MY MOTHER WAS squatting in the kitchen, her chin pressed to her neck, arms plunged into a bucket. She was mixing fish liver, leeks, and sweet potato noodles to make the stuffing for the squid. Her soondae were known to be the best in Sokcho.

“Watch me work the mixture. See how I spread the stuffing evenly.”

I wasn’t really listening. Liquid was spurting out from the bucket, pooling around our boots and running toward the drain in the middle of the room. My mother lived at the port, above the loading bays, in one of the apartments reserved for fishmongers. Noisy. Cheap. My childhood home. I went to see her on Sunday evenings and stayed over until Monday, my day off. She’d been finding it difficult sleeping alone since I’d moved out.

Handing me a squid to stuff, she placed her liver-stained gloves on my hips and sighed:

“So young and pretty, and still not married …”

“Jun-oh has to find a job first. We’ve got plenty of time.”

“People always think they have time.”

“I’m only twenty-four.”

“Exactly.”

I promised her we’d get engaged officially, in a few months’ time. Reassured, my mother went back to her task.

That night, between the damp sheets, crushed by the weight of her head on my stomach, I felt her chest rising and falling as she slept. I’d gotten used to sleeping alone in the guest house. Her snoring kept me awake. I counted the drops of saliva leaking out one by one from her parted lips and onto my skin.

THE NEXT DAY I went for a walk on the beach that ran the length of the town. I loved this coastline, scarred as it was by the line of electrified barbed wire fencing along the shore. The border with North Korea was barely sixty kilometers away. A windblown figure stood out against the building works in the harbor. The name in the passport flashed through my mind. Yan Kerrand, walking toward me. A dog sprang up from a pile of nets and began to follow him, sniffing at his trousers. One of the workers called the dog back. Kerrand stopped to stroke it, said something that sounded like “that’s okay,” but the man put the dog back on its lead, and Kerrand carried on walking toward me.

He drew level with me and I fell into step beside him. “This winter landscape is beautiful,” he shouted into the wind, taking in the beach with a sweep of the arm.

I wasn’t convinced he meant it, but I smiled anyway. Over at the landing jetty, the screech of metal could be heard from the cargo ships.

“Have you been working here long?”

“Since I left university.”

His hat slipped, caught in a gust of wind.

“Can you speak up?” he asked, pressing the hat down over his ears.