Whispers of the wind
JIYOON POV
Jiyoon woke up to the soft light of dawn creeping through the wooden slats of her window. The familiar scent of fresh grass and earth wafted in with the breeze, and she smiled softly, the quiet of the countryside settling her restless heart. Her home was a place of stillness, where the days passed in the rhythm of nature—the sun rising and setting, the seasons shifting, and the cycle of work that never stopped. It was a comforting, predictable life. But some mornings, like this one, the quiet felt too heavy, as though it was pressing in on her, reminding her that there was something more she was missing.
She stretched, feeling the familiar ache in her muscles from the day before. It was the kind of ache she welcomed—the one born from hard work, from doing something that mattered. This was the life she had inherited, the life her father had always said would be hers to carry. The farm, the animals, the land—everything had its place, its time. And Jiyoon had never questioned it. But there was a restlessness within her, a longing for something she couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t the farm, not really. It was something beyond that, something she couldn’t find in the soil or the plow.
Slipping into her worn boots, she grabbed her gloves and stepped outside. The morning air was crisp, and the birds were starting to sing their songs. The barn stood before her, sturdy and familiar, the animals waiting for her to begin their morning routine. She could hear the soft clucking of the chickens and the low hum of the cows as they lazily chewed their hay. It was peaceful, so peaceful that it almost felt like a dream. But she knew better than to let herself drift into that space. Dreams were for other people. Not for someone whose life was already written in the lines of the land.
Her hands moved with practiced ease as she fed the animals, checked their water, and cleaned their pens. There was no thinking involved now, just the steady rhythm of her actions. She had always done this, ever since she could remember. It was second nature—like breathing. And in many ways, it was the only part of her life that felt real. Stable. Grounded.
But when the chores were done, when the field was ready for sowing and the barn was cleaned, Jiyoon would find herself standing alone in the quiet, the stillness pressing in on her once again. It was in these moments that the music would come back to her, the songs she had once sung so freely, the melodies that had always been a part of her.
She didn’t sing much anymore—not like when she was younger. Back then, her mother had always encouraged her, telling her that her voice was a gift. A gift that could be shared with the world. But that was before the illness took over, before the hospital visits and the empty house at night. Before the silence had overtaken their home, filling it with a void that no amount of hard work or dedication could erase.
Jiyoon’s heart tightened as her thoughts turned to her mother. Those days felt like a distant memory now, a place she couldn’t visit without feeling the weight of the years that had passed. She remembered the sound of her mother's voice, the way it would fill their home with warmth and joy. But after her mother’s passing, the songs had faded, replaced by the constant demands of the farm. The singing was something Jiyoon had buried deep inside, a thing of the past that she could never quite bring herself to embrace again.
Her father’s voice called out from the kitchen, pulling her back to the present. “Jiyoon, breakfast is ready. You need to eat something before you start on the fields.”
She nodded silently and made her way to the house. Her father was already sitting at the table, his face creased with exhaustion from the long nights spent working. He didn’t say much, but Jiyoon could see the weight of everything on his shoulders. The farm, the bills, the memories of her mother—it was all becoming too much for him. The lines on his face seemed to deepen with each passing year, and Jiyoon could feel the pressure mounting. He didn’t ask for help, but she knew he needed it.
“Got everything done for the morning?” he asked, his voice rough.
“Yes, everything’s ready. The animals are fed, the barn’s cleaned.”
He nodded, taking a sip from his cup. “Good. You’re working hard, like always. Just don’t overdo it, alright? You need to take care of yourself too.”
Jiyoon didn’t answer. She sat down across from him, staring into her bowl, unable to meet his eyes. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate his concern, but there was a part of her that couldn’t help feeling resentful. She had always been the one to help, the one to shoulder the burden. Her father had never asked her to take over the farm, but she knew the truth—that it would eventually fall to her. The land was everything to him, and he needed her. But sometimes, Jiyoon wondered if he was aware of the life she had never lived, the dreams she had never chased.
