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# Chapter 106: Do-hyun’s Voice
The boy was returning from academy.
Se-a stood waiting in front of the house, having gotten out of her mother’s car. The old fence. Paint peeling from the gate. That shabby look peculiar to houses on Jeju’s south side. But to Se-a, it was home. The place where Se-a was born. The place where Se-a first sang. That bathroom where her mother washed her hair. That living room where she soothed Do-hyun’s cries through the night when he was born.
Her mother went inside without a word. She understood that Se-a and Do-hyun needed time together. Time without their mother.
When Do-hyun appeared around the corner of the alley, Se-a’s heart stopped. Truly. As if it had ceased beating altogether. Se-a hadn’t seen Do-hyun in a long time. Only photographs. Pictures her mother had sent. But the real Do-hyun was different from the photos.
He had grown taller. His shoulders had broadened. His face had become more masculine. As though the months Se-a had been gone had passed like years for him. As though her absence had accelerated his growth.
When Do-hyun saw Se-a, he froze. In the middle of the alley. Academy bag in hand. His face went pale.
“Noona?”
It was a question, but also a confirmation. A verification that he was seeing something correctly.
“Do-hyun.”
Se-a spoke. Her voice barely emerged. How long had it been since she’d called his name? How long since she’d spoken it aloud? That name was too heavy for her. The name of someone she had abandoned. The name of someone she had turned away from.
Do-hyun walked toward her slowly. Careful steps, as though Se-a were an illusion that might vanish if he moved too quickly. He looked at her up close. At her face. Her eyes. Her mouth. As if confirming that she was truly here.
“When did you get here?”
Do-hyun asked, his voice trembling.
“Just now. From the airport with Mom.”
Se-a replied.
Do-hyun said nothing more. He just looked at her. For a long time. Se-a couldn’t bear his gaze. It held too much. Joy. Anger. Hurt. And something more. Some emotion Se-a couldn’t define.
“I’m sorry.”
Se-a spoke first.
“Sorry? You’re sorry?”
Do-hyun suddenly raised his voice. It was the first time. The first time he’d ever raised his voice to Se-a. Do-hyun had always been quiet. Always patient. He’d silently accepted everything his older siblings did. But now that silence broke.
“Does saying sorry change anything? Do these hours when you weren’t here come back? I saw Mom crying too. At night. In her room. Saying you weren’t picking up. That she didn’t know what you were doing. How many times did I hear her cry like that?”
Do-hyun spoke. His voice continued to tremble.
“I couldn’t do anything. Your number was blocked. You weren’t reading my messages. Mom kept grabbing my shoulders and crying. What did I do? I just… prepared for college entrance exams. Just studied. I thought since you weren’t here, I had to do well. I had to not worry Mom. I had to do well enough for both of us. That’s what I thought.”
Do-hyun’s voice grew smaller. The end of his words were barely audible.
“Do-hyun…”
Se-a tried to speak.
“But now you’re here. You just… come. You say you’re sorry. But what about me? What do I become? What was everything I did for?”
Do-hyun asked. And that question wasn’t anger in the end. It was despair. The despair of everything he’d done becoming meaningless. The despair of all the days he’d endured being negated in an instant by someone’s return.
Se-a’s chest felt like it would tear. Truly. Like someone had opened her chest and reached in to squeeze her heart. Looking at Do-hyun, Se-a realized how deep a wound her choice had left. It was so much deeper than she’d thought.
“I was wrong. Really.”
Se-a spoke. This time with a deeper voice. With more sincerity.
“What does being wrong even mean?”
Do-hyun asked.
“I studied because of you. I prepared for college entrance exams because of you. While you were gone, I tried to do well enough for both of us. But then you come and say sorry…? What am I then? What was my effort? What did I endure for?”
Tears fell from Do-hyun’s eyes. Very slowly. As if even tears were heavy. As if each tear drop demanded enormous energy from him.
Se-a wanted to embrace Do-hyun. But she couldn’t. Because Do-hyun didn’t want it. His body was rigid. Ready to push her away.
“I’ll help you. With your college prep. I’ll help with everything. For you. Really.”
Se-a said.
“Yeah. Do whatever. But noona. Make sure you’re sincere with me. Check if you’re doing this for me, or if someone else is telling you to do it again. Check. I don’t want to see you burning for someone anymore.”
Do-hyun spoke.
