Chapter 04
The Lucky Charm of the Vegetable Stall
Miyu began stacking piles of spinach, mung bean sprouts, garlic chives, and lettuce from inside the stall out onto the front display. She sorted them so each small basket held about one jeon’s worth and glanced back at the old shopkeeper.
Why sell these off cheap? We should get the proper price. This is business, not charity.
In her mind she carefully recalled the “leftover effect” she’d once learned about.
The “leftover effect” means leaving a tiny bit off the price so people think they’re getting the absolute best deal—like selling something for 9,900 won instead of 10,000. No matter the era, it works. In Joseon times, when marketing was unheard of, it should work even better.
“Madam, do you have paper and a pen—no, a brush maybe?”
“Think I’d have that?”
“Right, probably not. Then is there anything I can write on instead?”
The old woman gave her a sideways look. “Planning to practice your letters? Use the dirt floor.”
“No, it’s for business.”
“Look around inside. There should be a few wooden slips.”
Back when paper was scarce, people used thin bamboo or wooden slats—about 3 cm wide and up to half a meter long—that you could write on with ink and reuse.
Miyu rummaged among empty baskets and found a small wooden plank. Carefully she brushed words onto it while the old woman peeked over curiously.
“10 pun → 9 pun”
Miyu nodded in satisfaction.
“You’re selling ten-pun vegetables for nine?”
“Exactly.”
The old woman narrowed her large round eyes. A 10 percent discount was nothing unusual—if produce was aging or a customer begged, even 20 or 30 percent off happened. But why write it on a sign?
“Why bother? Just haggle when they come.”
“If you stay quiet, who will spoon-feed you? You have to advertise to sell.”
“Advertise?”
“Not like the guy from the folktale. Promotion. Marketing.”
“Mar… ketting…?”
Just then two women stopped mid-stride: one tall and thin, the other short and plump.
All Miyu had done was write “10 pun for 9 pun” on the wooden sign and prop it where everyone could see.
“Ten pun for nine?”
“The greens look fine. My husband loves spinach soybean-paste soup.”
“Didn’t you just say you were about to break up with him?”
The plump woman rolled her eyes, then changed the subject.
“You’ve been tired lately, right? Chive porridge is good for that. Might as well buy while it’s cheap.”
“You think I look worn out?”
The tall woman asked, and her friend nodded.
They stepped up and placed their orders.
“Spinach for nine pun, please.”
“I’ll take nine pun of chives.”
They unconsciously emphasized “nine pun,” as if to confirm the bargain.
“If you buy spinach, sprouts, lettuce, and chives all together, I’ll take off four pun,” Miyu added brightly, stressing “four.”
“Oh my, why didn’t I think of that? Then give me everything!”
The plump woman clapped her hands and changed her order.
“Me too—spinach, lettuce, chives, sprouts. That’s really four pun off, right?”
“Of course. All four for a four-pun discount. Our thrifty mothers—just a moment.”
Miyu flashed a charming smile and turned toward the seated shopkeeper.
The old woman looked stunned. Customers were ordering more without being coaxed.
While handing over vegetables and chatting about their families—how pretty their children must be, how their thrift surely earned them their husbands’ love—Miyu deliberately took her time.
Business draws business.
Sure enough, passersby began drifting toward the stall. Word spread quickly that buying everything earned a four-pun discount.
Five people already. Time for the next move.
Miyu rubbed her hands together, smiling.
Let’s trigger herd behavior.
When a few people stare at a building, experiments show most passersby look up too.
“Sorry, could you form a line? It’s my first day and I’m a bit overwhelmed.”
“Make it quick. I ordered first,” one woman said, hurrying to stand in line.
Soon an actual queue formed at the vegetable stall.
What’s happening? A special event?
I can’t miss out.
More and more people joined, afraid to be left behind.
“What’s this line for?”
“They’re selling ten-pun vegetables for nine, and if you buy all four kinds you save four pun!”
“Four pun? No wonder!”
The sight of a line drew even more customers, who anxiously feared the vegetables would sell out.
Miyu silently cheered and turned to the old woman.
“Madam, it’s getting busy. Could you help me?”
The grandmotherly shopkeeper, still dazed, jumped up.
“O-of course!”
The vegetables she’d planned to unload at a loss sold out in less than half an hour.
“What on earth just happened?” she muttered, staring at the heap of coins.
Miyu dusted off her hands, beaming.
“People believe that goods from a busy shop must be better. And nobody wants to miss out when everyone else is buying.”
“That’s… true. Amazing.”
She had expected to clear the produce for 5 nyang but ended up with 7 nyang 2 jeon—an extra 2 nyang 2 jeon in a blink. The old woman was dumbfounded.
“Miyu, are you a fox spirit luring people? That sly smile—just like a vixen.”
Miyu laughed. “Oh, grandma, you haven’t seen anything yet.”
Right then old Mr. Mandol approached, puffing his pipe.
“Mother, how’s business?”
“Would you believe it? A lucky charm has rolled into our stall!”
By sunset, Miyu returned to the tiny room at the Songpa merchants’ guild hall.
It had been one of the most unforgettable days of her life.
She pulled the silk scroll—dropped by the fugitive earlier—from her sleeve and tossed it onto the low chest before sprawling on the floor. In her hand she clutched the small pouch with one nyang in coins the old woman had insisted she keep: two jeon for a day’s wage and eight more as a bonus.
“Phew…” She stared up at the ceiling.
There must be a way back. If I came here, I can return.
But if not…
“No, don’t even think that.”
She fingered the necklace that had belonged to her mother. She missed her terribly. Painful memories she’d tried to ignore welled up like a flood.
“Mom… what do I do now?”
It felt as bleak as when she was thirteen.
That spring her father’s print shop went bankrupt, and her mother was diagnosed with terminal breast cancer. By the following autumn, her mother was gone, and her father collapsed inward like a crumbling house.
Miyu had done nothing—just drifted helplessly like a jellyfish. She hated herself for being so useless.
Maybe that was why she’d decided so early to succeed, to prove she had worth.
She kissed the pearl pendant.
“Mom, watch over me.”
Whenever her heart faltered, she thought of her mother. If Miyu despaired, her mother in heaven would surely be sad too.
“I can’t let that happen. Come on, Jo Miyu—cheer up!”
She sat up sharply, the coin pouch dangling from her fingers.
“But what’s the point of earning money here? There are no banks, no designer bags or cars. Even if I buy land or a house, it’s meaningless if I return home. Money is just metal, a medium of exchange.”
For the first time she truly understood that.
“Fine, then I’ll just eat well while I can. Oh, I’d love cream pasta and a beer.”
Her eyes drifted to the scroll on the chest.
That fugitive… he looked like a painter. Must be a painting.
She stretched out and grabbed it.
“He did say, ‘My lady, forgive me.’ At least he was polite. Well then, I’ll ‘forgive’ him too.”
She untied the red cord and unrolled the scroll.
Miyu’s eyes and mouth opened wide.
“What… is this?”
A soft gasp escaped her lips.
