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# Chapter 139: Mother’s Silence
The question—what did your mother ask?—echoed endlessly in Seo-ah’s ears. Do-hyun had stopped speaking, as though merely voicing it would pre-measure the wound it would inflict. The noodle shop’s ceiling still exposed its curved wooden beams, and the figures in the woodblock print on the wall remained frozen in eternal stillness. 6:18 PM. What kind of time was this? Neither evening nor afternoon, but suspended in that ambiguous threshold. Like Seo-ah herself.
“What did Mom say?”
Seo-ah asked slowly. Her throat still burned with that sensation—the kind that wouldn’t fade easily. As though someone had branded her windpipe with the memory of being choked.
Do-hyun picked up his phone. He turned the screen on and off repeatedly. The motion was neurotic, as if the weight of what he needed to say was so heavy that he had to steal a few extra seconds with small gestures before speaking.
“Mom said she wanted to see you.”
Do-hyun finally spoke. “It’s been over a month since you came down to Jeju. She asked me on Kakaotalk what you’re doing now. Whether you’re okay. Whether you’re alone.”
Seo-ah’s breathing became shallow. How long had it been since she’d called her mother? Weeks, probably. Maybe longer. She couldn’t pinpoint exactly when time had slipped away. She’d only thought she was waiting for the verdict, and somehow those weeks had accumulated without her noticing. In the meantime, she’d been throwing silence at her mother.
“What am I supposed to tell her?” Do-hyun asked again. “What can I possibly say to Mom?”
Seo-ah picked up her noodles. She wound them slowly around her fork. The motion was deliberate—as if she needed to prove she was still alive. The noodles had gone cold. Food without warmth had no taste, no meaning. But Seo-ah kept eating anyway.
“Stop it,” Do-hyun said abruptly. “It’s painful to watch you eat like that. Just tell me the truth. What are you doing right now? Exactly.”
Seo-ah set down her fork and met Do-hyun’s eyes. But they weren’t the eyes she remembered. Not the bright eyes from two years ago, or before that. The Do-hyun before her now carried the burden of watching his sister burn away, and that weight had darkened his gaze.
“I can’t let go of Kang Ri-u.”
Seo-ah spoke honestly. “If I let him go before the verdict comes down, it feels like I’m forgiving him. But even after the verdict, I don’t know if I’ll be able to let him go.”
“What’s the problem with that?” Do-hyun asked. “Just let him go. Why are you so obsessed?”
“It’s not obsession,” Seo-ah answered. “It’s responsibility.”
“Responsibility? What responsibility do you have to that man?”
Do-hyun’s voice rose for the first time. Until now, he’d spoken slowly, quietly, as though restraining his anger as much as possible. But in this moment, that restraint shattered. “Think about what he did to you. So why do you think you’re responsible?”
Seo-ah didn’t answer, because she didn’t fully understand the reason herself. She only felt something. A fear that the moment she let Ri-u go, she would crumble alongside him. Or something deeper than that. A terror that without Ri-u, she didn’t exist at all.
The shop door opened. New customers entered—young office workers wanting to spend a Saturday evening with someone else. They laughed and chattered naturally, as if the world were normal, as if verdicts didn’t exist in their universe.
“Seo-ah,” Do-hyun said quietly. “Do you know what else Mom said?”
Seo-ah looked up.
“Mom said… maybe you’re not trying to save that person. Maybe you’re trying to save yourself because you couldn’t save yourself. And if you can’t save that person, you’ll drown together with him.”
Seo-ah’s hand stopped. When she heard those words—her mother’s words—something pierced through her. Mom was in Jeju, so far away from Seoul. Yet Mom was seeing her clearly. Or trying to. And that gaze cut right through her now.
“Mom said something else,” Do-hyun continued, his voice trembling. Seo-ah could tell her brother was holding back tears. “She said you’re fire. That fire can’t burn alone. Fire needs someone to consume to keep burning. But what happens if the fire consumes itself?”
