이 포스팅은 쿠팡 파트너스 활동의 일환으로, 이에 따른 일정액의 수수료를 제공받습니다.
# Chapter 131: What the Fingers Remember
Kang Riyu’s hospital visit wasn’t something Sae-ah had planned. Hae-neul hadn’t suggested it either. It simply happened. As if her body moved of its own accord, independent of her will.
Four days before the verdict, Sae-ah stood in the hallway of the fourth-floor psychiatric ward at Seoul National University Hospital. Flowers in her hands. Or more precisely, she was holding flowers. Five chrysanthemums she’d bought at a convenience store for 3,800 won. No one had told her to. Her feet had simply descended at Gangnam Station, walked toward the hospital, her hands had opened the convenience store door, and her eyes had chosen the cheapest flowers. All while her consciousness lagged behind.
The room number was 412. A nurse had told her. The nurse didn’t ask anything when she saw Sae-ah’s face. As if they saw visits like this every day. People coming to hospitals to end relationships or begin them.
When she opened the door, Kang Riyu was looking out the window. Late autumn in Seoul. His reflection in the glass was translucent, like a ghost. His hands were still trembling. On the table beside the bed. As if they were separate, living things beyond his will.
“Hi.”
Sae-ah spoke. Her voice was small but clear. After leaving the courtroom, Sae-ah’s voice had changed. It was no longer someone else’s—it had become her own. Though it remained rare. Like someone rationing water, she rationed her words.
Kang Riyu turned. His reflection in the window vanished, replaced by his physical form. He saw Sae-ah. He saw the flowers. And he saw her hands. They weren’t trembling.
“You…”
Kang Riyu started. But he couldn’t continue. Either his throat caught, or he didn’t know what to say, or he thought he had no right to say anything.
Sae-ah placed the flowers in a vase. An empty one on the table beside the bed. Someone had already stripped away the previous flowers. Petals lay scattered. White petals. Like melted snow.
“Has the verdict come in?”
Kang Riyu asked. His voice was thin. As if he’d lost it through daily use.
“No. Four more days.”
Sae-ah answered. She pulled a chair over and sat. She didn’t sit on the bed. She maintained distance. That space between them was important. It protected her.
“Why did you come?”
Kang Riyu asked. It sounded like an accusation, but it was really a question. An attempt to understand something he couldn’t comprehend.
“I don’t know.”
Sae-ah answered. It was the truth. She didn’t know why she’d entered this room. She hadn’t told Hae-neul. Hadn’t told Do-hyun. Hadn’t told her mother. Hadn’t told her lawyer. Hadn’t told anyone. One morning she’d simply woken up, dressed, and left. Her feet had found their way here on their own.
Kang Riyu’s hands trembled more violently. As if seeing Sae-ah had made it worse. Or perhaps it had already worsened, and her presence simply revealed it.
“My hands keep shaking.”
Kang Riyu said. It wasn’t an excuse. Simply an explanation. A statement of how his body was betraying him.
“Since when?”
Sae-ah asked. It wasn’t medical curiosity. It was a different kind of question. What had made him this way? When had he stopped trusting his own hands?
“Berlin.”
Kang Riyu answered. And for the first time, he explained it to her. That summer in Berlin. A music competition. A friend who lost. How his friend had cut their wrists. How they arrived at the hospital too late. The guilt of not having stopped it.
Sae-ah listened. She listened to Kang Riyu’s story. It was what she’d already suspected, but spoken words were different. Spoken words were heavier. More real.
“Your friend committed suicide?”
Sae-ah asked. Directly. As if confirming what she already knew.
“Yes.”
Kang Riyu answered.
“And you blamed yourself.”
Sae-ah said. Not a question, but a statement.
“Yes.”
Kang Riyu answered again.
“And you projected it onto me.”
Sae-ah continued.
Kang Riyu didn’t answer. Instead, he looked at his hands. The trembling hands. When would they stop? It wasn’t merely a physical question.
“You can’t play piano anymore?”
Sae-ah asked.
“No.”
Kang Riyu answered.
“Because your hands shake?”
Sae-ah asked.
“That too… but my fingers don’t remember.”
Kang Riyu said. It was the truest thing he’d said. The trembling was a symptom; the lost memory was the cause. His fingers could no longer remember the music from before his friend’s death. After that death, all music had been contaminated. Every movement of his fingers became a betrayal.
