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# Chapter 101: The Fifth Step
The flight to Jeju was departing at 4:30 in the afternoon. Sea-ah sat in the airport lounge, gazing out the window. Airplanes lined up on the runway like birds. Like birds waiting for something. Whether those birds would ever take flight or remain tethered to the ground—no one could know.
Hae-neul sat beside her, fidgeting with a phone. But the screen was dark, powered off. Only her fingers moved in habit—a gesture to maintain the illusion that she had something to do.
“Something wrong?”
Hae-neul asked suddenly.
Sea-ah looked at her friend. Exhaustion was written across that face. Deep exhaustion. The kind that came from nights spent at the hospital, following police procedures, visiting lawyer’s offices. The exhaustion of someone carrying another’s burden.
“What do you mean?”
Sea-ah asked.
“Going to Jeju. Doesn’t it feel strange?”
“Why would it?”
“Because for the last few months, you never left Seoul. Because of Kang Ri-u. You thought you couldn’t escape his grip. But now you’re leaving. And you’re going alone.”
Hae-neul said.
Sea-ah watched the airplanes outside as she listened. Those birds were about to take flight. Their wheels preparing to leave the ground. Once airborne, there was no returning. That was what flying was. That was escape. Or rather, that was departure.
“I’m not afraid.”
Sea-ah said.
“Liar.”
Hae-neul said it plainly. Without judgment. As if it were simply fact.
“It’s not a lie.”
Sea-ah said.
“Then what is it? If not fear?”
Hae-neul asked.
Sea-ah thought about that question. If not fear, then what? Relief? No. Liberation? That wasn’t it either. What she felt was something more precise than that. It was—
“Confirmation.”
Sea-ah said.
“Of what?”
“That I’m alive.”
When Hae-neul heard this, she closed her mouth and looked out at the planes. At those birds.
“Then go. Go feel that you’re alive.”
Hae-neul said.
When boarding time came, Hae-neul walked Sea-ah to the gate. To the security checkpoint. She couldn’t go further than that. From there on, Sea-ah was alone. A passage to another world. A passage to another life.
“What will you do in Jeju?”
Hae-neul asked.
“I need to see my mom. And Do-hyun.”
Sea-ah said.
“What about your brother?”
Hae-neul asked.
“What?”
“Number one. What about me? Are you not going to think about me in Jeju?”
Hae-neul said it like a joke. But her eyes weren’t laughing.
“Of course I will.”
Sea-ah said.
“Don’t lie. Once you get to Jeju, you’ll forget about Seoul. You’ll see that ocean, you’ll run into your mom’s arms, and you’ll forget what Seoul even is. You’ll forget about me too.”
Hae-neul said.
“No.”
Sea-ah said.
“Really. That’s who you are. Once you leave, you don’t look back. That’s you, and I know it. So it’s okay. Go. And find something good there. Something I couldn’t find. Something I gave up on. You find it.”
Hae-neul said.
Sea-ah looked at her friend as she listened. This person. Who had been beside her these past months. Who had kept her from leaving. Now was letting her go.
“Thank you.”
Sea-ah said.
“Message me when you land.”
Hae-neul said.
Passing through security, Sea-ah turned back. Hae-neul was still standing there, waving slowly. As if seeing someone off. As if knowing that person could never return.
The cabin smelled sharp. Disinfectant. Artificial fragrance. And hundreds of strangers. All heading toward their own destinations. Some to Jeju. Others elsewhere. All toward different lives.
Sea-ah took a window seat. She placed her small bag in the overhead bin. A few clothes. Toiletries. And a pamphlet for a counseling center from the police station. That was all she was bringing.
The plane began moving down the runway. Slowly at first. Then faster. The engine roared like something awakening. Like the world trembling.
And then the wheels left the ground. In an instant. Suddenly. As if the plane itself became a bird. As if she too were soaring up with it.
Sea-ah looked out the window. Seoul was shrinking below. Buildings becoming dots. The river like thread. Everything growing distant.
Kang Ri-u. That name too was left below. The lawyer. The police station. All of it left below. But she couldn’t completely escape it. Those things lived in her bones. Like metal shards. Like splinters that couldn’t be removed.
