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# Chapter 85: A Mother’s Silence, A Son’s Tears
The phone pressed against her mother’s ear, and her face transformed. First came shock, then understanding. Finally, something beyond all of it remained—a feeling too ancient and too deep to call maternal. Her mother listened to Dohyun’s words, but simultaneously watched Seah. In that gaze lay the capacity to hold two children at once.
“Yes, yes. Mom’s listening.”
Her mother spoke softly, her tone like one soothing a sleeping baby. But she knew this gentleness was a necessary lie. Dohyun was no longer a child. He had already lost his father, nearly lost his sister. He was almost a man. Yet she spoke to him as she would a small boy. Because sometimes, truth could only be delivered through falsehood.
“Your sister’s choice to be in Jeju is hers alone. She needed that time. It’s not because of you, and it’s not because of me. It’s simply… because of her.”
Her mother continued. Seah watched her mother’s profile, seeing the lines around her lips deepen with each word. From an angle Seah had never seen before, her mother spoke—words to protect her, words to reassure her brother. Simultaneously.
“And she’ll come back. After she’s rested enough. After she’s thought enough.”
Her mother’s voice wavered here, barely perceptibly. So faintly that only Seah would notice. But Seah did. She heard her mother’s uncertainty. Her mother’s own doubts about whether Seah would return. Her mother’s fear.
“You need to go to school. You need to study. And you need to eat, to sleep, to live. That’s your job. Not just to worry about your sister, but to take care of yourself too. Understand?”
Dohyun seemed about to say something. Her mother’s voice eclipsed it—soft but absolute.
“Mom is here. I’ll always be here. And your sister is too… she’s in Jeju. Until she comes back.”
The call ended. When her mother lowered the phone, Seah saw her hands trembling. So subtly. Like seaweed swaying in a gentle current. Those hands came to rest on her mother’s lap.
“Mom…”
Seah began, but the words trailed off unfinished. She didn’t know what to say. Should she comfort her mother? Thank her? Apologize?
“You need to go back.”
Her mother spoke without turning to face her.
“What?”
“To Seoul. You can’t stay here. Staying would just mean continuing to run. Abandoning Dohyun, abandoning me, and abandoning yourself.”
Now her mother looked at Seah. Her eyes were the sun itself—warm and burning simultaneously.
“You’ll go and sing. With your name. With your voice. That’s the only way. The only way to save Dohyun. To save me. To save yourself.”
“But Kang Riou—”
Seah began.
“That man can’t touch you anymore. Because you’re not alone. Mom is here, Dohyun is here, Haneul is here, and…”
Her mother paused. She seemed ready to say more, but the words wouldn’t come. Perhaps: and you yourself are here.
Seah took her mother’s hand. That rough, gnarled, yet warm hand. A hand that had spent decades in water. A hand that continued working even after burying a husband. A hand that had raised Seah and Dohyun. A hand now letting go, sending her away. Toward her own path.
“You already knew everything, didn’t you?”
Seah’s throat ached again. But this time not from Kang Riou’s fingers. From tears.
“Before I let you go, the last thing I can give you is this: to tell you that you must live. And that you’re not alone. That’s all I have to give.”
Her mother cupped Seah’s face in both hands. Morning light streamed in behind her, making her silhouette seem smaller. But within that small frame lived something immense. Resolve. Sacrifice. And a feeling too ancient and too deep to call love.
“Stay a few more days in Jeju. Then go back up.”
Her mother said.
“What about you?”
“I’ll stay here. Sometimes I’ll go out to sea. Sometimes I’ll watch over Dohyun. Now I don’t need to live for you. That’s why I can live longer.”
Seah understood her mother’s words. And simultaneously hated understanding them. What her mother described was separation. Independence. And beneath everything, the image of someone already prepared for their own end.
That afternoon, Seah walked the beach alone. Her mother rested at home. After the phone call with Dohyun, she looked exhausted. Not exhausted—depleted. As if she’d poured every ounce of energy into those words. So Seah had left, giving her mother that space. And needing time to think herself.
Jeju’s wind remained cold. November on Jeju was a different kind of cold than Seoul. Seoul’s cold reflected off concrete and asphalt, growing harsher. But Jeju’s cold came from the sea. A cold born of depths. Not sharp, but penetrating.
