The Taste of Red Bean And Snow

The Writer and the Woman Who Sold Winter’s Warmth
The first snowfall of December coated the streets of Seoul in white, the wind biting through coats and scarves, turning breaths into curling mist. The city bustled on, indifferent to the cold.

But on a small street corner, where the scent of bungeoppang filled the air with warmth, stood Yongsun.

She had worked this stall for years, her hands memorizing every motion: pour the batter, fill it with red bean, press the mold, flip, and serve. It had become second nature, like breathing. But unlike breathing, it exhausted her.

This wasn’t what she had wanted.

As a child, she had dreamed of being a pastry chef, of decorating cakes with delicate sugar flowers, of crafting desserts that looked like they belonged in the glass cases of fancy patisseries. But her family never had the money for culinary school. Instead, she ended up here, selling fish-shaped street cakes for loose change.

And yet, every night, there was one thing that made her days a little brighter.

"Two, please," came the familiar voice, warm even in the cold.

She didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

Jess.

He had been coming to her stall for as long as she could remember. Never in a rush, never distracted by a phone or impatient glances. He was a writer, always carrying a book under his arm, always watching the world with quiet fascination.

She handed him the cakes, their warmth seeping through the parchment paper. He smiled, as he always did. "You make the best bungeoppang in Seoul."

Yongsun rolled her eyes. "They’re the same as every other stall."

"No," he said, taking a bite. "Yours taste different. Better."

She scoffed. "You always say that."

He shrugged, his grin easy. "Because it’s true."

It wasn’t. But she liked hearing it anyway.

The Boy Who Never Forgot
One night, as they stood in the gentle hum of the city, Jess broke the usual pattern. Instead of walking away after getting his cakes, he lingered.

"You never asked why I keep coming here," he said.

Yongsun raised an eyebrow. "I figured you just like bungeoppang."

"I do," he admitted. "But it’s more than that."

He hesitated, then reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a folded magazine. He handed it to her, and when she opened it, her breath hitched.

It was an article—one of his own, from a well-known literary magazine.

And there, in bold letters, was the title:

Winter’s Warmth—The Woman Who Sells Happiness.

She scanned the paragraphs, her heart hammering. It was about her. About how she stood in the cold every day, feeding the city. About how the smallest things—like a hot cake on a winter evening—could mean everything to someone.

Tears stung her eyes. "You wrote this?"

He nodded. "Because you deserve to be seen."

She swallowed. "Why do you care so much?"

He looked at her then, truly looked at her, and the sincerity in his gaze made her chest ache.

"Because I remember."

A memory stirred—faint but familiar. A boy, younger, skinnier, with a patched-up coat and hungry eyes. A boy who had no money but always lingered near the stall, pretending he wasn’t staring at the food.

She had fed him. Without thinking, without question. She had given him warmth when he had none.

And now, years later, here he was. No longer the poor boy in tattered clothes, but a man who had made something of himself. A man who had never forgotten her kindness.

"You always fed me," he murmured. "Even when you didn’t have much yourself."

Her throat tightened. "I didn’t think you’d remember."

"I never forgot."

The Storm That Almost Broke Her
But fate wasn’t always kind.

A week later, the city was struck by a brutal snowstorm. The winds howled, the streets emptied. Yongsun stood alone at her stall, braving the cold, because she had no choice.

Then, disaster struck.

A car sped past, its tires skidding on ice. A wave of slush and dirty snow crashed into her stall, soaking everything. The roof sagged, the griddle hissed as ice water splashed onto it. The food was ruined.

Yongsun stood there, frozen, watching everything she had built collapse in an instant.

She clenched her fists, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

She couldn’t do this anymore.

Just as she was about to walk away, a voice called out.

"Yongsun!"

Jess.

He ran toward her, his scarf pulled up to his chin, his hair dusted with snow. He stopped short, eyes widening at the wreckage.

Her voice shook. "I give up."

He was quiet for a moment. Then, he stepped forward, knelt, and picked up a fallen bag of flour.

"Then let me help."

She stared at him. "Why?"

"Because I believe in you."

Something in her cracked.

And together, they fixed it.

Jess held the tarp while she secured it. He cleaned the griddle, warmed her frozen fingers in his hands, and when everything was back in place, he smiled.

"You’re stronger than you think," he told her.

And for the first time, she believed it.

A Mother’s Blessing
Later that night, when Yongsun returned home, her mother was waiting for her.

"You should go to dinner with him," her mother said, her voice calm but firm.

Yongsun nearly dropped her coat. "What?"

Her mother smiled knowingly. "Jess. He loves you."

Yongsun flushed. "Eomma, he does not—"

"He does," her mother said. "And you love him too."

Yongsun hesitated. She had never put a name to what she felt.

But maybe…

Maybe she did love him.

Her mother reached over, squeezing her hand. "Our family has a tradition, Yongsun. We believe that a name should be spoken with love by the person who cherishes it the most."

Her mother’s voice softened. "And when he says your name, he makes it sound like the most beautiful thing in the world."

Yongsun’s chest tightened.

And that night, when Jess came by, she found herself staring at him a little longer.

Dreams, Finally Reached
Months passed, and with Jess’s encouragement, Yongsun took a chance.

She entered a baking competition, pouring her heart into her desserts. And when the results were announced, she stood there, trembling, as her name was called.

She had won.

She was given a scholarship to a pastry school. And just like that, the dream she had long buried came back to life.

One year later, as winter returned, she opened the doors to her very own bakery.

Jess was her first customer.

"You know," he said, looking at the menu, "I was afraid you’d forget about bungeoppang."

She grinned. "How could I?"

And there it was, in bold lettering:

"Bungeoppang—Winter’s Warmth."

Snow fell outside, dusting the streets in white.

Jess set down his bungeoppang, reached for her hand, and for the first time, she didn’t pull away.

"You always saw me," he had once told her.

And now, she saw herself.

She leaned in, pressing a kiss to his lips, soft and warm despite the cold.

And in the middle of winter, they found something that had nothing to do with the season.

They found love.