The plane climbed above the clouds. White clouds. Above them, clear sky. Blue. Deep blue. Ocean-like blue.
Sea-ah looked at her hands. Her fingers. Her nails. Her palm lines. What had she done with these hands? What could she write with them?
A flight attendant brought the meal service. A sandwich. A drink. Chocolate in a small packet. Sea-ah took them. But didn’t eat. Only held them. As if to maintain the gesture of doing something.
A man sat beside her. Around fifty. Reading a newspaper. The business section. Corporate news. A story about some company being acquired. Someone’s job would have disappeared. Someone’s life would have changed. But the newspaper expressed it only in numbers.
Sea-ah closed her eyes. She didn’t want to look out anymore. Not at Seoul. Not at the clouds. Nothing. Only darkness. The darkness behind her eyes. That was the safest place.
There, Sea-ah thought. About the past few months. The night she met Kang Ri-u. The hospital entrance. The Han River bridge. The fluorescent lights of the police station. The gray walls of the lawyer’s office. Everything felt like a dream. But it wasn’t. It was reality. A reality she had actually lived through.
So what was this? The airplane. Above the clouds. Nowhere. This wasn’t reality. It was in-between space. Between Seoul and Jeju. Between past and future. Between death and life.
The plane hit turbulence. Suddenly shaking. As if something was pushing her down. As if someone was trying to force her lower. Passengers screamed. The man beside her crumpled his newspaper. But Sea-ah didn’t move.
This shaking. This too was proof of being alive. Proof of colliding with things in the air. Proof that her body was attached to something.
“Is this your first time?”
The man beside her asked, feigning concern. But really just wanting to share his fear with someone.
“No.”
Sea-ah said. It was a lie.
“You seem experienced then.”
The man said, turning back to his newspaper. The newspaper was safer. The world inside it was simpler.
Two and a half hours passed. The plane was approaching Jeju airport. The captain’s voice came through. Instructing passengers to prepare for landing. A voice waking people bound for another world.
Sea-ah looked out the window again. Jeju appeared. The coastline. Blues. Greens. Gray mountains. Everything growing larger. From points to lines. From lines to planes. From abstract to concrete.
As the plane descended, the wheels touched ground. Land. Earth again. Coming down from the sky. Returning to the realm of gravity. Feeling weight again.
When she left the airport, Sea-ah smelled the air. Different from Seoul. Salty. Wind. And something familiar. A childhood smell. A smell she had forgotten. Or tried to forget.
The taxi driver wore a scarf. It was winter. Jeju’s winter was different from Seoul’s. Less cold. Less dry. As if the sea shared its warmth.
“Where are you headed?”
The driver asked.
Sea-ah gave the address. Her childhood home. Where her mother was. Where Do-hyun would be. But she didn’t know if it was still her home. If it was still ready to receive her.
The taxi moved. Along Jeju’s roads. Black asphalt. White lines above it. Tangerine fields on either side. Stone walls. Places she had run through as a child. Land her feet had touched.
Everything felt right and yet strange. As if watching someone else’s memories. As if she wasn’t the person who had lived there.
The taxi continued. Over mountains. Through villages. The sea growing closer. Sea-ah smelled it again. Salt. Seaweed. And her mother.
The house came into view. A small house. Built of stone. The roof seemed covered in moss. But the window lights were on. Someone was waiting. Someone was waiting for her.
Sea-ah got out of the taxi. Her feet touched Jeju soil. Again. After so long. As if for the first time. As if for the last.
The door opened. It was her mother. A diver’s face. Darkly tanned. But her eyes were still soft. Deep like the sea.
“You came.”
Her mother said. That was all. No questions. No explanations. Just confirmation. That her daughter had returned.
Sea-ah looked at her mother. And understood why she had come here. Not to escape. But to return. To relearn who she was. To remember where she came from.
“Yes. I’m here.”
Sea-ah said.
Her mother embraced her. Without words. In that embrace was everything. The answer to every question. Forgiveness for every guilt. The end of every loneliness.
Jeju’s night was quiet. Not bright like Seoul’s nights. More stars were visible. As if the entire sky were filled with small lights. As if someone had lit them one by one.