Those words hit Se-a precisely. Right in her chest. Do-hyun was right about what he’d seen. Se-a had always been burning for someone. For Mom. For Do-hyun. For Kang Ri-u. And now she was about to burn again for Do-hyun. But Do-hyun didn’t want that. What Do-hyun wanted wasn’t Se-a’s sacrifice. What Do-hyun wanted was for Se-a to burn for herself.
“I don’t know who I’m burning for anymore.”
Se-a said. Honestly. For the first time, truly honestly.
When Do-hyun heard those words, his face softened slightly. He was still hurt, but he seemed to feel Se-a’s sincerity.
“Then find it here. In Jeju. Find out who you’re burning for. What that is. What burning for yourself means. Find it. Please.”
Do-hyun said.
The front door opened. Their mother came out. She saw Se-a and Do-hyun. Both with tears streaming down their faces. She said nothing. She just witnessed the scene. As if watching her prayer come true. Watching her two children meet again.
“Come in. Let’s eat.”
Mom said. It was the most motherly thing she could say. Food. The most concrete expression of love a mother could give. Serving warm rice. Eating together.
Se-a and Do-hyun went inside. Side by side. But still maintaining distance.
The air inside mixed the scent of Jeju seaweed with the smell of cooking rice. Their mother must have already prepared rice. As if she’d anticipated Se-a’s return. As if she’d known Se-a would surely come back.
Several side dishes were laid on the table. Seasoned radish greens soup. Grilled fish. Pickled radish. All made by their mother. All flavors Se-a had longed for.
Do-hyun picked up his rice bowl and began eating without words. But it was the beginning of forgiveness. Eating together. Sitting at the same table. It was the best Do-hyun could do right now.
Se-a also ate. Her hands trembled. The hand holding her chopsticks kept shaking. But she ate. She ate the rice her mother had made. She ate warm rice.
Their mother didn’t eat. She watched Se-a and Do-hyun eating. As if confirming that her two children were eating enough. As if she thought this moment alone was enough for her.
“Mom, eat too.”
Se-a said.
“I already ate.”
Her mother replied. It was a lie. But not a bad lie. It was a lie born of love. A lie to make her children eat more.
While eating, no one spoke. They simply ate. Drank soup. Picked up side dishes. And in that silence, much was being restored. Time. Trust. And the meaning of family.
After the meal, Do-hyun went to his room. He must have had homework from academy. College entrance exam preparation awaited. But Do-hyun looked back several times. As if checking on Se-a. Making sure she was really here. Making sure she wouldn’t disappear again.
Se-a watched the room Do-hyun had entered. His room. She didn’t go in. Because Do-hyun hadn’t invited her. Do-hyun wasn’t ready to fully accept Se-a yet. And Se-a understood that.
Their mother cleared the table. Se-a tried to help, but her mother waved her hand.
“You rest. The trip must have been tiring.”
Their mother said.
“Yes. Thank you.”
Se-a replied in formal speech. Now this distance was necessary between Se-a and her mother. Respect, not intimacy. Because they had been wounded.
Se-a went to the living room window and looked out at Jeju’s evening sky.
The sun was setting. Orange fading to purple. Purple transitioning to blue. Colors were changing. Like Se-a’s heart. What had been murky was gradually becoming clear.
Se-a took out her phone from her bag. Then her hand stopped. Who should she contact? Ha-eul? Or the police? Or someone else?
But that wasn’t what Se-a wanted. What Se-a wanted was for her hands to stop trembling. For her voice to emerge. For her to know who she was burning for.
Se-a put the phone down. Not yet. It wasn’t time to contact anyone yet. It was still time to find herself.
The night was deepening. Jeju’s night. Different from Seoul’s night. Quieter. Deeper. In that night, Se-a was slowly finding herself again.
# The Table of Forgiveness
But it was the beginning of forgiveness. Eating together. Sitting at the same table. It was the best Do-hyun could manage right now.
Do-hyun picked up his rice bowl. His fingers transmitted the warmth of the bowl. Rice their mother had just cooked. Still steaming. He took rice with his chopsticks and put it in his mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. Then took more rice. Repeated motions. Simple, repetitive, and therefore all the more meaningful.
Did Se-a really come back? Or will she leave again?
Doubt still lingered in Do-hyun’s mind. She’d said she was traveling, then suddenly appeared in Jeju. His parents were happy, but Do-hyun was suspicious. Why had Se-a come back? What had brought her home? And would it make her leave again?
