The Way Home

Under a black sky, a white wind sweeps across the field. On a path the color of dried grass, a woman and a horse lean forward as if they were one body. The woman carries a mulheobeok, a Jeju water jar borne on the back, and the horse follows silently at her side. The wind tugs at the hem of her clothes and erases the path beneath their feet, yet the two do not stop. Far away, a single thatched house. Small and faint, but a place to return to still remains. The way home is not a road walked after the wind has died down. It is to head toward home, even with a weary body, until the end. The path continues as if about to break, and the woman and the horse return along that thin line.

Even if the light of home is still far away, simply heading toward it keeps their steps going.