Sea-ah lay in her childhood room. On the ceiling, a pattern of spots. She had thought those spots were stars. That her small room was her small universe. And that nothing existed beyond it.
But now she knew. Those spots weren’t stars. Only moisture. Mold. Traces left by time. And the universe was far larger, deeper, darker. Too vast to escape from.
Do-hyun was still awake. Studying for high school. Hunched over his desk. As if it were the most important thing he needed to protect.
“Unni?”
Do-hyun looked up.
“Yeah.”
Sea-ah said.
“It’s been a while.”
Do-hyun said. Very plainly.
“I’m sorry.”
Sea-ah said.
“Why did you come?”
Do-hyun asked.
“To live.”
Sea-ah said.
Do-hyun seemed to understand what that meant. He returned to his book. But his hand stopped. His fingers didn’t move across the page. As if he too needed that answer.
Night deepened. The night of Jeju. A silent night. But that silence wasn’t hostile. It was protective. A silence saying she was allowed to be here. That she was meant to be here.
Sea-ah looked out at the stars again. One by one. Not dots but lights. Not someone else’s lights but her own.
There was still time until morning. And during that time, she would be here. In Jeju. With her mother. With Do-hyun. In her own time.
Where was Kang Ri-u? Somewhere in Seoul, lying down. What was the lawyer doing? Probably preparing for the next trial. And Hae-neul? Probably holding a needle to someone’s arm at the tattoo shop.
And she was here. Jeju’s night. Beside her mother. In a place where she could hear Do-hyun’s books. Where was this? What was this?
Sea-ah began searching for an answer to that question. It wasn’t a refuge. Not a place to hide. Not the end of running. It was—
“Mom.”
Sea-ah called out to her mother.
“Yes.”
Her mother answered. As if she had been waiting.
“Can I be here?”
Sea-ah asked.
When her mother heard this, she stroked Sea-ah’s hair. Without words. With her hand. Her mother’s hand was warm. Like a sun-warmed stone. Like the warmth the Jeju sea gives.
“Of course you can. You’re my daughter.”
Her mother said.
In that moment, Sea-ah understood what she had been waiting for. Just that sentence. That confirmation. That she was someone’s daughter. That she belonged somewhere. That she could return to where she was born.
Night deepened further. Her mother went to her room. Do-hyun finally fell asleep. His face buried in his books. Sea-ah was alone. With the stars beyond the window.
And in that moment, what she had felt on the plane returned. It wasn’t fear. Not fear or relief. It was confirmation. That she was alive. That she was moving. That she was here.
The lights slowly went out. Her mother’s room. Do-hyun’s desk. And the stars outside her window too. One by one. Slowly. Until morning came.
Sea-ah closed her eyes. And thought of tomorrow. What would she do tomorrow? Help her mother? Talk with Do-hyun? Or simply be here?
But that was tomorrow’s problem. Now it was night. Jeju’s night. Her night. The night she had lived through. The night she had endured. And the night she could begin again.
Downstairs, her mother was organizing something. Small sounds. As if moving secretly. But Sea-ah recognized those sounds. Her mother was preparing her room. The room she had kept ready for so long. Ready for when she returned. That room had waited even when she left. Even when she didn’t come back.
Sea-ah opened her eyes. And looked at the stars beyond the window again. One by one. Not dots but lights. Her own lights.
There was still time until morning. And during that time, she would be here. In Jeju. With her mother. In her own time.
# Book 5, Chapter 1: Two Nights
## Part 1: Parallel Lines
Where would Hae-neul be right now?
Sea-ah found herself lost in that thought as she gazed at Jeju’s night scenery through the taxi window. 1:30 AM. Exactly two hours and ten minutes since landing. It was still the deep of night in Seoul.
The tattoo shop, probably.
Sea-ah closed her eyes. The black ceiling materialized—the tattoo shop’s ceiling. Beneath those fluorescent lights, Hae-neul would be pressing a needle against someone’s skin. Whose arm was it? What design did they want? Was Hae-neul smiling at them, or just working with that expressionless face?
Sea-ah couldn’t know. Not anymore. She had decided to stop sharing in Hae-neul’s everyday life.
