The Newsstand's Last Customer

Five in the morning. Jeong Se-chul raised the shutter by habit.

For forty years, at the same hour, with the same motion. Untying bundles of newspapers delivered from the early-morning market, setting them up one by one on the stand. Print ink stained the joints of his fingers. But today was the last. This month, the early-morning market had cut its distribution to the alley. He persevered even as subscribers dwindled, even as fewer feet passed in front of the stand. It was this year, when the supply fell below half of what it was ten years ago, that he gave up. Yesterday’s closure notice, written in his own hand, was taped to the shutter.

Seven in the morning. Ryu Mi-seon arrived.

For forty years, she came to this place every morning. She picked up the business section, placed three coins on the counter, and turned to leave without a word. They had never spoken of anything else. One summer, on the day she lost her umbrella, it rained, and Jeong Se-chul started to offer her an umbrella he wasn’t using, but stopped. That was all.

Today too, she picked up the newspaper. Then her hand stopped.

“Is this the last day?”

Jeong Se-chul nodded. He opened the counter drawer. Inside was an envelope. Yellowed, with her name written on it. He’d written it five years ago but never sent it. Ten years ago too. Twenty years ago as well.

“This.”

He extended the envelope.

Ryu Mi-seon took the envelope. She didn’t open it. She simply held it tight against her chest.

“I’ll come tomorrow too.”

The newsstand will be gone. But she said she’ll come. For the first time, Jeong Se-chul thought that would be enough.

This article is for information only and is not investment advice.