He Knows Who Watered the Soy Sauce

Dear Mi-ran,

You wouldn’t believe who stopped by my stall today—not to buy kimchi, mind you, but to sell me… secrets.

A boy. Maybe twelve, maybe younger, all elbows and grins, with a satchel full of nothing you can touch—but everything you might want to know. He leaned close, lowered his voice, and said, “Want to know which vendor waters down their soy sauce? Or who’s sneaking off after curfew?” Then he winked like a man twice his age.

I laughed, of course, but I paid him a boiled egg just to hear his latest rumor. He said the rice scales near the north gate are rigged, and that a certain inspector—whom I shall not name—eats free dumplings every third Thursday. Nonsense, probably. But he had charm. The kind of charm that makes you check your pockets afterward.

Tell me—do you know him? Is he one of your students? Quick tongue, sharp eyes, hair that refuses to be tamed. If so, I might need to warn you: he’s already running a blackboard economy of whispers and bets. Maybe you taught him too well.

With curiosity and a raised eyebrow,
Yeo-won