The taxi moved along Jeju’s coastal road. The black asphalt gleamed, streetlights stretching endlessly across it like a path laid out for her. As if created just for her return. As if to guide her back.
Not returning. Just visiting.
Sea-ah drew her finger along the window. The glass was lukewarm. The air outside would be much colder. Jeju’s winter night held a chill. But within it was something else. The sea’s scent. Salt. A smell from so long ago.
“This is it.”
The taxi driver’s voice jolted her. The dialect of this place, a sound she’d heard since she was six. Sea-ah snapped to attention as if waking from a dream. As if she hadn’t been conscious until that moment.
The house came into view.
A single-story cottage. Surrounded by a stone wall. A camellia tree standing beside the entrance. The house from her earliest memories. The one where she’d first held her mother’s hand. Where she’d seen her first night sky full of stars.
Sea-ah slowly stepped out. Her luggage wasn’t heavy. One black roller bag and a small backpack. As if prepared to leave again at any moment.
“Thank you.”
Sea-ah handed the driver money. He hesitated before taking it, studying her face once more.
“Haven’t I seen you somewhere…”
“First time.”
Sea-ah smiled. A lie. And also the truth. Because the Sea-ah who was six and the Sea-ah standing here now were different people entirely.
Before opening the front door, Sea-ah stopped once more.
Her heart raced. Her fingers trembled. As if about to go on a first date. Or face the most important job interview. But this was neither. It was far scarier. Far more important.
Mother.
Sea-ah repeated the word silently. Mother. It was the word she’d used least in the past ten years. The word she’d never used at all, really. Mom. Dad. Parents. Family. Such words had never left her lips.
But tonight, Sea-ah had to use it.
She took a deep breath. In through her nose. Jeju’s night air filled her lungs. Mixed within it were the scent of the sea, the smell of earth, and something that was simultaneously strange and familiar.
She turned the handle.
The door wouldn’t open.
Sea-ah tried again, harder. It was locked. Of course it was. No one left their door unlocked at 1:30 in the morning.
Sea-ah pulled out her phone from her bag. Her mother’s number was still saved. From ten years ago. Did she still use it? Sea-ah felt her fingers shake.
The phone rang. Once. Twice. Three times.
“Hello?”
A voice answered.
Sea-ah couldn’t speak. As if her tongue had vanished somewhere. Just hearing that voice felt like her chest might burst. Such an old voice. A voice she hadn’t heard in so long. Yet she remembered it exactly. As if she’d heard it yesterday.
“I… I’m here.”
Sea-ah’s voice wavered. Not like a sixteen-year-old. Like a small child.
“What?”
There was a pause in her mother’s voice. A silence that felt eternal. Sea-ah contemplated the possibility that she’d made a mistake. That her mother might not want her. That her mother might have forgotten.
“Sea-ah?”
But that fear dissolved instantly. Her mother had recognized her. From her voice alone.
“Yeah, Mom.”
Sea-ah answered quietly.
“Now? What time is it?”
“It’s early morning. I’m sorry for showing up like this…”
“Wait. Just wait.”
Her mother didn’t hang up. Instead, she started moving. Sea-ah heard it all. Getting out of bed. Shuffling in slippers. Turning on lights throughout the house. As if her mother was following Sea-ah’s every movement. Or as if waking the entire house to confirm Sea-ah’s existence.
“Are you at the front door?”
Her mother’s voice came closer.
“Yes.”
Soon, the door opened.
## Part 2: Homecoming
Her mother was both different and the same as she remembered.
She had aged. Sea-ah noticed it first. Gray mixed through her black hair. Deep lines etched into her face. Age marked her hands. But her eyes were unchanged. Their color. The light within them.
“Sea-ah…”
Her mother said only one word. Then pulled her into an embrace.
Sea-ah couldn’t move. As if she’d turned to stone. She couldn’t breathe within her mother’s arms. As if ten years had come crashing down all at once. Every choice. Every decision. Every escape.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. My Sea-ah.”
Her mother kept murmuring. As if comforting herself. Or comforting Sea-ah.
Slowly, Sea-ah raised her arms. And held her mother back. In that moment, she understood how lonely she had been. Out on the streets. At school. Even with Hae-neul. She had always been waiting for someone.
“Come inside. Come in.”
