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# Chapter 192: Kang Min-jun’s Shadow
Seo-ah didn’t know how long she had been sitting there, refusing to let go of her mother’s hand. Time had passed that way—indistinctly, like water seeping through sand. Do-hyun and Ha-neul had disappeared somewhere, leaving only Seo-ah, her mother, and the rhythmic beep of the monitor in the hospital room. The fluorescent lights remained mercilessly bright, revealing everything. Her mother’s wrinkled fingers. Her mother’s name on the medical bracelet. The small marks on her mother’s forearm from petechiae. Everything was too clear. As if someone had forced Seo-ah’s eyes open.
Her voice was burning.
That sentence circled through Seo-ah’s mind. Was burning—past tense. A very distant past. Too distant for Seo-ah to remember. Had she been six years old? Seven? At that age, even if there were memories, they would have remained fragmented. Shards of color, sound, and emotion. Disconnected images.
Seo-ah looked at her own hands. After releasing her mother’s. Her fingers were still trembling. It wasn’t from the cold. The hospital room was warm. That wasn’t it either—a tremor coming from somewhere deeper. From her nerves. From her bones. Or from somewhere beyond even that.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Quick ones. Someone was in a hurry. Seo-ah heard them but didn’t move. The door opened. It was Do-hyun. And behind Do-hyun was Ha-neul. Both their faces were serious. As if something worse had happened.
“Seo-ah. You got a call.”
Do-hyun said.
“From who?”
Seo-ah asked. Her own voice didn’t sound like her voice. As if someone else was speaking.
“Kang Ri-woo.”
Do-hyun said.
Seo-ah felt as though her hands had stopped. No—not her hands. Time. Time had stopped. Or the opposite: time had accelerated so fast that Seo-ah couldn’t keep up.
“What?”
Seo-ah asked.
“Kang Ri-woo’s looking for your mom. He’s asking where she is. If she’s at the hospital.”
Do-hyun spoke quickly.
Ha-neul looked at Seo-ah. That gaze was sharp. As if he already knew she was hiding something.
“What did you tell him?”
Seo-ah asked.
“Nothing. You didn’t answer, so I did. But I told him he called you. Three times.”
Do-hyun said.
Seo-ah looked at her phone. It was on the table beside the bed. The screen was dark. How long had it been since she’d looked at it? Hours? Days? She had no sense of time. The hospital room’s fluorescent lights had swallowed it.
“What did you say? To Kang Ri-woo?”
Seo-ah asked.
“I told him Mom was hospitalized. Nothing more.”
Do-hyun said.
Seo-ah stood up. Slowly. As if her own body might betray her. And that thought was right—her legs weren’t steady. Ha-neul grabbed her arm.
“Seo-ah. What are you doing?”
Ha-neul said. It wasn’t a question. It was a warning.
“I need to call Kang Ri-woo.”
Seo-ah said.
“Now? Shouldn’t you be with Mom?”
Ha-neul asked.
Seo-ah looked at her mother. She was still asleep. Or unconscious. She couldn’t tell the difference. But it didn’t matter. What mattered was that her mother wasn’t awake right now. And that made Seo-ah feel slightly relieved. Even as guilt washed over her.
“Do-hyun. Can you stay with Mom?”
Seo-ah asked.
Do-hyun nodded. The boy said nothing. But Seo-ah could read what he was thinking. My sister’s leaving again. Leaving me behind again. That thought was written in Do-hyun’s eyes.
“I’ll be right back. I promise.”
Seo-ah said.
Do-hyun didn’t respond.
Seo-ah stepped into the hallway. The fluorescent lights blinded her again. Too bright. She squinted. Then picked up her phone. Turned on the screen. Three missed calls. All from Kang Ri-woo. The first was an hour ago. The second forty minutes ago. The third just five minutes before.
Seo-ah called Kang Ri-woo.
He answered on the second ring.
“Seo-ah.”
His voice came through. It was relief. Or anxiety. Both mixed together.
“Yeah.”
Seo-ah said.
“Did you see your mom?”
Kang Ri-woo asked.
“Yeah.”
Seo-ah said again.
“What did she say?”
Kang Ri-woo asked.
Seo-ah couldn’t answer that question. No—she wouldn’t answer. Not to Kang Ri-woo. Not yet.
“Why are you looking for her?”