She picked at her food, pushing it around the bowl. Her mind drifted, imagining a world beyond the farm. The days were always the same—work, eat, sleep. The village was small, and her friends had their own lives to lead. Jiyoon’s world was confined to the boundaries of the farm and the quiet village. And sometimes, when she allowed herself to dream, she imagined a life where she wasn’t just Jiyoon, the farm girl. She imagined standing on stage, her voice filling the air, reaching people all over. She imagined being someone else, someone who could make a difference.
But that was a fantasy she could never chase. Not while her father depended on her. Not while the farm needed her.
After breakfast, Jiyoon left the house and walked toward the fields. The sun had fully risen now, casting golden light over the rows of crops that stretched out before her. The earth was rich here, the soil fertile, and yet, it all felt like a cage. She reached the far corner of the field, where the wind seemed to carry a bit of freedom. The breeze brushed against her skin, and for a brief moment, Jiyoon closed her eyes, allowing herself to feel the wind’s embrace.
It was in this moment, standing alone in the vast expanse of the field, that she felt a stirring deep within her. A quiet voice, almost like a whisper, reached her ears. It wasn’t the wind, not exactly. It was the song. The one she had buried so deep within herself. Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind, and for a brief, fleeting moment, it felt as though her mother was there with her.
Jiyoon couldn’t stop herself. She opened her mouth, and the first note slipped out before she could think. It was quiet at first, soft and tentative, but as she continued, the melody grew stronger, more confident. She sang without thinking, letting the music flow through her, the words a comfort she hadn’t realized she needed. The songs of her mother, the songs of her childhood, returned to her like a familiar embrace.
She didn’t know how long she stood there, lost in the rhythm of her own voice and the whispers of the wind. For that brief moment, she was free. Free from the farm, from her father’s expectations, from the weight of her memories. It was just her and the music—her true self, the one that had always been buried beneath the soil.
Her heart beat in time with the song, and she felt more alive than she had in years. She didn’t care about the chores waiting for her or the responsibilities that would soon call her back. For just this moment, she was free—free to be Jiyoon, the girl who sang and dreamed, not the girl who lived on a farm and carried the weight of the world on her shoulders.
But as the last note faded away, reality came rushing back. She wiped away a tear that had escaped and looked around to make sure no one had heard. Jiyoon quickly gathered herself, wiping her hands on her apron. She had no time for this—no time to indulge in dreams or regrets. The farm was waiting, and her father needed her.
With a deep sigh, she turned back toward the house, the wind still carrying the soft echoes of her song. As she walked, the feeling of longing didn’t leave her. It lingered, quiet and insistent, tugging at her heart. But she knew she couldn’t chase it. Not yet. Not while the farm still needed her. And so, she pushed the feeling aside, as she always did, and let the rhythm of her life carry her forward.
As Jiyoon worked throughout the day, the melody continued to echo in the back of her mind. It had been so long since she had allowed herself to fully feel the music, to let it take her someplace beyond the farm. But no matter how much she tried to focus on her work, the music refused to leave her. It was in the wind, in the rustling of the leaves, in the hum of the animals. It was a part of her, and no matter how much she tried to bury it, it would always find a way to resurface.
That night, after the chores were finished and her father had gone to bed, Jiyoon found herself standing in the quiet of the barn, staring at the empty space where her mother’s old guitar sat, gathering dust. She hadn’t touched it in years. It was a relic of a time that felt so far away, a time when things were simpler. When music filled her days and her mother’s laughter echoed through the house. But now, with her father’s weariness and the ever-present weight of the farm, the guitar had become nothing more than a memory.
Jiyoon reached out slowly, her fingers brushing against the strings. It was as if the guitar recognized her touch, as if it had been waiting for her to return. She picked it up carefully and strummed a chord, the sound filling the air, soft and pure. It wasn’t much, but in that moment, it felt like the first step toward reclaiming something she had lost.
Maybe, just maybe, there was a way to carry both parts of herself. The girl who worked the land and the girl who sang. The girl who had to stay and the girl who longed to be free.
As the night stretched on, Jiyoon played softly, her heart beginning to heal, one note at a time. The music was still there, waiting for her to return. And this time, she wasn’t ready to turn away.