-Gothic spires rising against the clear sky. With each step, their conversations deepened: he confessed his fears of failure, his determination to honor his family’s legacy; she spoke of the burden of expectations, the solace she found in ancient texts. They spoke of the Suseong Lake’s mirror-like surface and the legend of the two swans that, once a century, emerged to dance at twilight—an omen of enduring love.
As the sun dipped low, they reached the tea house, its courtyard perfumed by steaming cups of tieguanyin and the faint smoke of burning incense. Under the wooden lattice, Min-joon poured tea while Ha-neul arranged the mugwort cookies on porcelain plates. They sipped and nibbled in companionable silence, the world narrowing to the space between them. Outside, the mosque’s call to prayer wove briefly with the dinner-hour din of Daegu Jungangno; inside, their hearts hammered with a shared rhythm.
It was there, amid the scent of tea and the hush of evening, that Min-joon brushed a loose strand of hair from Ha-neul’s face. His fingers lingered against her temple, warm and steady. She opened her eyes, and time folded in on itself. For an instant, Daegu ceased to exist—only he and she existed, two souls drawn together by threads older than memory.
But even as that moment stretched toward eternity, the world intruded. A group of businessmen burst in, breaking through the door with boisterous laughter. The spell shattered. Ha-neul and Min-joon shared a laugh—nervous, tender—and he offered his arm. Together, they walked back into the bustle of Daegu’s streets, feeling, for the first time, that their bond might endure beyond the glowing leaves and whispered secrets of autumn.
Winter’s breath swept through Daegu, frosting the windows of Min-joon’s restaurant and icing over the pine needles on Apsan’s slopes. Snow fell—rarely, but spectacularly—blanketing the city in silence. It was during the preparatory weeks for the Dalmaji Snow Festival, with its ornate ice sculptures lining the banks of the Sincheon Stream, that their fragile happiness faced its first storm.
Ha-neul received an offer: a year‑long research fellowship at Kyoto University’s Department of Comparative Philosophy. It was the culmination of her academic dreams—study under Yoshida Sensei, access to rare manuscripts hidden in Nara’s temples. The opportunity shimmered like moonlight on the Geumho’s river. But the choice carved open her heart: leave Daegu, leave Min-joon, pursue the path she had worked for since childhood.
She wrestled with her decision amid the quiet corridors of her apartment near Banwoldang Station. The walls were lined with maps of ancient Goryeo capitals and calligraphy scrolls, the air thick with the scent of incense from her morning joss sticks. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Min-joon’s face—the curve of his smile as he taught her the precise art of making tteok, the way his whiskers dusted powdered sugar on persimmon tarts.
At Gaon, Min-joon felt the shift before she spoke of Kyoto. She sensed Ha-neul’s distraction in her messages—shorter answers, pauses between visits. He tried to carry on, perfecting a new menu centered on omija berries and chrysanthemum petals, but in the quiet hours after closing, loneliness crept in like ice under doors.
They met one evening at the foot of Apsan’s mountain trail, beneath the ancient Duryu Fortress walls laced with snow. Ha-neul’s cheeks were flushed by the cold; Min-joon wore a simple wool coat and a knitted scarf she had once chosen for him in Dongseongno. He offered her a thermos of persimmon punch—“gamju,” he called it—hoping warmth might thaw the distance between them.
She accepted the cup, hands trembling. They sat together on a stone bench overlooking the city’s lights, flickering like lanterns across the valley. The metropolis of Daegu, aglow against the night, felt at once vast and fragile. Below, the Sincheon’s waters sluiced silently, carrying dreams downstream.
Ha-neul drew a steady breath. “Min-joon-ssi,” she began, voice wavering, “an opportunity has come—a fellowship in Kyoto. A year of study. It… it feels like destiny.”
He stared into his cup, swirling the deep amber liquid. “I know,” he said softly. “I see it in your eyes.”
She turned to him. “I want to go. I’ve worked for this for years.” Tears welled. “But I don’t want to lose you.”
Min-joon looked at her, the lantern light dancing in his pupils. He placed a hand over hers, steadying her. “Go,” he whispered. “Follow your path. You are meant for greatness, Ha-neul. And you have taught me to dream beyond these mountains and markets.”
Her tears spilled over. “But what of us? What of Daegu, of our memories in Seomun Market and that first tea at Four Provinces?”
He brushed a tear from her cheek. “Our memories are ours forever. No distance can erase them. When spring returns to Daegu—when the cherry blossoms bloom in Palgong Park—I will be here, waiting.”