Seah sat on the same rock where she and her mother had sat that morning. The waves still came in the same rhythm. Exactly like the waves from this morning. Or perhaps different waves from the same ocean. The same water flowing endlessly. Scientifically impossible, perhaps, but it felt that way to her. Everything flowing. Nothing remaining the same.
Her phone rang. From Seoul. The number was unknown, but it felt like Haneul. Seah stared at the phone for a long time. She knew she should answer, but once she did, everything would become real. Right now she still floated in clouds. Still drifted on Jeju’s waters.
Finally, she answered.
“Hey, Na Seah! What are you doing? You won’t answer calls, no texts, what’s going on?!”
Haneul’s voice exploded through the line. Beneath the anger ran something deeper—worry.
“I’m in Jeju.”
Seah said. Her throat still hurt. But now she thought she could bear it. Because this pain wasn’t from Kang Riou’s hands. It was a pain she could endure.
“Jeju? Why Jeju? Wait, I’m not even in a position to ask that. Are you alive?”
“I’m alive.”
“Really? Not lying?”
“Not lying.”
Haneul’s breathing deepened. Seah heard her sigh through the phone. A deep sigh, long accumulated.
“You’re seriously… completely crazy. You left Seoul because of that bastard Kang Riou? Really?”
“It’s not exactly—”
Seah started, but that sounded like a lie too. Or not quite a lie, not quite the truth. Something more complicated.
“When are you coming back?”
“I don’t know. Not yet…”
“Not yet? Na Seah, what are you doing? You have things to do in Seoul. You need to deal with the Kang Riou situation, work on your music…”
“Haneul.”
Seah cut her off.
“I’m sorry. Really. I didn’t answer calls, no messages, just… disappeared. I’m insane.”
Silence flowed through the phone. So long that Seah wondered if they’d been disconnected. But the line held. Haneul’s silence accepting Seah’s words. A silence louder than any words.
“Okay. So what now? Staying in Jeju?”
Haneul asked.
“I’m going back. My mom said to. She said I need to go back and sing.”
“Sing? Can you even sing right now? Your throat that bad?”
“I don’t know. Maybe… time heals. That’s what Mom said.”
Seah spoke, and as she did, she heard her mother’s voice: Time heals. In a week or two, you’ll be better. How much lived experience lay in those simple words. Her mother had proven them with her entire life.
“Well, okay. Come back then. Come back and prepare slowly. And…”
Haneul paused.
“And?”
Seah asked.
“And… face me. I have a lot of apologies to make. To you. And you probably have things to say to me too. Let’s do all of that. At once.”
Haneul’s voice was resolute. Like a tattoo artist picking up the needle. The determination to mark something irreversible.
“Okay.”
Seah said.
“And Na Seah. You’re really completely away from that Kang Riou, right? You’re not afraid of what he might say?”
Haneul’s question was sharp. Necessary.
“I’m completely… away. And I’m not afraid. Because…”
Seah looked at the sea. The waves still came in their own rhythm.
“Because?”
Haneul asked.
“Because now I have somewhere to return to. My mom’s there, Dohyun’s there, and…”
Seah paused. The next words were for herself, not for Haneul.
“And I’m there too.”
Through the phone, Seah heard Haneul struggling not to cry. So faintly.
“Okay, Na Seah. Come back then. Slowly, but surely.”
The call ended. Seah set down her phone and looked at the waves again. They still made the same sound. But now it sounded different. Like someone calling her back. Telling her to return. But simultaneously, telling her to leave.
When evening came, Seah returned home. Her mother was preparing dinner again. This time as if someone were coming. Not just rice, but several side dishes sat on the table. Mackerel. Seaweed soup. Radish kimchi her mother had made herself.
“Is someone coming?”
Seah asked.
“No one. It’s just the three of us eating.”
Her mother said.
“Three?”
“Yes. You’re here, and Dohyun will arrive from school. Tomorrow morning on the first bus.”
Seah’s eyes widened. Dohyun coming to Jeju? Impossible, she thought. Dohyun had school, friends, every reason to stay in Seoul. Yet her mother had summoned him.
“Mom, Dohyun has school—”
“I know. That’s why he’s only staying two days. Friday and Saturday. He goes back Sunday evening. But during those two days, the four of us will be together.”
Her mother said while serving rice. The word “four” sounded strange to Seah. Her mother, herself, Dohyun. That was three. Four made no sense. Unless… was her mother counting her father? Or someone else?
