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# Chapter 162: The Weight Upon a Finger
Kang Riou took Seo-ah’s hand. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a request. He simply took it, as though her hand belonged in his, as though it always had. Seo-ah didn’t pull away. She thought she should. But her fingers wouldn’t move—as if they no longer belonged to her.
“I’m sorry.”
His voice trembled. A single word that seemed to shatter him completely.
“For what?”
She asked, though she already knew. There was so much to apologize for. Appearing at the hospital. Meeting her mother. Refusing to let her go. But the deepest apology was probably for the fact that she kept forgiving him. Or not forgiving—surrendering. Surrendering the will to resist.
His fingers trembled against hers. The tremor passed through to her like a contagion. Like they shared the same sickness. She realized her own hands had begun to shake too. When had it started? When had she begun to tremble like her father? Or had this entire family always been shaking?
“What did your mother say to me?”
He asked, his eyes searching hers with a desperation that suggested his very existence hung on her answer.
Seo-ah didn’t respond. Instead, she looked at the river. The reflected light of the streetlamps flickered across the Han. As if the world itself was trembling. As if some massive hand was shaking everything.
“She said your father is inside me.”
The words finally came. When they did, the world seemed to pause. The river stopped. The wind stopped. Their breathing stopped.
His face went pale. As if someone had drained all the blood from him. His hand fell away from hers. And somehow that hurt more—because it was his rejection. Confirmation that she was no longer worth touching.
“What… what does that mean?”
His voice was barely audible, as if the question itself was killing him.
“She said he tried to erase my voice. To erase my existence.”
Seo-ah continued, unable to stop now. Like a dam breaking. Like everything held back for so long was pouring out at once.
“And I’m doing it to myself now. Killing my own voice. Erasing my own existence. Just like him.”
Kang Riou stood abruptly. He turned away from her, facing the river. His silhouette loomed before her—massive, like a mountain. Like an insurmountable wall.
“Then what do you want?”
He didn’t ask. He cried out. It wasn’t a question. It was a scream.
“Do you want to leave me? Then leave. Do you want to hate me? Then hate me. But don’t kill me like this. Don’t make me watch you slowly commit suicide.”
She couldn’t answer because it was all true. She was slowly killing him. And at the same time, he was slowly killing her. They were murdering each other, and calling it love.
He sat back down, but this time he didn’t look at her. Just stared ahead. His hands rested on his knees, still shaking. That tremor looked like a heart beating outside a chest.
“What did she tell you? At the hospital?”
He asked again, his voice hollow now, as if he’d lost himself somewhere.
“To you?”
Seo-ah asked.
“Your mother.”
He clarified.
Seo-ah considered. She didn’t need to wonder—she knew. The moment her mother saw him, she would have seen through him. That was her gift. Like X-rays. Like vision that pierced even the soul.
“That I can’t save you.”
She said. It wasn’t a guess. It was almost certain.
“And that you can never save me.”
He laughed. It wasn’t laughter. It sounded like someone pressing down on his chest. Like someone wringing out his soul.
“Yes. Exactly what she said.”
He said.
“And she was right. I can’t save you. I’m pushing you deeper into the fire. And I know it.”
Who was this man? The one who appeared at the hospital. Who looked like he was trying to save her while simultaneously destroying her?
“Then why did you come?”
She asked.
“Why do you keep appearing? Why won’t you let me go?”
He looked at her. When his eyes met hers, she saw herself reflected there. Her image burned in his gaze. Like a mirror. Like they were both burning in the same kind of fire.
“Because…”
He started to speak but couldn’t finish. As if completing the sentence would destroy him entirely.
“Because?”
She pressed.
“Because you are me.”
He finally said it. The words fell onto the Han River like stones, sinking into depths that couldn’t be measured.
Seo-ah’s breath stopped. It took seconds to understand. No—understanding wasn’t the right word. It was acceptance. And she didn’t want to accept it.
“What does that—what does that even—”
But he started speaking again. His voice had become almost a whisper.
“When I see you… I see myself.”
He said.
“I’d never seen myself before. Not in mirrors. Not in anyone’s eyes. But when I saw you, I finally understood. That someone like me could exist. That there could be someone burning like me.”
She listened, though she tried not to. His words carved into her. Like something passing through flesh. Like something melting bone.
“That’s why I can’t let you go. Because letting you go would be letting myself go. And I’m not ready to die yet.”
Her body trembled. Not from emotion this time. From cold. The night cold rising from the Han River. Or cold from somewhere unknowable, climbing her spine.
“I don’t want to die.”
She said. Her words barely formed. Barely audible.
“Then live.”
He said.
“Live. Your way. Not for me. For you. Only for you. I’m still sorry.”
His hand found hers again. This time she didn’t resist. Two hands connected on a bench above the Han. Two trembling hands. Two heartbeats. Two burning souls.
“I’m sorry.”
He repeated.
“That I can’t save you. That I’m dragging you deeper into darkness. That I’m killing you.”
She gripped his hand tighter. As if pulling him from drowning. But they were both already underwater. Both already beyond saving.
Her phone rang. 12:34 AM. Do-hyun’s name lit the screen. She ignored it. Didn’t answer. If she heard his voice, she’d sink deeper. Or he’d try to save her. And she wasn’t ready to be saved.
The call ended. Seconds later, it rang again. This time her mother. She ignored it. Ignored the third call. The fourth.
“Should you answer?”
He asked. His voice growing desperate again.
“No.”
She said.
“Not now.”
He rested his head on her shoulder. It wasn’t love. It was despair. Or both—despair and love indistinguishable.
The Han flowed on. It never stops. Always flowing. Like time. Like it would keep flowing until their fire went out.
She looked at the river. Then at the night sky beyond it. No stars were visible. Seoul’s night sky held no stars. Instead, the lights of buildings. Man-made fires. Were those a kind of star too? Or were they all the same kind of fire?
Do-hyun’s phone call came again. The fifth.
She still didn’t answer.
Instead, she held his hand tighter. And they watched the Han together. Two people burning in fire, yet still staring at stars reflected on water.
It was approaching 1 AM.
Her phone kept ringing. Do-hyun. Her mother. Now even Hae-neul’s name appeared. They were all searching for her. All trying to save her.
But she was here. Beside Kang Riou. Watching the Han. Realizing she didn’t want to be saved. No—that she couldn’t be saved.
Because she was fire.
And fire cannot stop burning itself.
END OF CHAPTER 162