It was early morning when the sea fog, carrying the scent of the ocean, seeped through the gutters and into Bamjae Village. The damp mist soaked the leaves of the Seonang Bamboo Grove and swirled around the thick branches of the old zelkova tree. A heavy, damp, and fishy smell of the mudflats hung over the dawn path, where few people yet treaded.

Only the faint sound of a rooster in the coop shaking its neck in its sleep could be heard; the village was in a deep slumber. The oil lamps that had been lit all night were being extinguished one by one, and in the dimming dawn, the rooflines of the thatched houses slowly revealed their shapes.

Bamjae Village was located the furthest inland among the various villages of Haewon-hyeon. To the west lay the vast reed fields, to the north the ridges of Mt. Hwangmang surrounded the village like a screen, and over the Samtae Pass to the east lay the road to the town center where the market was held. It was a small village of about thirty-five households, but with a good balance of rice paddies and fields, starving homes were rare unless it was a year of famine.

This winter was exceptionally long. Snow had been frequent since the beginning of the twelfth lunar month, and around the New Year, the river froze solid, stopping the boats at Gaekmang Ferry for five days. When the ferry stops, the market closes, and when the market closes, the supply of salt and salted fish is cut off, leaving the fatigue of winter deeply etched on the faces of the villagers.

Just as a woman at the well was about to turn away with a water jar on her head, a coughing sound was heard from an alley inside the village. It was from the direction of the village head Park No-gyeong's house. Soon after, the sound of a gate opening and Park No-gyeong's thick voice cut through the dawn air.

As he called for the servant Jangsoe, a neighbor's dog barked once, and the sound spread toward the Seonang Bamboo Grove at the edge of the village. Following the back path of the village to the edge of the bamboo grove, a small hut could be seen through the bamboo. The roof was thatched, but one side had collapsed, barely keeping out the rain, and the entrance, which didn't even have a proper door but only a straw mat hanging, let the cold wind blow straight in. The villagers did not bother to visit this hut.

This was because the joke that they didn't know if the inhabitant was a person or a ghost was half-serious. There was no sign of movement inside the hut yet. However, in a small porcelain bowl placed in front of the mat, cold rice—likely left by someone last night—had hardened stiffly from the frost.

Gilcheon was inside the hut, eyes closed, curled up on a bed made of straw. He rose, stepped onto the creaking wooden floor, and went down to the yard. After washing his face roughly with cold water in the kitchen, he picked up a piece of hard barley cake from the shelf—hardly a breakfast—and walked out, chewing slowly.

On the village road, people carrying goods to sell at the market were already appearing one by one. The sound of their busy footsteps and murmuring voices mixed together as the morning in Haewon-hyeon began in earnest. Turning his back on all the commotion, Gilcheon looked indifferently toward the road leading to Samtae Pass.