“Eat more.”
His mother’s voice came. She picked up Do-hyun’s bowl. Scooped more rice with the rice paddle. White grains settled gently into the bowl.
“That’s enough.”
Do-hyun said. But his mother had already set the bowl down. Her hands continued moving. She picked up the ladle. Spooned seaweed soup over his rice. The broth seeped into the grains. The rice softened.
Do-hyun looked at his mother. At her face. The wrinkles had deepened. Dark circles under her eyes. When had his mother begun to look so aged? Was it because of Se-a? Or because of him? Or both?
“Mom, thank you.”
Do-hyun said. A short sentence, but it held so much. Gratitude. Apology. And the hope to be together moving forward.
His mother’s eyes grew moist. But she didn’t cry. Instead, she stroked his head. Her fingers passed through his hair. A warm hand. A mother’s hand.
Se-a also ate. Her hands trembled. The hand holding her chopsticks kept shaking. That hand was like the hand of a newborn baby. Uncontrolled. A hand that revealed all her emotions.
Se-a gripped her chopsticks more tightly. She tried to suppress the trembling with finger strength. But the trembling didn’t stop. It began at her fingertips and spread through her entire arm.
It’s Mom’s rice. Rice Mom made.
Se-a closed her eyes. Then put rice in her mouth. Warm grains melted inside. The sweetness of rice spread on her tongue. The salt from the seaweed soup enriched the rice’s flavor. At that taste, Se-a’s tears began to flow.
But Se-a kept eating. She ate while crying. One spoonful at a time. One chopstick-full at a time. She swallowed everything that entered her mouth. As if it were the only way to save herself.
“Eat slowly. If you eat in a rush, you won’t digest well.”
Their mother said. Concern was in her voice. But it wasn’t an interrogation. It was pure care.
Se-a nodded. And slowed her pace. More slowly. More carefully. Savoring each grain of rice. Tasting each drop of broth.
Their mother didn’t eat. She watched Se-a and Do-hyun eating. Her hand rested on the table. Her fingers beside the rice spoon. She simply watched. As if confirming her two children were eating enough. As if she thought this moment alone was sufficient for her.
There was nothing in her mother’s eyes. No greed. No anxiety. Only deep love. That love was contained entirely in the way she looked at her children.
“Mom, please eat.”
Se-a said. She tried to ladle soup and place it in front of her mother. But her mother raised her hand to decline.
“I already ate.”
Her mother said.
Se-a looked at her mother’s face. At her rice bowl. It was still clean. The rice spoon showed no signs of use. Clearly a lie.
But Se-a didn’t point out the lie. Because she understood. She knew what kind of lie it was. That it wasn’t a bad lie. That it was a lie born of love.
Mom lied so she would eat more. If it was this kind of lie, she wanted to accept it.
Se-a picked up rice again. And ate while watching her mother. As if to confirm that the rice was her mother’s love. As if to feel through it that she was connected to her mother.
While eating, no one spoke. They simply ate. Drank soup. Picked up side dishes.
Do-hyun felt his heartbeat while eating. The sound of his heart pounding. That rhythm felt like a signal confirming that Se-a was really here.
Se-a felt the warmth of rice. Warm rice. Warm soup. Warm touch of her mother’s hands. All that warmth was heating her cold heart.
Their mother watched her two children. Do-hyun’s serious face. Se-a’s face streaming with tears. And in that silence, their mother felt much being restored. Time. Trust. And the meaning of family.
Silence sometimes holds more power than words. In that silence, the three looked at each other. Directly. Without evasion. And in that exchange of gazes, the wounds began slowly to heal.
After eating, Do-hyun went to his room. He must have had homework from academy. College entrance exam prep awaited. Mock exam papers probably still lay stacked on his desk.
But Do-hyun looked back several times.
As if checking on Se-a.
Making sure she was really here.
Making sure she wouldn’t disappear again.
Do-hyun’s footsteps were slow. One step forward, one step pausing, then turning back to look. His heart was full of anxiety.
What if Se-a leaves again? Then what would any of this mean?
Do-hyun stood before his room door. He raised his hand and pushed it open. But not completely. The door stayed slightly ajar. As if still able to see into the living room. As if still able to hear Se-a’s voice.
Se-a watched the room Do-hyun had entered. His room. Through the half-closed door, she could see his desk. The lamp on the desk. The books beneath the lamp. Do-hyun’s life was in that room.