Her mother took her hand and led her into the house.
The living room light was on. Sea-ah looked around. It was almost unchanged from ten years ago. The same sofa. The same bookshelf. The same smell. Yet something was definitely different. More books. Photos on the walls. Sea-ah avoided looking at them. She didn’t want to see photos without herself in them.
“Where… where did you come from? By plane?”
Her mother asked. Questions that sounded more like statements. As if confirming what she already knew.
“From Seoul.”
“What about Do-hyun?”
Sea-ah was startled. Her mother knew about Do-hyun. That she had been aware.
“He’s sleeping. At his desk.”
“You came alone?”
“Yes.”
Hearing that, her mother embraced her again. This time longer. As if afraid that if she let go, Sea-ah would disappear once more.
“Have you eaten? Are you tired?”
“I’m fine.”
Sea-ah lied. She was exhausted. Not in body but in spirit. Ten years of carrying everything alone.
Her mother took Sea-ah’s hand and led her to the bedroom.
The room was exactly as it had been.
As if time had stopped the day Sea-ah left. As if someone had frozen that moment. A drawing hung on the wall—something young Sea-ah had drawn in first grade. Mom and Dad and me. The sun yellow. The grass blue. The house red. In a child’s world, everything had its own colors.
“This is…”
Sea-ah couldn’t finish.
“I didn’t take it down. Couldn’t take it down. This is…”
Her mother also couldn’t finish.
Sea-ah sat on the bed. The bed was unchanged too. Same blankets. Same pillow. As if she had only just left.
“Is it okay if I’m here?”
Sea-ah asked. For the first time, she asked her mother. Not Hae-neul. Her mother.
Instead of answering, her mother stroked Sea-ah’s hair. Silently. With her hand. Her mother’s hand was warm. Like sun-warmed stone. Like the warmth of the Jeju sea. Sea-ah closed her eyes.
“Of course it is. You’re my daughter.”
Her mother said.
In that moment, Sea-ah understood what she had been waiting for. Not trial preparations. Not school. Not even Hae-neul. Just that. One sentence. That confirmation.
That she was someone’s daughter.
Sea-ah repeated it silently.
That she belonged somewhere.
Again.
That she was allowed to return to where she was born.
Night deepened further.
Her mother went to her own room. Sea-ah lay on the living room sofa. Her mother had made the bed for her—spreading sheets, placing a pillow, draping a blanket. As if Sea-ah were still a child. Or to prove she had been unable to do this for so long.
“Mom.”
Sea-ah called out.
“Yes.”
Her mother answered immediately. As if she had been waiting.
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?”
“For leaving. For not coming back. For all this time…”
“That’s what I should apologize for.”
Her mother cut her off. Her voice was shaking.
“You have nothing to apologize for. Ever.”
Her mother’s hand stroked Sea-ah’s hair once more. This time like a goodbye.
Sea-ah closed her eyes.
The living room light went out. Her mother’s room light went out. The house grew quiet. Only the sound of the clock ticking remained. Tick-tick. Tick-tick. As if time itself had started flowing again.
## Part 3: Questions in the Night
Sea-ah couldn’t sleep.
She stared at the ceiling. The living room ceiling. She remembered this too. Its shape. The shadows it cast. As a child, she had watched this ceiling and waited for something. What had she been waiting for?
Sea-ah opened her eyes. The dark living room was visible. But not complete darkness. Starlight from outside filtered in. Jeju’s night sky. Unpolluted black. Countless lights within it.
What is Hae-neul doing right now?
She thought it again. 1:30 AM here meant 2:30 AM in Seoul. The tattoo shop had probably closed. Where was Hae-neul? In her room? Out on the street? Or next to someone?
Sea-ah picked up her phone. The screen lit up. Hae-neul’s name was saved. But Sea-ah didn’t call. Instead, she searched the news.
“Court Postpones Trial in Juvenile Assault Case”
An article appeared. Sea-ah didn’t read it. She already knew. That Hae-neul would have to testify in court. That she would need to take the stand. All of it.
Sea-ah set the phone down.
A sound came from downstairs. Her mother was coming down.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
Her mother asked. She didn’t seem to have slept either.
“No. You either, Mom?”