Seah didn’t voice the question. Instead, she stood beside her mother and helped serve the rice. That small act felt like an answer. This moment. This table. Everything here was enough. Promising to return while being fully present now. Wasn’t that what living meant?
Night deepened. Seah lay in her old room. On the ceiling, those faded stickers still clung. Stars she’d placed as a child. Not because she loved stars, but because she wanted to recreate the night sky indoors. She’d wanted something glowing in the darkness.
Her phone rang. A Seoul number. Unknown. Seah stared at it for a long time. Had Kang Riou changed his number? She decided to answer. She couldn’t keep running forever.
“Hello?”
Seah said.
“Ah, Ms. Na Seah?”
The voice was unfamiliar. A man’s voice, but not Kang Riou’s.
“Yes, who is this?”
“I’m Park Inchul, a producer at JYA Entertainment. We’ve met before, haven’t we?”
Seah’s heart raced. JYA. The company’s name alone made her chest tighten.
“Yes. I remember.”
Seah said.
“Well, I’ve learned that you’re in Jeju. I was wondering… do you have no intention of returning? We have a project at the company we’d like to collaborate with you on.”
Park Inchul’s voice was smooth. Honey-coated. Seah sensed danger beneath that smoothness.
“A project?”
“Yes. You know those songs you composed. We’d like to develop them into a proper album. Under your name.”
Seah’s breath caught. Under your name. She understood what that meant. But not what it signified.
“Please think about it and contact me. Your music is really excellent. I’ll handle it personally.”
Park Inchul said, and the call ended.
Seah held the phone for a long time. And slowly, slowly, laughter came.
No, not laughter.
Tears.
Tears from an emotion she couldn’t identify.
The stars on the ceiling watched her. Those stars she’d placed as a child. Now she understood what they meant. Not hope. Fire. Small fire. The kind that burned slowly in darkness. Fire small as a match, but never extinguishing.
Seah rose and opened the window. Jeju’s night wind entered. Salty, deep, endless wind.
“I need to go back tomorrow.”
She whispered to herself.
“See Dohyun, eat with Mom, and then…”
She stopped. Then what? She didn’t know herself. But her mother’s words echoed: Go and sing. With your name. With your voice.
Yes. Then came music. No longer for someone else. For herself. Songs sung in her own name.
Night deepened, and in Seah’s heart, a fire burned brighter.
# The Jeju Night, and the Beginning
The moment Seah saw the number on her phone screen, her fingers froze. Kang Riou. That name hung on the display before vanishing. Or rather, it looked like his number. Same area code, same pattern of digits. Had he changed his number? Or was someone borrowing his phone?
Seah picked up and put down her phone repeatedly. The screen’s glow was the only light in her dark room. Jeju’s night ran deep, and beyond the window came only the distant sound of black waves. The sound of waves pulling at pebbles. A sound like someone constantly calling her.
I can’t keep running.
She couldn’t shake that thought. Eight months since leaving Seoul. At first she’d called it escape. But now it felt different. Not a refuge so much as a place to pause, to catch her breath. Yet she couldn’t remain paused forever.
Her phone rang again.
Seah breathed deeply. Air entered through her nose, settling into her lungs. Her hands trembled. This wasn’t just a call. It was a passage to the past. To Seoul. To everything she’d fled.
“Hello?”
Her voice came out calmer than expected. Even she was surprised. It sounded like someone else speaking.
“Ah, Ms. Na Seah?”
The voice was unfamiliar. A man’s voice, but absolutely not Kang Riou’s. His voice was low and heavy, like a stone sunk to the bottom. This was different. Smooth, measured, calculated.
“Yes, who is this?”
Seah sat down. She felt unable to stand. Her knees wavered.
“I’m Park Inchul, a producer at JYA Entertainment. We’ve met before, haven’t we?”
JYA.
That name alone made her heart plummet. JYA Entertainment. One of Seoul’s largest entertainment companies. The company where Kang Riou worked. Where he served as a producer.
Seah remembered. Park Inchul. The name and face both. Two years ago when she met Kang Riou, she’d visited his office. Park Inchul had passed her in the hallway. Black suit, latest smartphone in hand. His eyes were cold. Like the gaze of a calculating machine.
“Yes. I remember.”
A lie. His face was vaguely familiar, but she didn’t really know who he was. But she had to lie. A matter of courtesy.