Seo-ah asked instead.
“Remember what I told you? That I needed to find your mom? Because of something important?”
Kang Ri-woo said.
“Yeah.”
Seo-ah said. She lied about remembering. The truth was, Seo-ah had forgotten much. Or ignored it. Everything related to Kang Ri-woo.
“Seo-ah. Can I meet your mom? At the hospital? Now?”
Kang Ri-woo said.
Seo-ah’s fingers trembled. Again. And again.
“Why?”
Seo-ah asked.
“It’s important. Really. For me. And for you.”
Kang Ri-woo said.
“Mom’s not awake right now. The doctor gave her sedatives. You won’t be able to see her until tomorrow.”
Seo-ah said. It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth either. The truth was more complicated. The truth was that Seo-ah didn’t want Kang Ri-woo to meet her mother. Why? She didn’t even know. Fear? Shame? Or something deeper than that?
“Will tomorrow morning work?”
Kang Ri-woo asked.
“I’m not sure yet.”
Seo-ah said.
“Seo-ah. This is really important. As soon as possible.”
Kang Ri-woo said.
In that moment, Seo-ah realized she was missing something. Why Kang Ri-woo was looking for her mother. What it was. And then she understood how she might know—how it could possibly connect to Kang Min-jun. Kang Ri-woo and Kang Min-jun. Kang and Ri-woo. Kang and Ri-woo. Two names came to her at once. And Seo-ah realized how foolish she had been. They shared the same surname. Kang. They were probably…
“Kang Ri-woo. What’s your relationship to Kang Min-jun?”
Seo-ah asked.
The hallway filled with silence. A long one. Too long.
“I’ll tell you next time. Not now. I just need to meet your mom.”
Kang Ri-woo said.
“No. Tell me now. You’re Min-jun’s son, aren’t you? Right?”
Seo-ah asked.
“…”
Kang Ri-woo didn’t respond.
“You are!”
Seo-ah said. It wasn’t a question.
“Seo-ah. This is complicated. I need time to explain. But right now, meeting your mom is what matters.”
Kang Ri-woo said.
“Why? Why was Min-jun afraid of my mom? Why?”
Seo-ah asked. Her voice was trembling without her realizing it.
“That’s… I don’t even know. But your mom would.”
Kang Ri-woo said.
“Kang Min-jun. Who is he? Exactly. To me.”
Seo-ah asked.
Silence came again. And that silence was the answer. Even without Kang Ri-woo speaking, the silence itself said everything.
“Kang Ri-woo. Answer me.”
Seo-ah said.
“… He’s your father. Biologically.”
Kang Ri-woo finally said.
The fluorescent light flickered. Or at least it seemed to. That’s how Seo-ah’s eyes perceived it. As if the moment itself was so significant that even reality acknowledged it. But the light remained on. Bright. Merciless.
“What?”
Seo-ah said.
“He’s your father. Kang Min-jun. I’m his son. You’re his daughter.”
Kang Ri-woo said slowly.
“We’re siblings, Seo-ah.”
Seo-ah couldn’t process the meaning of those words. Siblings? It was impossible. Kang Ri-woo was her father. Or her lover. Or her savior. Or her demon. In any case, he was not her sibling. The concept of sibling didn’t exist in Seo-ah’s world. There was Do-hyun. Only Do-hyun. And the name Kang Min-jun had only just entered her world.
“Seo-ah? Are you there?”
Kang Ri-woo asked.
“Yeah.”
Seo-ah said. Her voice sounded as if it came from very far away.
“Can you let me meet your mom? Please?”
Kang Ri-woo said again.
“I said tomorrow.”
Seo-ah said.
“Will that work?”
Kang Ri-woo asked.
“Yeah.”
Seo-ah said.
And she hung up.
Seo-ah stood in the hallway. Fluorescent lights surrounded her. Pressed down on her. She walked until her back touched the wall. And she leaned against it. Cold. Hard. Something real. She needed that.
Sibling. That word clung to her lips. Sibling. It was strange. As if borrowed from another language. As if it didn’t fit in her mouth.
Seo-ah picked up her phone. And searched. Kang Min-jun. JYA Entertainment. Kang Ri-woo.
