It was early morning, and the sea fog, brought in by the tide, seeped through the drainage ditches all the way to 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, humid, and fishy scent of the flats lay thick over the dawn road, where no one had yet ventured.

Only the faint sound of a rooster in its coop, shaking its neck in its sleep with its comb bristling, could be heard; the village was in a deep slumber. The oil lamps that had been lit all night were going out one by one, and the rooflines of the thatched houses gradually revealed themselves in the dimming dawn.

Bamjae Village was located the furthest inland among the various villages of Haewon-hyeon. To the west, reed fields stretched out wide; to the north, the ridges of Mt. Hwangmang surrounded the village like a cloak; and crossing the Samtae Pass to the east led to the town center where the market was held. It was a small village of about thirty-five households, but with balanced rice and dry fields, starving homes were rare unless it was a year of famine.

This winter had been 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, so the fatigue of winter was etched deeply into 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 the main gate opening was followed by Park No-gyeong's thick voice cutting through the dawn air.

As he called for the servant Jang-soe, 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 shack could be seen through the stalks. The roof was thatched, but one side had collapsed, barely keeping out the rain, and the entrance, draped with a straw mat instead of a proper door, allowed the cold wind to pass through freely. The villagers did not bother to visit this shack.

This was because the joke that they didn't know if the inhabitant was a human or a ghost was half-serious. There was no sign of life inside the shack yet. However, in a small porcelain bowl placed in front of the mat, cold rice that someone seemed to have brought last night had hardened stiffly from the frost.

Gilcheon was curled up with his eyes closed on a bed made of straw inside the shack. He stood up, stepped onto the creaking wooden floor, and went down to the yard. Going to the kitchen, he finished a rough wash with cold water, picked up a piece of hard barley cake from the shelf—hardly a breakfast—and came outside, chewing it 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 mingled as the morning of Haewon-hyeon began in earnest. Gilcheon turned his back on all the commotion and gazed blankly toward the road leading to Samtae Pass.