A Place at the Table

By the time Hyeon finished his shift, the world outside had already settled into a quiet hush. It was 10 PM, and the city lights cast long shadows on the pavement as he stepped out, his breath forming soft clouds in the cool night air.

He quickly changed back into his school uniform, its fabric slightly stiff from the day’s wear. Slinging his bag over one shoulder, he exited the building and headed toward the nearest bus stop. The streets were mostly empty, save for a few people hurrying home, the occasional honk of a distant car breaking the silence.

When the city bus arrived with a soft screech, Hyeon climbed aboard, scanned his transit card, and made his way to a window seat. He leaned his forehead gently against the cool glass, letting out a quiet sigh as the bus began to move.

Outside, the scenery passed in a blur of neon signs, dim streetlights, and silhouettes of people walking under the yellow glow. But Hyeon’s eyes didn’t really register any of it. His mind drifted—into memories that felt both distant and painfully near.

He thought of cold winter mornings when he was small. His grandmother would be waiting for him with a woolen scarf and gloves, carefully wrapping them around him before he left for school. She would smooth down his hair with her fingers, kiss his forehead, and pack a little something extra in his lunch—his favorite sweet rice cakes or warm soup in a thermos.

He remembered her voice—soft but full of authority—the way she always reminded him to wear two layers, or to take an umbrella, “just in case.” And the way she would stand at the gate, watching until he disappeared around the corner.

The memories rushed in like a quiet storm, and before he knew it, his vision blurred with tears. He wiped them away quickly, a little embarrassed even though no one was watching.

Suddenly, he noticed his stop was approaching. Panicking slightly, he pressed the stop button and hurried to the front.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured to the driver as he stepped off.

The driver gave a small nod without much reaction—another tired student running late, nothing unusual.

The walk home was short, but Hyeon took his time. The air was cold but refreshing, and the streets were nearly silent. He passed by shuttered shops, flickering streetlamps, and empty sidewalks, his footsteps the only sound keeping him company.

When he reached his building, he climbed the stairs slowly, each step echoing softly in the stairwell. Finally, he stood at his front door. He didn’t open it right away.

He stood there for a few seconds, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and slowly allowed a soft smile to touch his lips—the kind of smile that could hide a long day’s fatigue, just for her sake.

Then he turned the key and stepped inside.

Warmth immediately wrapped around him, both physical and emotional. The comforting smell of home—faint spices, cooked rice, and something sweet—greeted him. And there she was.

His grandmother, asleep at the kitchen table.

Her head rested on one arm, her glasses slid slightly down her nose. In front of her, the dinner table was neatly arranged—still warm, clearly kept ready for him.

Hyeon’s heart softened. He set down his bag quietly on the couch and tiptoed toward her.

“Grandma…” he whispered softly, gently touching her arm. “Grandma, I’m home.”

Her eyes blinked open slowly. When she saw his face, a warm, relieved smile spread across her own.

“You’re home, dear? Go wash your hands and face. I’ll get your dinner ready,” she said, her voice husky from sleep but full of love.

He looked at her with a gentle frown. “Grandma, you don’t need to wait for me every night. It’s so late. You should eat first.”

She reached up and patted his cheek; the wrinkles in her hand seemed deeper than he remembered. “And let you eat cold food all by yourself? Not a chance. Besides, I know you—you’d just go to bed without eating if I wasn’t watching.”

He smiled, feeling both guilty and grateful. “You worry too much.”

“Of course I do. That’s what grandmothers are for,” she said, nudging him playfully. “Now go. Wash up. I reheated everything just before you came.”

Obeying her like always, Hyeon went to the bathroom, washed up, and returned to find the food perfectly served—steamed rice, kimchi, a warm stew, and a small dessert she had made just for him.

They sat together and ate. As always, he told her everything about his day—how the school day was today, the funny thing that happened during his break, the little annoyances and small wins.

Even if nothing special happened, he always told her. It was their unspoken tradition. A way to make her feel involved in his life, to reassure her that he was doing okay, even if sometimes he wasn’t.

That night, after the dishes were cleared and lights were dimmed, Hyeon lay in bed feeling a quiet kind of happiness—a peace that came not from comfort, but from knowing that someone waited for him. That someone still held a place for him at the table. Still cared if he had eaten.

And in a world that sometimes felt too big, too fast, and too indifferent, that small truth meant everything.

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