Seo-ah looked at her own hands. Her fingers were still trembling. That tremor was her body’s signal. Something breaking inside her. Like a building with a shaking foundation.
“Go see Kang Ri-u,” Do-hyun said suddenly.
“What?”
“Go to his hospital room. And ask him just one thing. What is he waiting for right now? The verdict? Or you?”
Seo-ah didn’t answer.
“Your answer to that will tell you what you need to do. If he’s waiting for the verdict, then stay with him until it comes. But if he’s waiting for you?”
Do-hyun didn’t finish the sentence. But Seo-ah understood how it ended.
The noodles on the table had gone even colder than before. Like her emotions. Growing colder with each passing moment.
“Go,” Do-hyun said again. “Right now. Leave and go. And do one more thing.”
“What?”
“Call Mom. Even now. And tell her you’re sorry. It won’t be a lie. You really will be sorry.”
Do-hyun stood up abruptly, as if he couldn’t remain in this place any longer. Looking at Seo-ah seemed to cause him pain.
“Do-hyun, sit down,” Seo-ah said. But he was already holding his wallet.
“You go. I’m going home,” he said, his voice cold now. It wasn’t a child’s voice anymore. It was the voice of someone who had made a decision. “And next time we meet, I want to see my real sister. Not this version of you.”
“Do-hyun…”
Seo-ah reached out, but he was already leaving. Through the shop door. Into the streets of Hongdae. Into a Saturday evening that continued without her.
Seo-ah was left alone. With cold noodles. And in that moment, she felt it truly. That she was alone. Despite Do-hyun’s presence, despite her mother’s love, despite Hae-neul existing, despite Ri-u breathing somewhere in this city.
A shop employee approached, probably to settle the bill. But seeing Seo-ah’s face, he turned away. Her expression was telling him something. No one wanted to speak to her in that moment.
6:34 PM. Seo-ah picked up her phone and reread the last message from Ri-u. “I’m waiting for the verdict day.” Below that message, she began typing something new. But she didn’t know what to write. As if her fingers had stopped taking commands. The screen remained blank. No words appeared.
Then maybe she should go to his room instead. Like Do-hyun said. She should see Ri-u. Directly. See his eyes. It seemed like that was what she needed to do.
Seo-ah stood up, abandoning the noodles. She left extra money on the table. Money layered with apology. And she left the shop.
The streets of Hongdae continued moving. People walked, cars passed. It was a world in constant motion. A world that never stopped. But Seo-ah moved through it frozen, as though she existed outside of time itself.
The path to the hospital. To some hospital somewhere in Seoul. Seo-ah walked toward where Ri-u was. Do-hyun’s words guided her footsteps. And her mother’s words pressed against her chest.
“Fire can’t burn alone.”
If that was true, then who had Seo-ah been burning all this time? Ri-u? The verdict? Or herself?
To find the answer, Seo-ah looked ahead. Following the path Do-hyun had taken—already gone—and toward the road she needed to walk.
6:47 PM. Seo-ah descended into the subway station. Into the depths of Seoul. Into that dark tunnel.
Hospital
A university hospital in Gangnam, Seoul. Seo-ah arrived at 7:15 PM. The hospital lobby was bright. Fluorescent lights filled the ceiling. That brightness was unpleasant—the kind of place where everything about you is exposed. Examination rooms, X-ray rooms, and various directional signs covered the walls. This was a place that dealt with life. A space where death and life coexisted.
Seo-ah checked her phone for Ri-u’s room number. She’d received it by text three days ago. She hadn’t been back since. Couldn’t go back, really. Because going there felt like it would only add more weight to her responsibility.
She took the elevator. Fifth floor. Neither high nor low—somewhere in the middle. Like her emotions.
The fifth-floor hallway was quiet. Saturday evening. The hospital had few visitors at this hour. Seo-ah walked slowly, following the corridor, searching for the room number.
“Na Seo-ah.”