“Well, I’ve learned that you’re in Jeju.”
Park Inchul’s voice remained smooth. Honey-coated. But Seah detected something sharp hidden beneath that smoothness. A steel fist in a velvet glove.
“Do you have no intention of returning?”
No intention of returning?
Those words circled in her mind. Returning to what? Seoul? To music? To Kang Riou?
“We have a project at the company we’d like to collaborate with you on.”
Seah swallowed. Her throat was dry. The air in the room suddenly felt suffocating. She wanted to open the window. Let in Jeju’s night breeze. But her body wouldn’t move.
“A project?”
Her voice came thin. Like invisible hands strangling her throat.
“Yes. Those songs you composed. We’d like to develop them into a proper album.”
Seah’s breathing became shallow. Songs she’d composed. Those songs. The ones she’d made through sleepless nights. The ones she’d created for Kang Riou’s album. The ones she’d given to Kang Riou on the condition that her name would never appear.
“Under your name.”
Seah’s breath stopped. Really stopped. Like her heart had missed a beat. Under your name. She understood what that meant. But not what it truly signified.
To release an album under her own name?
To become an artist?
It was impossible. No, it was possible, but she didn’t want it. What she’d wanted was simply to create music. From behind someone. In darkness. She didn’t need to step forward.
“Please think about it and contact me. Your music is really excellent. I’ll handle it personally.”
Park Inchul’s voice remained smooth. But that smoothness was no longer smoothness. It was a threat. A polite threat.
The call ended.
Seah held her phone for a long time. The screen had already gone dark, but she continued holding it. Like clinging to a lifeline.
Then, slowly, slowly, came laughter.
No. Not laughter.
Tears.
Tears from an emotion she couldn’t identify. They came like a dam breaking after years of being sealed—rough, harsh, deep. Seah couldn’t close her mouth. Tears fell. She cried without understanding why.
Is this joy? Or fear? Or both?
She couldn’t analyze her own feelings. She simply cried.
She looked at the ceiling.
Stars clung there. Small fluorescent stars. The ones she’d placed as a child. When she’d first entered this room in high school, she’d created a night sky to ease the boredom. Then she’d known what those stars meant. Hope. Future. Dreams.
But now she understood what they truly meant.
They weren’t hope. They were fire.
Small fire. The kind that burned slowly in darkness. Fire small as a match, but never extinguishing. That fire had burned constantly. Burned her heart. Burned her nights.
And now that fire wanted to burn brighter.
Seah rose. Her movements felt unnatural. Like controlling someone else’s body. Yet they were unmistakably her own.
She opened the window.
Jeju’s night wind entered.
Salty, deep, endless wind. It caressed her face. Like someone brushing away her tears. Seah closed her eyes. It felt like being purified. Like receiving baptism.
She opened her mouth.
“I need to go back tomorrow.”
A whisper to herself. But absolute. Without doubt.
“See Dohyun, eat with Mom, and then…”
She paused. Then what? She didn’t know. Or perhaps she did. But she feared speaking it aloud.
Then came her mother’s voice. Of course, her mother wasn’t here. But the voice was clear. Like emerging from the deepest part of her soul.
Go and sing. With your name. With your voice.
Yes.
Then came music.
No longer for someone else. For herself. Songs sung in her own name. Her voice released to the world.
Seah leaned against the window. Night wind rustled her hair. Distant sea sounds reached her. That sound like applause. Like someone cheering her on.
Night deepened.
But a fire in Seah’s heart burned brighter. No longer a match-small flame. It became a torch. Large, bright, hot. And that fire no longer burned her—it illuminated her.
Tomorrow she would return.
She would bow before her father’s photograph. Hold her mother’s hand. Embrace Dohyun. Then she would stand on a stage.
Under her own name.
With her own voice.
No longer a shadow, but light.
Epilogue
Four in the morning.
Seah packed her things. Her fingers trembled, but her heart was decided. She grabbed her small laptop. Inside lived every song she’d ever made. Songs composed for Kang Riou. Songs composed for others. Songs she’d wanted to compose for herself.
Now all of them would see light.
Seah looked at the ceiling stars once more.
“Thank you, little stars.”
She whispered.
“I guess I need to become light too.”
She closed the window. Jeju remained black, deep, and silent.
But Seah’s heart was no longer that way.
Her heart sang.
With her own name.
With her own voice.
Finally, toward a new morning beginning.