Se-a stood up to go toward Do-hyun’s room. But she sat back down. Because Do-hyun hadn’t invited her. Do-hyun wasn’t ready to fully accept Se-a. And Se-a understood that.
My brother still doesn’t trust me. And that’s my fault. Because I left first. Because I abandoned this family first.
Se-a’s chest tightened. But it wasn’t that heavy feeling from before. It was responsibility. The feeling of recognizing what she had to do.
Their mother cleared the table. Her movements were practiced. She picked up the rice bowl. The soup bowl. Gathered the side dish plates. Her fingers went in and out in rhythm. Like hands that had set and cleared tables for decades.
Se-a stood up to help. She approached her mother. Reached out her hand to take a bowl.
But her mother waved her hand. It was a gentle but firm gesture.
“You rest. The trip must have been tiring.”
Her mother said. There was a question mark in her mother’s voice, but it wasn’t really a question. It was a confirmation of fact. And consideration.
Se-a lowered her hand. And watched her mother. Watched her mother’s back. Watched her mother heading toward the kitchen.
Her mother’s shoulders were hunched. When had her mother’s shoulders begun to curve like that? Was it because of her?
“Yes. Thank you.”
Se-a said in formal speech.
Her mother came back from the kitchen. She had heard Se-a’s voice. That formal speech.
She paused for a moment. But said nothing. Only nodded.
Now this distance was necessary between Se-a and her mother. Respect, not intimacy. Because they had been wounded. They couldn’t get too close before the wounds healed.
Se-a went to the living room window. Beyond the glass, she looked at Jeju’s evening sky.
The sun was setting.
Quickly. At almost a liquid flow.
Orange colored the sky. Bright, warm orange. And beneath it, pink was layered. A pale pink, barely visible.
But that lasted only a moment. Orange retreated and purple appeared. Deep purple. Mysterious purple. And that purple too soon began changing to blue.
The sky’s color was changing. Like Se-a’s heart.
What was murky is becoming gradually clear. What needs to be done. Who is who. What is real.
Se-a placed her hand on the window. The glass was cold. But that coldness felt like it was waking her up.
Se-a looked at her bag. It sat beside the living room sofa. A bag whose contents hadn’t been unpacked yet. Inside was her phone.
Se-a approached the bag. Reached in. And took out her phone.
The phone screen lit up. Over 100 missed calls. Over 200 unread text messages. And dozens of KakaoTalk messages.
Most were from Ha-eul.
“Se-a, please contact me. Where are you?”
“I’m really going crazy. Where are you?”
“I’m calling the police. I’ll find you.”
“Se-a. Please. Please be alive.”
And the most recent message.
“I’ll keep looking. No matter how long. Even if I’m exhausted, I’ll keep going.”
Se-a tried to turn off the screen. But her hand stopped.
Who should I contact? Ha-eul? Or the police? Or someone else?
Se-a thought. For a long time.
But that wasn’t what Se-a wanted.
What Se-a wanted was for her hands to stop trembling.
For her voice to emerge.
For her to know who she was burning for.
“What do you think that is?”
Do-hyun’s voice came.
Se-a turned around. Do-hyun was standing at his room door. Now completely open.
“What?”
Se-a asked.
“That. Your phone.”
Do-hyun pointed.
“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t contact anyone. I worried you a lot, didn’t I?”
Se-a said.
Do-hyun didn’t answer. Instead, he approached Se-a. And stood beside her. Together they looked out the window.
“Look there. The sky.”
Do-hyun said.
Se-a looked at the sky.
Now it was a deep blue. Almost navy blue. And above that blue, the first star had appeared.
One star. That was all.
But it was enough.
“The star is beautiful.”
Se-a said.
“Yeah. You couldn’t see it like this in Seoul.”
Do-hyun said.
Silence flowed. Comfortable silence. The silence between a younger brother and older sister. Silence found again.
“I’m sorry. Oppa.”
Se-a said.
Do-hyun didn’t answer. Instead, he placed his hand on her shoulder. Lightly. But firmly.
“Yeah. I know.”
Do-hyun said.
And that was enough. No lengthy explanations were needed. No excessive words of forgiveness were needed. Just that touch and that answer. It was enough.
Se-a put her phone down. Not yet. It wasn’t time to contact anyone yet.
It was still time to find herself.