She clung to him, the promise echoing in the crisp night air. Their kiss, soft and desperate, tasted of gamju and fresh snow. In that moment, they forged a vow: love that transcends borders, carried on every leaf that falls in Daegu, every petal that drifts over the Sincheon’s waters.
Winter yielded at last to spring. Ha-neul journeyed to Kyoto in early March, the plum blossoms of Daegu replaced by sakura petals drifting down the Philosopher’s Path. In Kyoto, she immersed herself in scrolls older than the Goryeo Dynasty, studied alongside pilgrims at Kiyomizu-dera, and found solace in rituals of tea and calligraphy. Yet every dawn, her thoughts flew home—to the gilded canopy of Daegu’s gingko lines, to the hearty laughter echoing through Gaon’s kitchen.
Min-joon remained in Daegu, transforming his menu with bold seasonal creations: mashed sweet potato dumplings filled with chocolatey black sesame paste, buckwheat noodles tossed in spicy gochujang vinaigrette. Each dish carried a whisper of Ha‑neul’s wisdom—her reflections on impermanence, her appreciation of simple beauty. Journalists hailed him as “Daegu’s rising culinary poet,” and locals flocked to taste his art. But his greatest joy was the letter she sent every week, sealed with a pressed chrysanthemum petal.
Months passed. Cherry blossoms bloomed along the Sincheon, petals carpeting the riverbanks in pale pink. Tulips bloomed at Suseong Lake Park; the Daegu International Opera Festival filled the air with arias. Still, Min-joon counted the days. On April 15, exactly five months after their winter farewell, he boarded a morning train bound for Busan, then a shinkansen crossing to Shin-Osaka, and finally a local line to Kyoto. With each mile, his heart pounded like the drums of Daegu’s traditional Nongak.
He arrived at Yoshida Campus just as the sun set, painting her courtyard in gold. There, beneath the torii gates of Heian Shrine reflected in the water, stood Ha-neul—wearing a simple white hanbok she had carried with her. She turned, breath caught in her throat, as he approached.
The world fell silent around them. Cherry petals drifted through the twilight air. He knelt on one knee, as if at the hearth of his family’s farmhouse, and took her hands in his. “Ha-neul,” he said, voice trembling, “you crossed mountains and seas to follow your dream—and I crossed to follow my heart. Will you return to Daegu with me? Will you build a life on the banks of the Sincheon, beneath the golden gingko canopy, blending your wisdom with my craft?”
Tears glistened in her eyes, mirroring the lanterns’ glow. “Yes,” she whispered. “Home is where love guides us.”
They embraced beneath falling petals, two souls reunited beneath the silent witness of Kyoto’s pagodas. Their love, tested by seasons and distance, had grown only stronger—rooted in the philosophy of impermanence and renewal. Together, they would return to Daegu, to Palgong’s ridges and Apsan’s trails, building a life infused with the ancient wisdom Ha-neul treasured and the artistry Min-joon perfected.
And so, as dawn broke over Daegu’s skyline—over the modern spires and the centuries‑old fortress walls—they began their new chapter. In the heart of Daegu, in South Korea, their story became legend: two kindred spirits, bound by wisdom and passion, teaching all who followed that true love, like the seasons, endures beyond time and distance. Even long after the last leaf has fallen and the final petal drifted down the Sincheon Stream, their promise would remain—etched into the city’s soul, whispered by every breeze that pulses through Daegu’s golden streets.
When Ha‑neul and Min‑joon stepped off the train at Dongdaegu Station, the late‑afternoon sky was stained with rose and lavender, as if Daegu itself blushed at their return. Outside, the familiar pulse of the city greeted them—the rumble of a subway beneath the pavement, neon signs flickering above street stalls selling tteokbokki and Mandu, and the distant laughter of children playing amid ginkgo leaves drifting from the boulevard trees.
They shared a silent look, hands interlaced, each aware of the new life they were about to build—one that would fuse her scholarly discipline with his culinary artistry. In her mind danced the lessons of Zhuangzi’s butterfly dream; in his, the alchemy of fermenting kimchi in yellow earthenware jars sourced from Chilgok’s clay pits. Together, they would root themselves anew in Daegu, South Korea’s city of warm winds and storied hills.
Their first stop was Apsan-dong, near the cable-car station at the base of Apsan Mountain. Here, a hanok‑style guesthouse was awaiting them—a modest courtyard home with ochre walls and exposed timber beams. The proprietress, Mrs. Lee, greeted them with a boisterous “어서 오세요!” and pressed into their hands steaming bowls of sujebi (hand‑torn dough soup) flavored with radish greens.
