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# Chapter 172: Mother’s Silence
The hospital corridor was white beneath fluorescent lights. Or rather, it was something beyond white—a space where all color had been drained away. As if no shade remained that could hold emotion. Seo-ah stood before the elevator, her finger pressing the button, but her mind lingered still in Sky’s tattoo parlor. The warmth etched across her chest. Her name permanently recorded on her skin. Na Seo-ah. That name. That existence.
The elevator descended. The doors opened. Seo-ah stepped inside. She was alone. The hospital was quiet at this hour too. Five o’clock. Visitors thinned out, staff rotated shifts. The world catching its breath. Seo-ah pressed the button for the fifth floor—her mother’s ward. Her finger trembled. By now it should have been steady, yet it still shook. As if her own body was betraying her.
The elevator climbed. Seo-ah watched her reflection in the mirrored walls. Her face was drawn, eyes sunken. When had it come to this? A face that seemed no longer her own. The woman in the mirror stared back, but Seo-ah couldn’t recognize her.
The fifth floor arrived. The doors slid open. She stepped out into deeper silence. Only the beeping of medical equipment and someone’s moan reached her ears. A sound of pain. Someone else’s suffering. Seo-ah walked the corridor. Room 1. Room 2. Room 3. Numbers ascending. Like time itself multiplying. Like agony increasing with each step.
Room 517. Her mother’s room. Seo-ah stood before the door. Her hand raised to knock, but it wouldn’t move. As if her hand was already dead. As if her body no longer obeyed her commands.
“Come in.”
Her mother’s voice carried through the door. Not a command—just an indifferent tone. As if she’d been expecting someone else. As if she already knew it was Seo-ah.
Seo-ah opened the door. The room was dim, lights not fully on. Only evening sunlight filtering through the window illuminated it. Golden light. The saddest kind of light in any Korean hospital. Her mother lay in the bed, an IV in her arm, a heart monitor beside her beeping steadily. Beep—beep. Beep—beep. Evidence that her mother’s heart still beat. Evidence that she still existed in this world.
“Sit.”
Her mother spoke. Her voice was weak. As if it was preparing to leave her body. As if her mother was slowly disappearing.
Seo-ah sat in the chair beside the bed. How much time had passed sitting in this chair? How many words should have been spoken? How many tears should have fallen?
“Do-hyun…”
Seo-ah began.
“Do-hyun is at home.”
Her mother cut her off. There was no reproach in her voice. That was worse. Reproach would have left room for something to say, but this cold, indifferent tone signaled there was nothing left to discuss.
“Mom, I’m sorry.”
Seo-ah said it.
Her mother said nothing. Instead, she slowly turned her head. Looking at Seo-ah. But those eyes weren’t her mother’s eyes. They were borrowed from someone else. As if her mother’s soul had already departed, leaving only her body behind.
“Sorry for what?”
Her mother asked.
It was the cruelest question. Seo-ah opened her mouth, then closed it. Repeatedly. Sorry for what? For mother being sick? For her own existence? For meeting Kang Ri-woo? For using Do-hyun? For her entire life?
“Everything.”
Seo-ah finally answered.
Her mother exhaled deeply. A long breath. As if it might be her last. The thought flashed through Seo-ah’s mind—her mother could die. Now. Here. In front of her.
“Seo-ah. Do you know who that person is?”
Her mother asked.
“Who?”
“Kang Ri-woo.”
Her mother said the name slowly, as if swallowing poison. As if that name was venom on her tongue.
“He’s just… I mean…”
“Not just anything. That man preys on people like you.”
Her mother’s voice rose. Weak, but with force behind it. As if she was pouring her last strength into these words.
“Mom…”
“Why won’t you listen? What did I tell you? Don’t go to that person. He’s…”
She couldn’t finish. A cough seized her. Violent. As if she might expel her lungs entirely. Seo-ah stood, reaching for water, but her mother waved her away.
“I’m fine. Sit.”
After the cough subsided, her mother spoke.
Seo-ah sat again. Beside the bed. In that chair. She realized there was nothing she could do here. She couldn’t heal her mother. Couldn’t undo her mistakes. Couldn’t turn back time.
“That person…”
Her mother began again. Her voice even weaker now.
“What?”
“He came to see me.”
Seo-ah’s heart stopped. As if someone had seized her chest and squeezed.