Sae-ah thought. What it meant for fingers to remember. Her own hands remembered something too. How they didn’t shake in court. The moments she’d held Kang Riyu’s hand. When that hand had gripped her throat. When it had brushed across her face. When that hand had been warm.
“Do you know what the verdict will be?”
Sae-ah asked.
“No.”
Kang Riyu answered.
“Do you?”
Sae-ah asked.
“Guilty. Probably.”
Kang Riyu said. It sounded like resignation, but it was a realistic assessment. By the court’s logic, what he’d done was undeniably criminal. Surveillance. Control. Coercion. It was hard to call those things love. At least not from the law’s perspective.
“Right. You’ll be found guilty.”
Sae-ah said.
“Then… what about you?”
Kang Riyu asked. It was a question about whether his guilt meant her innocence. If he went to prison, would she be free?
“I don’t know either.”
Sae-ah answered. It was the truth. Legally, she was the victim. She’d testified as much in court. But emotionally, she’d done something too. Or hadn’t done something. She hadn’t answered Do-hyun’s messages, hadn’t properly spoken to her mother, had only held Hae-neul’s hand.
“I’m sorry.”
Kang Riyu said.
“For what?”
Sae-ah asked.
“Everything. For meeting you. For loving you. For not being able to let go.”
Kang Riyu said.
Sae-ah only listened. She listened to his apology. And she realized that it wasn’t really for her—it was, but not to her. It was like a monologue. As if she wasn’t there at all.
“I have to go.”
Sae-ah stood.
“Wait.”
Kang Riyu said.
Sae-ah paused. But she didn’t turn around. She didn’t look at his face.
“Will you come back?”
Kang Riyu asked.
“I don’t know.”
Sae-ah answered. It was the truth. If she didn’t know why she’d come, how could she know if she’d return?
“Still… thank you for coming.”
Kang Riyu said.
Sae-ah said nothing. She simply opened the door and left. Out into the fluorescent light of the hallway. Past the open doors of other rooms. She heard someone crying. Heard a monitor beeping. This was a place where people met their worst selves.
In the elevator, Sae-ah looked at her hands. They still weren’t trembling. Not as she left his room, not as she walked under the hallway lights, not as she stepped into the elevator. Her hands were full of certainty.
Or certainty that she’d lost something irrevocably.
The hospital lobby was bright. Sunlight streamed through the windows. Late autumn sunlight. Warm but weak. Like it would disappear soon. Sae-ah moved toward the exit. The automatic doors opened. Seoul’s air rushed in. The sound of cars. The voices of people. The noise of life.
She turned on her phone. Twenty-three messages from Do-hyun. Twelve from her mother. Eight from Hae-neul. All from days ago. All ending with the question: “Are you okay?”
Sae-ah didn’t reply. Instead, she called Hae-neul.
“What are you doing?”
Sae-ah asked.
“At the tattoo shop. What did you do?”
Hae-neul answered.
“I went to the hospital.”
Sae-ah said.
There was silence. A very brief silence, but it meant something.
“Okay. And?”
Hae-neul asked.
“Nothing. Just… I went.”
Sae-ah said.
“Why did you go?”
Hae-neul asked.
“I don’t know. He said fingers remember. Kang Riyu’s fingers.”
Sae-ah said.
“Yeah. So?”
Hae-neul asked.
“I think my fingers remember something too.”
Sae-ah said.
“What?”
Hae-neul asked.
“I don’t know yet.”
Sae-ah answered.
“Then come. Come to the tattoo shop. I’ll do it again.”
Hae-neul said.
“Do what?”
Sae-ah asked.
“What your fingers remember. I’ll mark it there.”
Hae-neul said.
Sae-ah hung up. Then she walked. Toward Gangnam Station. Toward the Han River. Then slowly northward. To Hapjeong. To Hongdae. To Hae-neul’s basement.
Darkness fell between these places. Seoul’s late autumn night. Street lamps flickering on one by one. As if someone were lighting her path.
Sae-ah walked. Not fast, not slow. At exactly her own pace. With her own breath. With her own footsteps.
For the first time since leaving Kang Riyu’s hospital room, moving at a speed that felt truly her own.
Later, when Sae-ah sat in Hae-neul’s tattoo shop chair, when the needle first touched her skin, she understood.
Her fingers remembered love.
And now, inscribed in ink on her ring finger, two hands would forever touch.