Over lunch, Ha‑neul and Min‑joon mapped out their days. Mornings would find Ha‑neul teaching calligraphy and classical Chinese poetry at a local cultural center beneath Seomun Market’s lanterned eaves. Afternoons she would research at the Daegu Metropolitan Library, poring over scrolls about Confucian academies on the slopes of Palgong Mountain. Evenings, Min‑joon would bring home fragrant banchan—pickled cucumber seasoned with mustard greens, silky gosari-jeon (bracken fern pancake)—while Ha‑neul shared revelations from her studies.
On weekends, they wandered to Suseong Lake Park. Under the blossoming cherry trees—delicate petals drifting like confetti—they spoke of their future. Ha‑neul sketched floorplans for a small teahouse-gallery, where scholars could debate ancient texts beside walls hung with her calligraphy. Min‑joon envisioned opening a workshop next door: a low‑slung kitchen counter where he would teach the art of munbae‑ju (Korean pear wine) and jeonggwa (candied fruit) to curious tourists and students.
Each plan they formed felt like a seed planted in Daegu’s fertile soil, destined to flourish beneath the city’s golden canopy.
Seomun Market, Daegu’s historic “western gate” marketplace, became the stage for their shared labors. Here, Min‑joon rented a small stall under red lanterns marked “만두 명인” (“Master Dumpling”). He crafted mandu filled with black sesame tofu and mushrooms for vegetarians, sweet pumpkin and glutinous rice for children, and spiced kimchi‑pork for late‑night revelers. Next to him, Ha‑neul sold handmade hanji bookmarks stamped with her brush‑strokes of Chinese characters—「知足」(“knowing contentment”), 「無為」(“effortless action”), and 「齊物」(“equanimity of things”).
Their stall drew a steady stream of visitors: local office workers craving a light supper; families seeking fresh bindaetteok; university students looking for warm jasmine tea. Often, a curious traveler from Busan or Gyeongju would ask, “What is this ‘wisdom dumpling’?” and Ha‑neul would explain Zhuangzi’s butterfly parable, while Min‑joon demonstrated the delicate pleats of his dumpling wrappers.
Under the lantern light, the crowd pressed in, and the aroma of frying batter and steaming broth wrapped around the couple like a blessing. After closing, they lingered at a corner table—an old rice barrel pinned with a single bare bulb—and sipped boozy sweet makgeolli. They toasted to their partnership: scholar and chef, philosopher and artisan, two halves of a whole.
Spring in Daegu surged toward summer with a crescendo of festivals. At the Daegu Chimac (Chicken and Beer) Festival along the riverside, Min‑joon debuted his new creation—munbae‑ju–soaked chicken wings crusted in toasted sesame seeds—while Ha‑neul choreographed an impromptu fan dance with local university dancers outside Dongseongno’s pedestrian mall. Their performances—one culinary, one cultural—earned them praise in the local press and smiles from patrons spanning every generation.
In June, the Dalseong-gun Green Tea Festival called them to the terraced fields near Palgongsan. There, amongst the emerald rows, Ha‑neul delivered a lecture on the Taoist significance of tea—how the Dao flows like water between cup and lip—while Min‑joon set up a mobile kitchen, frying gongcha‑tea‑infused churros and steeping first‑flush leaves for flask‑drunk tea. The stately Buddhist temples of Donghwasa provided a serene backdrop; the monks paused their incense ceremonies to bless the harvest and sample the tea churros with quiet smiles.
When night fell, Daegu’s night-sky ignited with fireworks over the Geumho River—a riot of color mirrored in the water below. Wrapped in each other’s arms on a grassy embankment, they watched the rockets bloom overhead, sharing a single rice cracker topped with honeycomb toffee. In that luminous moment, the distance of Kyoto felt unimaginable; their journey—across mountains, plum groves, and ancient bridges—had led them home.
Yet even paradise held shadows. In midsummer’s sultry heat, Ha‑neul’s teaching load at the cultural center doubled: calligraphy classes in the morning, philosophical seminars in the afternoon, private tutoring at night. The demands left her exhausted; she skipped meals, fell asleep mid‑translation, and brushed aside Min‑joon’s worry. He, too, wrestled with pressure as his Michelin inspection loomed for Gaon’s pop‑up in Dongdaegu’s new food hall. Sleepless nights in the kitchen left him irritable.