Someone suddenly called her name. Seo-ah looked up. Hae-neul was standing in front of a hospital room.
“Why are you—”
“Do-hyun called me,” Hae-neul said. “He told me to come here and stand in front of Kang Ri-u. And he told me to ask you something. What do you want from this person?”
Seo-ah looked at Hae-neul’s face. He was expressionless as always. But within that expressionlessness was something. Worry. Anger. And love.
“Hae-neul…”
Seo-ah spoke his name.
“Go,” Hae-neul said, gesturing toward the hospital room door. “And see the truth. What that person is. And what you are.”
Seo-ah took a deep breath. And opened the hospital room door.
The Hospital Room
Kang Ri-u lay on the bed.
Evening sunlight streaming through the window illuminated his face. His expression looked peaceful. No—it wasn’t peace. Peace was something warm, something that came when everything had ended and been accepted. But there was nothing like that on Ri-u’s face.
It was emptiness.
As if someone had scooped out his insides. Extracted his soul. Drained his blood. Ri-u was nothing but a body lying on a bed. A body that breathed, but even that breathing seemed habitual. Instinctive.
“Seo-ah…”
When Ri-u saw her, his eyes changed. The change was subtle—others might have missed it. But Seo-ah had to feel what it was.
Joy? No. Joy was different. Joy illuminated the entire face, made eyes shine. But what appeared in Ri-u’s eyes was something else.
Despair? Not that either. Despair was more dramatic. Despair made you scream, made you move. But Ri-u remained still. Lying on that bed exactly as before.
Then it was—
A desire to hold onto her again?
That was it. Seo-ah understood. That subtle shift in Ri-u’s eyes was his yearning to grasp her hand again. An unspoken plea to reclaim his place in her life.
Seo-ah stood beside the bed.
She tried not to look at his hands. Those hands. How they had touched her. How they had swept across her face. How they had squeezed her throat. She could still feel that sensation. As if it had happened yesterday. As if it was happening now.
Ri-u’s fingers trembled. Still reaching for her.
“What are you waiting for?”
Seo-ah asked. She noticed how hollow her own voice sounded. Like listening to someone else speak. Low, suffocating, suffocating.
Like Do-hyun’s words. Like what Do-hyun had said.
“The verdict? Or me?”
Ri-u didn’t answer.
But that silence was an answer. Silence is always the truest answer. Silence cannot lie. Silence only speaks truth.
Seo-ah understood.
Ri-u wasn’t waiting for the verdict. Ri-u was waiting for her. Waiting for her to forgive him. Waiting for her to let him hold her hand again. Waiting for her to return to his arms.
That was what Ri-u wanted.
That was what he’d always wanted.
“I can’t let you go,” Seo-ah said honestly. As if someone inside her chest was speaking, though the words came from her own mouth, they weren’t quite hers. “And you can’t let me go. That’s our problem.”
Ri-u’s eyes filled with tears.
The moment she saw those tears, Seo-ah felt the urge to cry herself. She wanted to let tears fall. But she couldn’t. If she cried, Ri-u would win. Her tears would give him hope. Hope that he could hold onto her again.
So Seo-ah didn’t cry.
“Seo-ah…”
Ri-u lifted his hand. With trembling fingers. Toward her hand.
That hand moved toward hers.
Seo-ah looked at it. She knew how much pain that hand had caused her. She knew how beautiful and how terrible it was at once.
That hand had loved her and destroyed her.
That hand had saved her and sent her to hell.
But Seo-ah stepped back.
So that hand couldn’t touch her. So its warmth wouldn’t melt her skin. So its softness wouldn’t soften her resolve.
Seo-ah took one step back.
And in that moment, she understood.
What she had to do.
What Do-hyun wanted from her.
What her mother wanted from her.
Why Hae-neul had taken her hand and led her here.
What everyone wanted from her.
It wasn’t a verdict.
It wasn’t forgiveness.
It was—
“Goodbye.”
Seo-ah said.