A photo of Kang Min-jun appeared. A man in his mid-fifties. In a business suit. A smile on his face. But that smile seemed false. Or similar to Kang Ri-woo’s smile. Seo-ah looked at her own face. In the phone’s camera. Next to the photo of Kang Min-jun. And in some way, she could see that they shared the same lips. And the same eye color. And the same finger length.
Seo-ah put the phone down.
When she returned to the hospital room, Do-hyun was holding their mother’s hand. Ha-neul stood by the window. It was night. Only then did Seo-ah realize. It was night. How long had she been here? How much time had passed?
“Did Mom wake up?”
Seo-ah asked.
Do-hyun and Ha-neul shook their heads.
“What did the doctor say?”
Seo-ah asked.
“They’ll do another scan tomorrow morning. MRI.”
Ha-neul said.
Seo-ah sat down beside the bed. On the opposite side from Do-hyun. That way they surrounded their mother. But even that wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough.
“Ha-neul. Can I be alone for a bit?”
Seo-ah said.
Ha-neul looked at her. That gaze lingered for a long time.
“Are you okay?”
Ha-neul asked.
“Yeah.”
Seo-ah said. It was a lie.
“Do-hyun, come with me. Let’s go to the café. Get something to eat.”
Ha-neul said to Do-hyun.
Do-hyun resisted. But Ha-neul grabbed his arm.
“Go. You need to eat too.”
Ha-neul said.
After they left, Seo-ah picked up her mother’s hand. It was warm. Still. Seo-ah buried her face in her mother’s hand. And she cried. So no one could hear. So no one could see. In her own way. Without her throat making sound. Without her mouth opening. Without tears falling. But internally. From deep within. From her bones. As if her marrow itself was weeping.
The monitor sent its signal. Regularly. Continuously. Proof that her mother was alive. Proof that her mother was here. But it wasn’t enough. Seo-ah needed to hear her mother’s voice. Needed to see her mother’s eyes. Her mother needed to wake up. And tell her what she had done.
Her voice was burning.
Those words kept repeating. In Seo-ah’s mind. And now she knows. That voice was her own. Her child’s voice. Something she had burned. And someone feared it. Kang Min-jun did. Seo-ah’s biological father did. So he left. Or acted like he did. And Seo-ah’s mother couldn’t bear it. So her mother feared her own daughter.
Seo-ah’s hand trembled. Over her mother’s hand. And that tremor ran like electricity. From past to present. From father to daughter. From fear to rage. From silence to flame.
Seo-ah felt her throat. There was fire there. It had always been there. Probably from the beginning. And everyone saw it. Kang Min-jun saw it. Her mother saw it. Kang Ri-woo saw it. Do-hyun saw it. Ha-neul saw it. Everyone saw the fire in Seo-ah’s throat. And they feared it.
Or they wanted it.
Seo-ah didn’t know. And that was the most dangerous thing of all.
# The Voice That Burns
The fluorescent light in the hospital room painted her mother’s face white. Seo-ah stayed another hour. Then two more. Time had long since lost meaning. The clock on the wall kept moving, but Seo-ah’s world had stopped. Beside her mother’s bed. Surrounding her. With both arms, with her gaze, with her breath. But even that wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough.
Seo-ah’s chest sank. Her mother still hadn’t woken up. The doctor said she was on the edge of brain death. The word edge drove Seo-ah mad. Incomplete death. Incomplete life. Her mother was suspended somewhere between.
“Ha-neul. Can I be alone for a bit?”
Seo-ah said. Her voice was low and rough. From crying for the past two days? Or something else? Seo-ah couldn’t recognize her own voice. She wasn’t sure whose it was.
Ha-neul looked at her. That gaze lingered for a long time. Her brother’s eyes were blue. He looked like their father. Seo-ah hated that fact. Their father’s eyes. Their father’s face copied onto her brother. So whenever Seo-ah looked at Ha-neul, she felt a slight revulsion. It led to guilt. Ha-neul was innocent. But Seo-ah’s revulsion was not.
“Are you okay?”
Ha-neul asked. Doubt filled his voice. Naturally. Had Seo-ah ever said she was okay? She had always been broken. Since childhood. Born missing something. Her mother never said it, but Seo-ah felt it. When her mother’s eyes grew dim. That fear in the way her mother looked at her.
“Yeah.”
Seo-ah said. It was a lie. Seo-ah was good at lying. Did she learn it from her father? Or from her mother? It was a family legacy. Lies. Silence. And between them, burning truth.