One evening, tension crackled between them. Ha‑neul arrived home late, papers clutched in hand; Min‑joon slammed the door behind him, defeated.
“Do you ever rest?” he asked, voice raw. “You push yourself as if you want to vanish in ink and parchment!”
Her eyes burned. “And you? You treat our love like another recipe to perfect. When do you allow yourself to fail?”
Silence hovered, heavy as monsoon air. Beneath Daegu’s neon glow outside their window, they paced the room like duelists. Finally, Ha‑neul raised her trembling hand.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I forgot that wisdom is not knowledge alone, but compassion. I forgot for whom I work so hard.”
Min‑joon’s shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, too. I forgot that in seeking perfection, I risked losing what mattered most.”
They embraced, tears and sweat mingling in the thick night. Outside, a stray dog barked beneath a streetlamp. In small gestures—washing each other’s faces with cool water, pressing a consoling forehead kiss—they restored their connection, vowing to honor both their dreams and the delicate heart they shared.
By the time Daegu’s autumn returned, the couple’s bond felt unbreakable. Ha‑neul published her first essay in the Journal of East Asian Thought, her article on “Resonance in the Daoist Imaginary,” earning accolades from Kyoto’s Philosophy Society. Min‑joon earned his Michelin star at Gaon’s pop‑up, the inspector praising his “profound understanding of regional terroir” and “hauntingly beautiful plating.”
To celebrate, they arranged an intimate dinner party atop the 83 Tower’s Skygarden, overlooking the city’s ginkgo‑lined streets awash in gold. Ha‑neul dressed in white hanbok embroidered with chrysanthemum blossoms; Min‑joon wore a simple suit, a single yellow ginkgo leaf pinned to his lapel. Guests included Mrs. Lee of the hanok guesthouse, their mentor Professor Kim from Kyungpook National University, and fellow artisans from Seomun Market.
The menu traced their shared journey:
- Chrysanthemum-Infused Banchan Platter—a nod to Palgong’s temple gardens.
- Persimmon Gazpacho with Night-Blooming Jasmine—honoring the Chilgok orchards and the Four Provinces café.
- Jurchen-Inspired Millet Rice Cakes—recalling Daegu’s medieval role as a trading post.
- Ginkgo Nut Paella—a fusion of Mediterranean technique and Daegu’s golden legacy.
- Sweet Rice Spheres with Korean Pear Wine Sorbet—a final benediction to their munbae‑ju experiments.
Each course was paired with Ha‑neul’s calligraphic table cards, inscribed with quotations from the Daodejing: “大器晩成” (“Great work matures late”), “和光同塵” (“Harmonize your light with the dust of the world”), and “天網恢恢” (“Heaven’s net is wide and yet fails not”). Under the canopy of evening stars—above the flicker of Skygarden lanterns—they shared a toast:
“To Daegu,” Ha‑neul declared, her voice steady. “City of wisdom, warmth, and endless return.”
“To love,” Min‑joon added, “the truest alchemy.”
As the last embers of their feast glowed, the guests rose in applause. Beyond the glass walls, Daegu’s skyline stretched to the horizon: the silhouette of Apsan Mountain, the lacework tracery of Palgongsan ridges, the soft gleam of the Sincheon Stream weaving through the city. In that moment, past and future converged—Silla kings and modern dreamers, silent temples and humming markets, the whispered wisdom of ancient texts and the joyful clamor of a thousand dumpling presses.
And so their story continued, chapter by chapter, beneath Daegu’s golden leaves—an ever‑unfolding testament to the power of shared dreams, quiet strength, and the unyielding promise of home.
For more information check these posts:
- Must Visit Place to Enjoy Autumn in South Korea (Part I)
- Autumn in Seoul, 2023 – 3 Spots to Catch the Fall Foliage
- Ginkgo Tree Roads in Korea | 14 Awe‑Inspiring Places to See Golden Ginkgo Leaves in Fall
- Travel Portfolio # 1: The Best of Autumn in South Korea
- The warm colours of autumn in Korea
- 4 Best‑Kept Secret Places to See Autumn Foliage in Korea
- The Vibrant World of Seomun Market: A Supermarket Shopper’s Adventure
- South Korea: Apsan Mountain
- Palgongsan (팔공산)
- Mugwort Tea (Puripan Tea Garden)
- Korean Soju Is Made for Infusing
- Food For Thought: Persimmon: a harbinger for a Korean Fall
- Fermented Plums, Pine Needles, and Mugwort: Innovative Korean Teas
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