“What? When?”
“Yesterday. Looking for you. Asking where you were.”
Her mother said it.
“What did you tell him?”
Seo-ah’s voice shook.
“Nothing. What could I say? What would I tell him? That my daughter is trying to kill herself?”
Her mother’s voice broke. Like old pottery shattering when dropped. Like she herself was breaking along with these words.
Seo-ah couldn’t speak. Kang Ri-woo had come to see her mother. Had found her, harassed her. And then mother had collapsed. The facts connected linearly. Like a chemical reaction. Like something deliberately triggered.
“Seo-ah. Listen to me. That person doesn’t love you.”
Her mother said it.
“Then what is it?”
“Addiction. Possession. That’s what it is.”
Seo-ah shook her head. But what could she argue? That she loved Kang Ri-woo? That was a lie too. She didn’t love him. But she couldn’t leave him either. As if she couldn’t escape gravity’s pull. As if she was already addicted.
“You need to do something.”
Her mother said.
“What?”
“Leave him. Completely. End it.”
“Mom…”
“No. Don’t say you won’t listen anymore. Did you hear me? What did I say?”
Her mother’s voice rose louder. Loud enough that staff appeared. But Seo-ah could do nothing. There was something she needed to tell her mother, but she couldn’t say it. She’d seen Kang Ri-woo. Last night. At a café. And what happened there—Seo-ah herself couldn’t remember clearly.
“Yes.”
Seo-ah answered.
“Really?”
Her mother asked. As if doubting whether Seo-ah could truly keep that promise.
“Yes.”
Seo-ah answered again.
It was a lie. But also the truth. She wanted to leave Kang Ri-woo. But at the same time, she couldn’t. As if two opposite forces were pulling her simultaneously.
Her mother said nothing. Instead, she slowly closed her eyes. As if just looking at Seo-ah consumed all her strength. As if watching her daughter was depleting her last reserves.
“Go.”
Her mother spoke with eyes closed.
“What?”
“Go. And think. What do you want to become?”
It was the cruelest question. Seo-ah couldn’t answer. What she wanted to become. Who she wanted to be. She’d abandoned such thoughts long ago. She only thought about surviving. There was nothing beyond that.
Seo-ah rose from the bed. Her mother kept her eyes closed. As if she no longer wanted to acknowledge Seo-ah’s existence. Seo-ah left the room. The corridor remained quiet. Only the beeping of machines. The sound of measuring someone’s life. The sound of counting down someone’s time.
She stood before the elevator. But didn’t press the button. Instead, she went to the window. Not the hospital roof—the corridor window. Seoul spread beyond it. Night was coming. As if someone were slowly turning off the lights. As if the world was slowly disappearing.
Her phone rang. It was Sky. The fourth call. Seo-ah didn’t answer. What would she say? That mother had collapsed? Sky would already know. That Kang Ri-woo had come to see her? She couldn’t say that either.
Instead, Seo-ah opened her messages. Her conversation with Kang Ri-woo. Last night’s messages remained.
“Want to meet?” (Kang Ri-woo)
“Where?” (Seo-ah)
“A café. Near Gangnam Station.” (Kang Ri-woo)
“What time?” (Seo-ah)
“Before midnight.” (Kang Ri-woo)
And after that, no more messages. Seo-ah had gone to the café. Kang Ri-woo was already there. Sitting at a table. His hands trembling. Seo-ah had sat down too. Neither spoke. For a long time. As if silence itself was a language. As if not speaking was the only truth.
And then?
Seo-ah couldn’t remember. As if her mind had deliberately deleted that part. As if some protective mechanism had hidden those memories.
Another message arrived. An unknown number.
“Seo-ah. It’s me. Want to meet at the hospital?”
Kang Ri-woo.
Seo-ah’s fingers scrolled automatically. Without thinking. As if her hand was repeating an action it had already done many times. She searched for the hospital. Kang Ri-woo hadn’t told her which one, but she knew. As if she’d always known. As if her mind already possessed that information.
She pressed the elevator button. The direction down. The direction out. The direction toward Kang Ri-woo.
Through the window, Seoul spread below. Night Seoul. Seoul with every light on. But for Seo-ah, everything was dark. As if her eyes had already adapted to darkness. As if she could no longer see light.
The elevator reached the first floor. The doors opened.
Seo-ah stepped out.