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Chapter 3 : That summer of berries

The transition was not a leap, but a fade. The bitter, metallic tang of the Milanese espresso on Taeyeon’s tongue softened, transforming into the cloying sweetness of overripe mulberries. The grey, industrial hum of Bovisa was replaced by the high-pitched, rhythmic thrum of cicadas—a sound so thick it felt like the air itself was vibrating.

She was eight years old again. The world was no longer made of concrete and disappointment; it was made of dust, sun-bleached wood, and the endless green of an Incheon summer.

Taeyeon stood by the rickety wooden fence that separated their backyards. Her knees were permanently stained with grass and dirt, a badge of honor from a morning spent chasing dragonflies. On the other side of the slats, she saw a flash of white cotton.

“You’re late,” a voice called out. It was a voice that hadn’t been weathered by years of Italian winters or the exhaustion of a textile mill. it was clear, sharp, and full of a secret gravity.

Jessica stepped into the golden light, and even at eight, she possessed a quiet, unstudied gravity. She wasn’t dressed for a photograph; she was wearing a simple cotton sundress that had faded from too many washes, her small feet bare and dusted with the pale earth of the garden. Yet, there was an unmistakable aura about her—a clarity in her features that made the chaotic backyard feel suddenly ordered. Her face had a delicate, almond-shaped symmetry, with eyes that were deep and observant, reflecting the world with a calm, silver intensity. Her hair was a simple, dark tumble, caught in two lopsided pigtails that had survived a morning of climbing trees, but the way she held her head—slightly tilted, with a natural, regal poise—made her seem older than her years. She didn’t look like a porcelain doll; she looked like someone who lived deeply in her own thoughts, possessing a beauty that didn’t ask for attention, but commanded it simply by existing in the center of the frame. Or maybe it was Taeyeon’s view of and feelings for her that made her so. In her cupped hands, she held a small mountain of dark, staining berries.

“I wasn’t late. I was waiting for the sun to hit the top of the fence. You said the berries taste better when they’re warm, remember?”

They sat on the dirt, the fence between them acting as a cathedral wall. They didn’t need toys; they had the alchemy of imagination. Jessica handed a berry through a gap in the wood, her small fingers brushing against Taeyeon’s. The juice was dark as ink, staining their lips and chins until they looked like they had shared a bloody oath.

Jessica had gone very still. She looked at Taeyeon, her brow furrowing with a sudden, fierce intensity. She didn’t want a “person” the world chose; she didn’t want a ribbon or a boy from the middle school. She wanted the girl who knew exactly how she liked her berries. She wanted the only person who understood the silence between the cicada chirps.

“We should get married,” Jessica said suddenly, “And live in a house like THAT” she points at a distance her eyes fixed on a ladybug crawling up a blade of grass “you see it? With the blue door?” It wasn’t a question; it was a preemptive strike against the world that moved people away.

The proposal didn’t happen in a vacuum. It was the result of long, sweltering Julys spent watching the world outside their fence and realizing they didn’t fit into the shapes it provided.

They had spent many mornings watching the older girls from the neighborhood—teenagers with ribbons in their hair and giggles that sounded like breaking glass—talking about the boys from the middle school. Taeyeon had watched Jessica’s face as they spoke, seeing a flicker of confusion and a strange, quiet distance in her eyes. It was as if Jessica was looking at a map of a country she had no interest in visiting.

One day, while they were huddled under the shade of the mulberry tree, a wedding procession had passed on the main road beyond the garden. The sound of the traditional horns was faint, a mournful, celebratory wail.

Another Tuesday, they had sat on the curb as a wedding car decorated with white flowers and trailing ribbons drove past. 

“My aunt got married last week,” Taeyeon had whispered, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. “She had to move to a different city. My mom said that’s what happens. You find a person, and then the world tells you where to go.” “My sister says that when you grow up, you have to find a boy so you can have a house,” Jessica had said, poking a stick into a puddle. She sounded small, as if the thought of that house felt more like a cage than a home.

Taeyeon had felt a sharp, protective heat rise in her chest. She didn’t want Jessica in a house with a boy she didn’t know. She wanted Jessica right here, where they could build houses out of cardboard boxes and talk about things only they understood.

“I don’t like the boys from the school,” Taeyeon whispered, her voice barely audible over the cicadas. “They’re loud. And they don’t know how to find the best berries. They’d just crush them.”

Jessica had looked at her then, her dark eyes searching Taeyeon’s face with an intensity that felt much older than eight. A slow, conspiratorial smile spread across her lips—the look of someone who had just found a secret exit.

They spent the next three days in a state of quiet, focused preparation. They weren’t just playing anymore; they were building a barricade against the future. They practiced “housekeeping” by sweeping the dirt under the mulberry tree with pine branches. They practiced “cooking” by mashing petals into water.

Finally, on that golden afternoon after the wedding horns faded in the distance, the weight of the “long summer” reached its tipping point. Jessica realized that if the world was going to force people into pairs to keep them safe, she wanted the only pair that made sense.

If they were already “married,” then the boys with the loud voices and the world “across the water” couldn’t claim them. They would belong to the fence, the berries, and each other.

So, in response to Jessica’s proposal of marriage, Taeyeon didn’t hesitate. “Okay. But we need rings.”

Jessica reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled out two plastic bands—prizes from a 100-won snack box. They were coated in a cheap, gaudy gold paint that already looked ready to flake. She handed the smaller one to Taeyeon.

“I promise to never leave the backyard,” Taeyeon whispered, the gravity of eight-year-old love weighing heavier than any corporate contract she would ever sign. “And if I do, I’ll follow the berries back to you.”

For a fleeting second, the bright afternoon sun flickered with the rhythmic, artificial pulse of a green light, timed perfectly to a steady, distant beep that didn’t belong to the cicadas.

Taeyeon blinked, and the flicker was gone. Jessica was laughing now, her head tilted back, showing the gap where her front tooth had recently fallen out. She looked so permanent. She looked like the beginning and the end of the world.

“I’m going to keep this ring forever, Jess. Even when we’re old and we live in a house with a blue door. I’ll look at it and remember that we started here, with berry juice on our faces.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon making “wine” out of crushed fruit and naming the clouds. It was a day that felt like it would never end—a loop of perfect, golden safety.