The Cyclist: Final

“They were right, though, he’s so handsome. But he barely spoke to us the entire time we stayed there.”

“Yeah, makes you wonder what kind of tragic backstory he has. I heard he bought the place almost ten years ago, but he didn’t really change anything. It almost feels like he doesn’t want guests to stay there, even if he was polite about it.”

“It was a gorgeous view, though. I took so many pictures. My friends are all liking my posts on Instagram and asking where I was. The same people that laughed at me when I said I wanted to go on a cycling tour and now they’re all excited because of some pretty ocean pictures.”

“Definitely worth the ride. This whole area is just gorgeous, and I’d come back just for the food here. I’m glad the hotel owner recommended this place….”

A young man who had been listening to the diners’ gossip smiled to himself as he cleaned the nearby table. His mother would be proud to know that she had impressed another set of guests from the big city. Hard to believe that a few years ago this place had been struggling despite all her hard work.

It hadn’t been easy when his father had died suddenly, coming home from the port on a rainy night after a trip to the mainland. Jeju was many things, but its roadways weren’t forgiving, especially at night. All it had taken was one slow reaction from a tired man and a family was left reeling without their husband and father.

He had been young then, only ten years old. Mature enough to understand what was happening, but too young to do anything to help. Luckily, they had a guardian angel. His father’s best friend, the man he called his uncle even though there was no blood relation binding them.

Ironically, the same man those two diners had been gossiping about earlier. Not that he blamed them. His uncle was a very handsome man. Women were always talking about him, both the residents in the village, and the travelers who were passing through.

The boy’s parents had grown up in Seoul, but neither liked the idea of growing old there. It had been a shared dream to move here to Jeju. They had scraped together enough money to purchase an old rundown hotel on a hill over the sea. Spent years working their fingers to the bone fixing it up while luring travelers to stay there. His father had used some connections to get the hotel listed on a travel site for tourists, obtaining a contract with a company that arranged cycling tours of the island. And eventually, with time, their dream had become a reality. Not one that would ever make them rich, though it provided a different sort of wealth, allowing them to spend their days together working for a common goal.

He had been born during those early days and had known no other life until his father’s untimely passing. His father had taught him how to repair things and entertain guests. His mother had groomed him in the kitchen so that he enjoyed cooking and was waiting tables and charming their patrons even as a young boy. He helped make beds and sweep floors, assisted his father with broken toilets and wobbly bed frames. They never had the means to spoil him with fancy things, but he was a child of the island, and was too happy with the beauty all around him to miss them.

Besides, that was what his uncle was for. Ten years of visits, each time with a bag full of gifts. He had always loved when his uncle was around because his father acted different during those visits. Grumpier, sillier, and always happy when he watched his best friend interacting with his son. His uncle was much livelier back then, even if he had a tendency to tease.

Everything changed when his father died. His mother had cried, of course, but tried to remain strong for her son, even when the bills began to pile up and business waned. And for almost a year, his uncle didn’t come around anymore, and he had wondered if it was something they had done. If he blamed them for the loss of his friend, not realizing that they had all lost him together.

Still, when his mother had reached out, needing advice about trying to sell the hotel to settle their debts, wondering how they would survive without a source of income, it had been his father’s best friend who swooped in to save the day.

At the time, he hadn’t understood much of what was happening. He only knew that he and his mother would be living in the village. That his mother would be opening a small restaurant and they would make their new home in the apartment upstairs. The hotel would have a new owner, but for the time being would sit empty. No travelers. No cyclists. Just dark, empty rooms where his parents’ dream would die a quiet death.

Now that he was older, he had realized that his uncle needed to get his own affairs in order. He was a businessman, after all, and had a company to run. He had bought the hotel, for far more than it was possibly worth, giving enough money to his best friend’s wife that she could purchase the small building in town and begin a new life.

It had been a few years before he moved to the island permanently. The hotel had been reopened, though there was no rush to advertise it. Over time, people had rediscovered the spot. It was beautiful up there on the hill, peaceful and quiet, with a phenomenal view of the sea. His mother helped out sometimes, especially when his uncle needed to fly back to Seoul and handle some business at his company. She had recommended a few trusted villagers to assist with daily cleaning and preparing meals for the travelers who chose to stay.

And the boy himself had traversed the path there many times. The first trip had been on his own, sneaking away when he was supposed to be in school, his heart full of anger over being abandoned by the man he thought loved him, a speech full of strong words that evaporated as he arrived. His uncle had been crying. Sitting on the back patio, drinking a cup of coffee and staring out at the ocean, two thin trails of tears on his cheeks.

There had been a speech. Only it was directed at him, when his mother called, frantic, wondering if he had been there, and his uncle had driven him home, lecturing him about responsibility and never scaring his mother like that again. Shortly afterward he had been given his own cell phone and been told that if he ever needed to come to the hotel, all he needed to do was call. With his mother’s permission, of course.

There had been many visitors over the years; friends, family members. But no one ever stayed. After some time, the villagers began calling him “the man on the hill”, a nickname that spread to the various tourists who stayed there, and eventually became his calling card of sorts. Word of the accommodation on the hill and its reclusive, but handsome, owner, served as a tourist attraction of its own. Nothing changed, however. Aside from preventative maintenance and random repairs, the hotel remained the same as the day he took ownership, and the villagers shrugged their collective shoulders and let him be. After all, any tourism was good tourism. No matter what brought people to their town, they still ate in the local restaurants and shopped in the stores. If nothing else, the man on the hill was still an avid cyclist and knew every meter of the surrounding area from his many trips here before and after becoming a resident.

Even though his uncle and his father had been as close as brothers, that feeling had never quite extended to the boy’s mother. They had kept some distance when he was a child. Polite, surely, but rarely speaking outside the usual small talk when they were alone together, which was rare. More often the boy’s mother had found things to do when her husband’s best friend visited, giving