Ha-neul’s face darkened further. But he didn’t ask again. He was probably tired. Of hearing his sister’s lies. Of his mother lying in a bed.
“Do-hyun, come with me. Let’s go to the café. Get something to eat.”
Ha-neul said to Do-hyun. Do-hyun was sitting on the opposite side of their mother. On a small chair. Like a prisoner. Do-hyun’s face was pale. Seo-ah didn’t know that a sixteen-year-old boy could be this pale. Do-hyun was also broken. But in a different way. If Seo-ah’s brokenness was flame, then Do-hyun’s was ice.
Do-hyun resisted.
“No. I’m staying here.”
Do-hyun’s voice trembled. But Ha-neul grabbed his arm. His fingers dug into Do-hyun’s forearm hard enough to leave marks.
“Go. You need to eat.”
Ha-neul said. It was a command. A command as an older brother. An urgency as a sibling. Maybe Ha-neul thought someone had to do what he couldn’t. Guard their mother. Feed Do-hyun. Heal Seo-ah. All of it was impossible, but Ha-neul kept trying.
Do-hyun reluctantly stood up. His knees wobbled as he rose from the chair. From sitting for days? Or from fear?
“What about Unnie?”
Do-hyun looked at Seo-ah.
“Unnie needs to stay here.”
Ha-neul answered. He probably didn’t have the energy to convince Seo-ah anymore. She had been here too long. Stared at their mother too long. Prayed too long. Felt guilty too long.
After they left, the hospital room grew quiet. Only the monitor’s beeping. A regular, mechanical rhythm. Seo-ah had counted it before. Seventy-two beats per minute. Her mother’s heartbeat. Proof that her mother was alive. Proof that her mother was here.
Seo-ah slowly picked up her mother’s hand. It was warm. Still. Her pulse beat between her fingers. A small, quick rhythm. Seo-ah tried to match her own breathing to that rhythm. But failed. Her heart was beating too fast.
Seo-ah buried her face in her mother’s hand. Her fingers touched her cheek. As if her mother was caressing her. But it was an illusion. Her mother wasn’t moving. Her mother’s hand was just there. A dead hand. A living hand. Somewhere between.
And she cried. So no one could hear. So no one could see. In her own way. Without her throat making sound. Without her mouth opening. Without tears falling. But from inside. From deep within. From her bones. As if her marrow itself was weeping.
Seo-ah’s shoulders shook. Once. Twice. Then stopped. She controlled herself. Again. Always. She had to control herself. Or the fire would come out.
The monitor sent its signal. Regularly. Continuously. Proof that her mother was alive. Proof that her mother was here. But it wasn’t enough. Seo-ah needed to hear her mother’s voice. That soft voice. Sometimes stern, sometimes afraid. Seo-ah needed to see her mother’s eyes. Those blue eyes. The ones she gave to Ha-neul. Her mother needed to wake up. And tell her what she had done.
Tell her the truth.
Kang Min-jun. Kang Ri-woo. Kang and Seo-ah.
Those names circled in her mind. Like flames. Like they were burning her. Seo-ah couldn’t breathe just thinking of those names. Her chest sank. Her hands trembled.
Kang Min-jun. Seo-ah’s biological father. She barely remembered him. Only vague images. The smell of cigarettes. Large hands. A voice that made her mother angry. And then? What came after?
Kang Ri-woo. Seo-ah’s friend. No, was he her friend? She couldn’t call him that anymore. Kang Ri-woo was dead. Burned to death. By Seo-ah’s voice.
Kang and Seo-ah. Kang Min-jun and Seo-ah. Father and daughter. What happened between them? That night. That moment. That burning voice.
“Her voice was burning.”
Those words kept repeating. In her mind. Someone’s testimony. A police statement. A courtroom. What did it mean?
And now Seo-ah knows. That voice was her own. Her child’s voice. Probably when she was six years old. Or five? Time was blurry. But the voice was clear. A burning voice. Something she had burned. And someone feared it.
Kang Min-jun. Her father. Seo-ah’s biological father.
So he left. Or acted like he did. Seo-ah couldn’t remember. That part was blank. Something in her brain erased it. A self-protection mechanism. Trauma hides itself.