That single word held how much meaning. Goodbye is a greeting. But goodbye is also farewell. Goodbye wishes for reunion while accepting separation.
Seo-ah packed everything into that one word.
All the memories.
All the love.
All the wounds.
All the pain.
Everything.
And she turned away.
She couldn’t know how sad that departing figure looked. Because Seo-ah’s eyes were fixed forward. Not backward. She refused to look behind.
“Seo-ah, wait!”
Ri-u called out from behind her.
How desperate that voice was. How much it carried. But Seo-ah couldn’t hear it.
No. Seo-ah heard it. But she chose not to listen.
She was already stepping out through the door.
The hospital room door closed behind her.
As it shut, Ri-u’s voice grew fainter. As if Seo-ah was moving away and Ri-u was becoming smaller. As if he was being pushed into the distant past.
The hallway stretched infinitely beneath the white fluorescent lights.
Seo-ah walked that length.
When Hae-neul saw Seo-ah emerge, whatever emotion crossed his face, Seo-ah didn’t see it.
She simply moved forward.
Toward the elevator.
Toward those numbers displayed in red.
While waiting for the elevator to descend, Seo-ah looked at her own hands. She thought about what they had done. She recalled the sensation of Ri-u’s hand in hers.
That sensation remained.
It would probably stay forever.
But Seo-ah decided to accept it.
Wounds don’t disappear. They fade with time but never completely vanish. That was what Seo-ah had learned. The greatest lesson from this journey.
The elevator doors opened.
She stepped inside.
“First floor,” Seo-ah said.
The doors closed.
And the first floor came.
When the elevator doors opened, Seo-ah saw the hospital lobby. It was spacious, bright, filled with people. All of them here for different reasons. Some to visit the sick, some to see doctors, some carrying their sorrow.
Seo-ah was one of them.
Out of the hospital.
The automatic doors opened for her.
As if the world was releasing her.
7:52 PM.
Seo-ah stood outside the hospital.
Seoul’s night was descending.
That night was cold. Late autumn already carried winter’s breath. Seo-ah wrapped her arms around herself. That cold kept her awake. It reminded her she was alive.
The hospital windows glowed with light.
One of those windows was Ri-u’s room. Seo-ah tried not to look at it. But those windows seemed to call to her. As if they were speaking to her.
Turn around. Come back up. This isn’t the end.
But Seo-ah ignored that voice.
And in that night, Seo-ah understood for the first time what she truly wanted.
Her mother.
And Do-hyun.
And Hae-neul.
And her own voice.
Her own choice.
Her own life.
The moment she let go of Ri-u, Seo-ah reclaimed herself.
She understood how heavy that was. She felt how painful it was to reclaim yourself. But that was living. That was truly living.
Seo-ah picked up her phone.
Her mother’s number appeared on that small screen. The screen reflected the night sky.
Seo-ah’s finger pressed that number.
The dial tone.
That sound rang out.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Within that dial tone, Seo-ah cried.
For the first time.
Really cried.
Those tears weren’t for Ri-u. They weren’t for Do-hyun or her mother or Hae-neul.
Those tears were for Seo-ah herself.
For the first time meeting herself, she could cry.
And those tears were warm.
“Hello?”
Her mother’s voice came through.
That voice was always the same. Warm, worried, infinitely loving.
“Mom…”
Seo-ah spoke.
How much did she have to hold in that single word?
All the pain.
All the longing.
All the guilt.
All the love.
“Yes, Mom. I want to go home now.”
The hospital windows still glowed.
But Seo-ah no longer looked at them.
She only looked forward.
At her future.
At her life.
At the path she had chosen.
The dial tone faded.
In its place, only her mother’s voice remained.
“That’s right, my daughter. Let’s go home. Let’s go where Mom is.”
Seoul’s night continued to descend.
But within Seo-ah’s chest, a new morning was already breaking.
This is not the end.
This is the beginning.
The true beginning of Seo-ah’s life.