Ajumma's Corner(보성군, Korea – Since Always)

In a small village near Boseong, green tea fields covered the hills, and the air always smelled like damp earth.There was an old woman who opened her small snack stand every morning just outside the village school.

Everyone knew her simply as Ajumma.
Nobody knew her real name anymore.
Not the students, not the teachers, not even the shopkeepers who passed her every day.

She was simply Ajumma—a warm, wrinkled woman with soft eyes and a tired smile.

She wore the same pink apron every morning, and she always smelled like broth, sesame oil, and pepper flakes.

Her stand was simple—just a wooden cart with a faded blue tarp and a few small stools.
But the food was always warm. Always ready.
Egg rolls. Fish cakes in hot broth. Tteokbokki in sweet-spicy sauce.

She sold everything for just a few coins.
Sometimes, when a child didn’t have money, she would hand them a warm snack anyway.

“Pay me next time,” she would say with a smile.
But she never asked again.

Ajumma had no family of her own. Her husband had passed years ago, and no children waiting for her at home.
She lived alone in a small wooden hut near the edge of the tea fields.

But in front of the school, surrounded by noise, footsteps, and laughter, she didn’t seem lonely.

She was gentle but firm. Kind, but never weak.
She remembered who liked their egg rolls extra crispy and who didn’t like spicy sauce.
She gave more than food—she gave comfort.

Among all the children, one boy stayed longer than the rest.

Sang Min.

He started coming when he was nine.
At first, it was the food. But soon, it was her.
He would linger after eating, talk about school, or just sit beside her in silence while she stirred the broth.

She reminded him of his grandmother—the one who used to rub his back when he had fevers and called him “my good boy.”

Sang Min watched as the years passed.

Ajumma grew slower.
Her hands trembled slightly. Her eyesight faded.
She often had to hold coins up close to see them clearly.

Fewer children came now.
A burger shop had opened by the main road. It had shiny lights and cold drinks.

Still, Ajumma came every morning.
Rain or shine.
Even on Sundays, when school was closed.

She sat behind the stall anyway—folding napkins, humming softly, staring out toward the tea fields waiving gently in the wind.

One Sunday, Sang Min passed by and saw her there—alone, unmoving, hands in her lap.

His heart ached.

That night, he asked his parents if they could help her.
“Bring her food… give her some money,” he pleaded.

His mother nodded.
The next day, they packed some fruit, warm rice, and a small envelope.
They walked to her little hut near the fields.

Ajumma opened the door with her usual smile.

But when they offered her the bag, she gently refused.

“I have enough,” she said, resting a hand on Sang Min’s arm.
“Don’t worry about me.”

Then she added, almost in a whisper,
“I’ve had many lives in this one lifetime.”

Sang Min didn’t understand what she meant.
Not then.
But he remembered those words for a long, long time.

When Sang Min turned nineteen, his military service letter arrived.

Two years away.
Away from Boseong.
Away from Ajumma.

The day before he left, he went to see her.

Her stall was quiet that morning.
She wasn’t cooking—just wiping the counter slowly, her hands more fragile than he remembered.

“I’m going away,” he said softly. “Two years. Training.”

Ajumma looked up and smiled, though her eyes looked tired.

“Ah… my little soldier,” she said.
“You’ll come back taller. Maybe I won’t even recognize you.”

He smiled, trying not to show the lump in his throat.

“What should I bring you from the big city?”

She paused, then said,
“Hmm… maybe a photo of yourself. In uniform. So I can show off to the other ajummas.”

She laughed, but her eyes stayed on him a little longer.
It was the first time Sang Min saw something else in her eyes—something quiet and unspoken.

He promised to write.

Training was hard.
The days were long. The nights were cold.
At first, Sang Min missed home terribly—his mother’s food, the hills, and the smell of the tea fields after rain.

And he missed Ajumma.

But as time passed, his routine became heavier,and busier.
He wrote once. Maybe twice.
Then, slowly, life pushed those memories into a quiet corner of his heart.

Two years later, Sang Min fianlly returned.

That night, his mother made egg rolls. As he took a bite, he suddenly froze.

The taste brought something back.
Something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

He stood up abruptly, still chewing.

“I need to go see Ajumma,” he said.

He grabbed his coat and ran through the village, past the school, toward the familiar curve of the hill.

The wind blew through the tea fields as he approached her hut.

But something was different.

Her hut was smaller than he remembered.
The roof had partly caved in. The door stood open. The windows were dark.

No smell of broth. No soft humming.
No Ajumma.

He knocked on a neighbour’s door.

An older woman stepped out and looked at him gently.

“She passed away,” she said quietly. “Peacefully. A few months ago.”

Sang Min didn’t speak.
He turned and walked slowly back to the hut.
He sat on the steps. The wooden frame creaked softly beneath him.

The wind from the fields brushed his face.
He closed his eyes.
And he cried.

Not loudly. Not in anger.
Just the kind of tears that come when something once steady and good is finally, truly gone.

Weeks passed.
But something inside Sang Min couldn’t settle.

He walked the village roads. Sat by the tea fields. Ate meals with his family.
But a part of him still felt unfinished—like he had forgotten to say thank you properly.

One morning, he passed by the empty spot near the school.
The place where Ajumma’s stand used to be.
It looked bare, as if something important was missing.

That’s when he knew what he had to do.

He searched through old storage sheds until he found a wooden cart—weathered, dusty, and worn.

He cleaned it carefully.
Repainted it with quiet care.

Then he placed it right where Ajumma’s stand had once stood.

And then, he cooked.

Egg rolls. Tteokbokki. Fish cakes in hot broth.
The same simple foods. He didn’t try to change anything. He wanted it to feel just like it used to.

He did his best to cook like Ajumma used to, but deep down, he knew it could never be the same.

Finally, he made a sign from a piece of old wood.
He painted it by hand, using the neatest letters he could manage.

When he was done, he gently hung it above the stall:

AJUMMA’S CORNER

보성군 – Since Always

A little girl pointed at it.

“Ajusshi, who’s Ajumma?”

Sang Min smiled.

“She was someone who fed us.
Not just food.
But love.”