And Seo-ah’s mother couldn’t bear it. So her mother feared her own daughter. Seo-ah’s voice. Seo-ah’s eyes. Seo-ah’s very existence. All of it.
Seo-ah’s hand trembled. Over her mother’s hand. A warm hand. A living hand. But an unawakened hand.
And that tremor flowed like electricity. From past to present. From father to daughter. From fear to rage. From silence to flame.
Seo-ah felt her throat. Fire was there. Always. It had been there for a long time. Probably since the beginning. Since she entered her mother’s womb. In her genes. In her DNA helix. Something inherited from her father. Was it flame? Was it rage? Or something more dangerous?
And everyone saw it. Kang Min-jun saw it. Her mother saw it. Kang Ri-woo saw it. Do-hyun saw it. Ha-neul saw it. Everyone saw the fire in Seo-ah’s throat. And they feared it.
Or they wanted it.
Seo-ah didn’t know. And that was the most dangerous thing of all.
The hospital room’s fluorescent light kept humming. The monitor kept sending its signals. Her mother kept living. And Seo-ah kept waiting. For awakening. For forgiveness. Or judgment. For anything.
Seo-ah’s hands were still trembling.
The night was long. A hospital night was different. Time flows differently there. Time thickens. Like water. No, thicker than that. Like smoke. Or like blood. Seo-ah couldn’t move through it.
Seo-ah sat beside her mother. The chair was uncomfortable. No backrest. But Seo-ah didn’t move. If she did, she might miss something. Her mother’s breath. Her mother’s heartbeat. Perhaps her mother’s soul was trapped in that subtle rhythm.
And she waited. For her mother to wake up. She dreamed of that moment. Her mother’s eyes opening. Slowly. One first. Then the other. And coming into focus. First on the ceiling. Then on her.
“Ha-neul?”
Her mother would say. Her voice would be weak.
“No, Mom. It’s me. Seo-ah.”
Seo-ah would answer.
And she wanted her mother’s eyes to see her. She wanted her mother to recognize her. She wanted her mother to see her not as something to protect or fear, but simply as her daughter. That’s what Seo-ah wanted.
Or maybe not. Seo-ah didn’t care anymore. Perhaps that was closer to the truth. Seo-ah was already being judged by her mother. Already feeling her mother’s fear. Now all that remained was confirmation.
What she wanted was only one thing. Truth. Complete, merciless truth. Who she was. What she had done. Why her voice was burning.
Night deepened. Seo-ah’s eyes grew heavy. But she couldn’t sleep. If she did, she would dream. And those dreams were worse than reality. Reality was at least clear. But dreams were uncertain. In them, Seo-ah kept burning.
A sound of footsteps came from somewhere. The hospital corridor. Someone was passing. A nurse working the night shift. The family of another patient. Or someone waiting for death.
Seo-ah opened her eyes. When had she closed them? She didn’t know.
Her mother’s face was still pale. Her lips were blue. Seo-ah wanted to touch her mother’s lips. Warm them. Restore their color. But she couldn’t. Touching them felt like it would break something.
“Mom.”
Seo-ah whispered. Her voice was barely audible. It would be buried under the hospital’s machine sounds.
“Wake up. Please. Look at me. See me.”
Seo-ah squeezed her mother’s hand tighter. But her mother didn’t respond. Her mother’s hand felt dead. No, not dead. It was warm. Her pulse beat in it. But it was neither alive nor dead. Suspended between. In an incomplete state.
Seo-ah couldn’t bear it.
“Tell me. Why were you afraid of me? Why couldn’t you look at me? What did I do wrong?”
Seo-ah’s voice trembled. Louder. Almost shouting. But her mother still didn’t hear. Or she heard but couldn’t answer.
Seo-ah released her mother’s hand. It fell onto the bed. A heavy sound. A small sound. But it sounded large to Seo-ah.
Seo-ah stood up. From the chair. Her feet were numb. How long had she been sitting? Hours? Days? Time had lost meaning.
Seo-ah walked around the hospital room. She went to the window. It was night. The city beyond the hospital. Windows with lights on. Behind them, people lived. Normal people. People living normal lives. People who weren’t worried about their mother not waking up.
Seo-ah envied them.
And hated them.
Seo-ah placed her hand on the window. Cold. Glass. Hard. Endless. She wanted to break it. Reach out and grab the night air. Release her flame.