Short story) Jacob's Story: I’ll Build a Window Facing South

 

<Jacob's Story: I’ll Build a Window Facing South>

 

The warm sunlight creeping in through my southern window gently brushed my face, coaxing me awake. As I opened my eyes, the familiar sight of my farm greeted me. The fields stretched out like a patchwork of soft brown earth, rows of corn swaying in the morning breeze. My body felt sore from yesterday’s harvest, but it was the kind of ache that brought with it a quiet sense of accomplishment. Life out here was simple, and in that simplicity, I’d found peace—or so I thought.

 

It’s been five years since I left the city behind, five years since I traded the noise, the people, and the constant rush for this farm my parents left me. Here, each day began and ended with the rhythm of nature. I woke with the sun, worked with the earth, and rested under the stars. There was a deep sense of fulfillment in the routine, a comforting repetition that made the days blend together in a way that felt... right. But lately, a question had begun to stir inside me, a question I couldn’t shake.

 

"Why am I here? Why do I live like this?"

 

The question had been nagging at me for a while, like a tiny pebble in my shoe, but I could usually ignore it. That is, until Claire moved in next door.

 

Claire was an artist from the city. When I first saw her, I couldn’t figure out what someone like her was doing in a place like this. She had short blonde hair, always perfectly styled, and she dressed far too neatly for someone who planned to live in the countryside. She said she came here to find inspiration, to reconnect with nature. At first, I didn’t think much of it. It seemed like she was chasing some romantic idea of rural life, one that would quickly fade once she realized how hard this life could really be.

 

Our relationship started with little more than polite nods. She would pass by my farm on her morning walks, and I would acknowledge her with a quick glance before getting back to work. But one day, as I handed her some freshly harvested corn, things began to change.

 

“This is for you,” I said, offering the corn with a shy smile. “Just picked this morning. It’s some of the best you’ll taste.”

 

She took the corn with a look of mild confusion, then chuckled softly. “Thank you, but I’m not sure I know what to do with it. I’m used to buying things ready to eat.”

 

I couldn’t help but laugh. “City folk,” I teased. “You’re in for a surprise then.”

 

That little moment opened the door to more conversations. Claire began to visit the farm more often, sometimes just to walk through the fields, other times to ask me about the crops or the land. She’d sit on the edge of the field with her sketchbook, capturing the scenery in her delicate strokes. At first, I didn’t understand why she cared so much about drawing what I saw every day. To me, it was just dirt and plants. But to her, it was art.

 

As the days passed, we began to talk more. One afternoon, as we watched the sunset over the fields, Claire asked me a question that caught me off guard.

 

“Jacob, why do you live here? I mean, why stay? Don’t you ever think about going back to the city?”

 

Her words hung in the air between us, heavy and unsettling. I wasn’t sure how to answer. Why *did* I live here? I had come to this farm to escape, to find peace after years of chaos in the city. My parents had left me the land, and it seemed like a natural choice to take over. But her question made me realize that maybe I had never truly chosen this life—I had simply fallen into it.

 

“I guess,” I started slowly, “if you ask me why I’m here... well, I’d probably just laugh.” It was the only answer I could give. I didn’t know why. I hadn’t thought about it much. I had always assumed that laughing off the big questions was easier than trying to find real answers.

 

But Claire wasn’t satisfied with that. She pushed me to think more deeply, to confront the questions I had buried beneath the routine of my days. As we spent more time together, she shared stories about her life in the city, about the art she created and the inspiration she sought. And I began to see how, in her own way, she was searching for the same thing I was: meaning.

 

Claire’s art was her way of making sense of the world, of capturing the beauty and pain she saw around her. She painted not just to create something beautiful, but to explore the emotions inside her. And in watching her work, I started to realize that I had been avoiding those emotions for a long time. I had come to the farm to escape the chaos of the city, but in doing so, I had also escaped from myself.

 

Eventually, Claire decided it was time for her to return to the city. She had found the inspiration she needed, and she felt ready to take on the next chapter of her life. We said our goodbyes, and though I was sad to see her go, I felt strangely at peace with it. Her time here had been brief, but it had changed something in me.

 

After she left, I found myself standing at the edge of my field, staring out at the horizon. The rows of corn swayed gently in the breeze, just as they always had. But something felt different. The land, the sky, the work—it all meant something more now. Claire had stirred something in me that I couldn’t quite explain. She had reminded me that life wasn’t just about surviving or maintaining a routine. It was about finding meaning in the small moments, about embracing the questions and living through them.

 

As I stood there, I looked back at my house, at the window I had built facing south. It was the window I opened every morning, the one that let in the light and the air and the smell of the earth. And suddenly, I understood something. I had built that window not just to look out at the world, but to let the world in.

 

“Why do I live here?” I whispered to myself, smiling. “I live here because it’s where I’ve learned to laugh.”

 

And that, I realized, was answer enough.

 

---

 

평온한 아침, 남쪽 창가에서

 

#ref.:

https://sosohantry.tistory.com/entry/Poem-%EA%B9%80%EC%83%81%EC%9A%A9-%EB%82%A8%EC%9C%BC%EB%A1%9C-%EC%B0%BD%EC%9D%84-%EB%82%B4%EA%B2%A0%EC%86%8C

Poem) 김상용, <남으로 창을 내겠소>