At Dusk follows one man’s life while moving quietly through modern Korean history. As Park Minwoo reflects on his past, the novel traces postwar development, political change, and economic growth without ever turning them into spectacle.

This is a layered, carefully constructed book that trusts the reader. History remains in the background, shaping the characters without overt explanation. It’s a novel that asks for patience and rewards close attention.

A sad but gentle healing novel that knows exactly what it’s doing. The Calico Cat at the Chibineko Kitchen follows people carrying deep grief as they share meals that allow them one brief moment with someone they’ve lost.

A strange and unsettling collection of Korean speculative stories that resist explanation. With the Heart of a Ghost sits with grief, loneliness, and transformation, letting meaning hover just out of reach rather than spelling it out.

A practical, emotionally grounded memoir about two women who choose to build a life together as chosen family. Two Women Living Together looks honestly at compromise, independence, and what it means to create a good life on your own terms.

A strange, playful book that keeps shifting its tone and direction. When the Museum Is Closed leans into oddness, quiet humor, and moments of connection that don’t follow logic so much as feeling. What stayed with me wasn’t the premise itself, but the way the book pays attention to who gets to move freely, who is observed, and how women carve out space for one another.

A quiet, observational book that pays close attention to how people think, move, and exist inside time. The End of the Moment We Had isn’t driven by plot so much as by interior life, small interactions, and emotional distance. What stayed with me most wasn’t the larger structure of the book, but a moment of stillness and recognition in its second piece, where nothing dramatic happens and yet everything feels familiar.

A short, unsettling novella that refuses soft edges. In Hunch Back, Saou Ichikawa gives us Shaka, a disabled woman who will not be softened into a symbol. The voice is sharp, sometimes grotesque, but always real. It left me unsettled and still thinking about body, desire, and judgment.

Natsuo Kirino’s Swallows tackles surrogacy, women’s rights, and the question of what a woman’s body is worth. A novel about power, choice, and the uneasy space between autonomy and control, it left me both frustrated and thoughtful in equal measure.

A bleak vision of Japan’s collapse where the old live on without end and the young fade before they’ve begun. Yoko Tawada’s slim novel is sad, strange, and a reminder of how political choices shape even the most private lives.