Work Text:
In a small part of Seoul not far from Bukchon, the streets seem to have grown a little wild. They twist through narrow alleys and small courtyards where old houses stand close together. One alley may turn suddenly and meet itself again. A painter once joked that a man who came to collect unpaid money there might walk down the alley and soon meet himself returning without having collected a single won.
Many young artists came to live in that neighborhood. They found rooms with wide windows and good northern light. And the rent was low enough for painters who often had more dreams than money.
Yang Jaewon and Cheon Jang-Mi lived at the top of a small three-story building.
One had come from a quiet town in Gangwon Province, the other from Busan. They had met by chance in a small café near Hongdae. There they discovered that they liked the same kind of painting, the same late-night street food, and the same quiet walks along the river.
So they decided to share a studio and live together.
That had been in the spring.
When winter came, a cold stranger entered the city.
No one could see him, but he moved quietly from street to street, touching people with icy fingers. Doctors called him pneumonia.
In the busy districts of Seoul he moved quickly. But in the narrow artist alleys he seemed to wander slowly, choosing his victims one by one.
Mr. Pneumonia was not a kind visitor.
One day he touched Yang Jaewon.
Jaewon lay on his bed for many days, pale and very still. His face was turned toward the window that looked out upon the blank wall of the building next door.
One morning the busy doctor spoke with Jang-Mi in the hallway where Jaewon could not hear.
“He has only a small chance,” said the doctor. “Perhaps one in ten.”
Jang-Mi’s hands trembled.
“He may recover,” the doctor continued, “if he wants to live. When a patient begins to believe he will die, half of my work becomes useless. Is there something troubling him?”
“He once dreamed of traveling to Italy,” said Jang-Mi. “He wanted to paint the Bay of Naples.”
The doctor shrugged.
“Dreams are good. But right now he needs a reason to live. Try to make him think about the future.”
After the doctor left, Jang-Mi went into the studio and cried quietly for a while.
Then she entered Jaewon’s room carrying her painting materials. She tried to sing while she worked.
Jaewon lay still with his face turned toward the window.
At first Jang-Mi thought he was sleeping.
But suddenly she heard a faint voice.
“Twelve,” he said.
A moment later—
“Eleven… ten… nine…”
Jang-Mi looked out the window.
Outside, against the brick wall, an old ivy vine climbed weakly upward. Winter winds had already taken most of its leaves.
“What are you counting?” she asked gently.
“Leaves,” said Jaewon.
Another one fell.
“Six,” he whispered. “They fall faster now.”
Jang-Mi tried to smile.
“What do leaves have to do with you?”
Jaewon kept watching the vine.
“Three days ago there were almost a hundred. Now there are only five.”
He spoke again after a moment.
“When the last leaf falls, I will go too.”
Jang-Mi stared at him.
“That is nonsense,” she said quickly.
But Jaewon continued watching the vine.
“There goes another,” he murmured.
“Four now.”
He lay quietly for a moment.
“I want to see the last one fall before night,” he said.
Jang-Mi turned away so he would not see the fear in her face.
That afternoon she went downstairs to see the painter who lived on the first floor.
His name was Baek Kanghyuk.
Kanghyuk had lived in the building for many years. He was older than the other artists and known for his sharp tongue and quiet temper. For years he had spoken about the masterpiece he would someday paint, yet he had never begun it.
Jang-Mi told him about Jaewon and the falling leaves.
Kanghyuk’s expression darkened.
“People do not die because leaves fall,” he said sharply.
“He is very weak,” Jang-Mi replied softly. “The illness has filled his mind with strange thoughts.”
Baek Kang-hyuk was silent for a moment.
“That poor fool,” he muttered.
That night the weather turned worse.
Cold rain began to fall, and the wind grew strong.
The storm continued through the dark hours.
In the morning Jaewon opened his eyes.
“Jang-Mi,” he said quietly.
“Yes?”
“I want to see the vine.”
She hesitated, but at last she pulled the curtain aside.
After the terrible storm only one leaf remained.
It clung to the vine high above the ground. Near the stem it was dark green, but the edges had turned yellow.
“It is the last one,” Jaewon whispered.
“I thought it would fall during the night.”
He watched it for a long time.
“The wind will take it today,” he said quietly. “And then I will go.”
But the day passed slowly.
The leaf did not fall.
Even when night returned with more wind and rain, the leaf remained.
The next morning Jaewon asked again to see the window.
Jang-Mi opened the curtain.
The leaf was still there.
Jaewon stared at it for a long time.
Then he spoke softly.
“I have been foolish,” he said.
“That leaf stayed there through the storm.”
He turned toward Jang-Mi.
“It is wrong to want to die.”
For the first time in many days he smiled faintly.
“Bring me something to eat,” he said.
Later he added quietly,
“Someday I will still paint the Bay of Naples.”
That afternoon the doctor returned.
“He will recover,” said the doctor. “His will to live has returned.”
Then he added,
“There is another patient in this building. Baek Kanghyuk, the painter downstairs. Pneumonia also.”
The next day the doctor came again.
“Your friend is safe now,” he told Jang-Mi.
That evening Jang-Mi sat beside Jaewon’s bed.
“There is something I must tell you,” she said gently.
“Baek Kanghyuk died today in the hospital.”
Jaewon looked at her in surprise.
He was ill only two days. Someone
found him on the morning of the first day, in his room. He was help-
less with pain.”
“His shoes and his clothes were wet and as cold as ice. Everyone
wondered where he had been. The night had been so cold and wild.
“And then they found some things. There was a light that he had
taken outside. And there were his materials for painting. There was
paint, green paint and yellow paint. And—
“Look out the window, dear, at the last leaf on the wall. Didn’t
you wonder why it never moved when the wind was blowing?
Jaewon looked at the leaf on the wall.
It had never moved in the wind.
“That leaf,” she said softly,
“Oh My Dear... It is Baek Kang-hyuk’s great masterpiece.”
“He painted it there the night the last real leaf fell.”