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# Chapter 208: Holding Your Breath
The sky was still black. But Sea had come to understand that black came in many shades. The black of night was different from the black of dawn. Dawn’s black held threads of gray woven through it. A color trying to change. A color not yet finished.
The hospital clock read 4:23 AM.
Sea hadn’t called for the doctor. Instead, she sat beside her mother. Dohyun still held their mother’s hand, while Sea rested her palm gently against her mother’s forehead—so lightly, as if afraid of waking her. Or afraid she wouldn’t wake at all.
Her mother’s eyes were closed. But beneath the lids, movement continued. Fast, irregular, painful-looking. REM sleep. Or a nightmare. Or memory.
Sea thought of Kang Riou’s black folder. The photographs inside it. Pictures of herself and Riou. The same nose. The same jawline. The same father’s inheritance. The legacy of a man named Kang Minjun. A man Sea had never met. A man whose voice she’d never heard. But a man whose blood flowed through her veins.
She moved her fingers, spreading them wide, then closing them. Spreading, closing. Like breathing. The rhythm of fingers. The rhythm of a heart. The rhythm of a father.
“Noona.”
Dohyun’s voice was barely a whisper. So small he almost couldn’t hear himself.
“Yeah?”
“Is Kang Riou really our brother?”
Sea didn’t answer. Instead, she looked at him. A seventeen-year-old boy. A boy who had crossed the threshold into adulthood this night. A boy who had aged years in hours.
“I’m not sure yet.”
The words tasted like a lie. And they were. If she thought about Riou’s face, her own face, her mother’s face—it all became clear. The same blood. The same cells. The same father.
But what would change if she admitted it? Would Dohyun feel better? What would she say when her mother woke up?
“Then what is our father?”
That was the real question. The one Sea had to answer.
She wanted to say she didn’t know. But she was afraid it would wake Dohyun further. Make him grow older. This child who already looked twenty-seven instead of seventeen.
“Our father is our father.”
It was the best answer she could give.
Dohyun nodded. But tears pooled in his eyes. The tears of a seventeen-year-old. The tears of someone still a child.
The room fell silent again. And in that silence, Sea heard it. A subtle shift. The sound of her mother’s breathing changing.
Her mother’s eyes opened. This time longer. Clearer. As if seeing the room for the first time. The fluorescent light overhead. The lightening sky beyond the window. Her children.
“Mom,” Sea whispered.
Her mother’s mouth moved. As if trying to say something. But no sound came. Instead, her fingers moved. Pushing against Dohyun’s hand. Or trying to grasp it.
Sea stood up quickly. She had to call the medical staff. Her mother was fully awake. She might be able to talk. To answer questions.
But before she could reach the door, she heard her mother’s voice again.
“Se… a…”
Her mother spoke. So slowly. As if forming each syllable was impossibly difficult.
“I’m here, Mom.”
Sea returned to the bed. She looked at her mother’s face. There was something in it. Fear. Or memory. Or regret.
“Father…”
Her mother managed the word. But couldn’t continue. Her throat was dry, her lips cracked, and fourteen days of silence still held dominion over her body.
“Rest. I’ll get you some water.”
Sea reached for the cup on the bedside table. A straw was already in it. White plastic. Hospital water. Colorless and odorless. But it was enough.
She brought the straw to her mother’s lips. Her mother sipped. Very weakly. Just a few swallows. But she swallowed.
“Thank you,” her mother whispered. Very faintly. But this time, more clearly.
“Don’t thank me. You’re awake. You’re back.”
Sea didn’t wait any longer. She called for the medical staff. Pressed the button. The nurse call button.
Ten seconds passed. Thirty seconds. One minute.
Then a nurse entered. A middle-aged woman. The marks of the night shift were on her face. But her eyes immediately assessed the patient. She looked at her mother’s eyes. Listened to her breathing. Touched her fingers.
“She’s awake,” Sea said.
“Yes, I can see that.”
The nurse left to find the doctor.
The wait felt both endless and instantaneous. Time had lost all meaning. Sea just watched her mother’s face. And her mother watched hers. Neither spoke. They couldn’t. There was too much to say.
The doctor entered. A man in his fifties. A neurologist. Her mother’s attending physician.
“Good. You’re awake,” he said, checking her eyes with a penlight. Pupil response. Level of consciousness. Neurological status.
“What’s my name?” he asked her.
Her mother’s mouth moved. But no sound came.
“That’s okay. Recovery takes time. Post-stroke rehabilitation. We’ll need speech therapy.”
He left to call the other staff. CT scans needed. Blood work needed.
The room became busy again. Medical personnel coming and going. Machines being reconnected. IV lines replaced. Sea and Dohyun were pushed to the side. It became hard to even see their mother.
But Sea didn’t lose sight of her mother’s eyes. Her mother did the same. Between the medical staff, between the machines, their eyes kept meeting.
And Sea understood. Her mother was trying to tell her something. Something very important. But she couldn’t say it yet.
Kang Riou didn’t move from the 32nd floor.
The door to his father’s office was closed. Was his father inside? Or had he already left? Riou didn’t know. And he decided it didn’t matter.
The black folder slipped from his hands. Instead, he picked up his phone. He called Sea.
The phone rang. Once. Twice. Three times.
She didn’t answer.
He called again. Four times. Five times.
She didn’t answer.
He texted her.
“Where are you? Did Mom wake up? Answer me.”
Ten seconds later, a new message arrived.
“Hospital. Medical staff here. I’ll call later.”
Riou read the message again and again. His mother was awake. Sea’s mother was awake. That should have been good news. But why did his heart feel heavier?
He picked up the black folder again. And left the 32nd floor. He took the elevator. Down to the 1st floor. Down to B1. Down to B2.
Riou entered his father’s garage. He found his car. A black Mercedes. A car he hated. But a car he drove.
He sat in the driver’s seat. He started the engine. Music came on. Classical piano. Chopin’s Nocturne. A piece he used to practice in Berlin.
Riou turned off the music. And drove. Without a destination. Only movement mattered.
He drove toward the Han River. The Han at dawn. Still black water. Still flowing water.
Riou parked the car. In a parking lot by the Han River Park. And got out. He walked. Toward the water’s edge.
5 AM. Still night. Still dark.
But in the darkness, above the water, Riou saw his hands. They were shaking. Like his father’s. Like Sea’s. Now like his own.
He wanted to throw the black folder into the water. The folder with his father’s photographs. The folder with pictures of himself and Sea. The folder containing all the truth.
But he didn’t throw it.
Instead, he submerged his head in the water. Cold water. The Han’s water. Dawn’s water. It felt like it might wake him. Like it might wash everything away.
But the water washed away nothing.
The fluorescent lights of the hospital room continued their relentless glow. 6 AM. Morning was almost here. But it was still night.
Her mother couldn’t move among the medical staff. Connected to machines. Oxygen tube. IV. Heart monitor. Everything sustained her. And everything bound her.
Sea sat in a chair. So did Dohyun. Both watched their mother. But neither spoke. There was nothing to say. Or too much to say.
And in that silence, Sea understood.
She understood Kang Riou. His pain. His choices.
She understood Kang Minjun. Her father. His decisions. His secrets.
And in understanding them, she understood herself.
She was someone’s daughter. And someone’s older sister. And perhaps someone’s love. But here, now, in this room, she was simply someone who had to protect.
Sea took a deep breath. And held it.
And held it still.
Like a haenyeo. Like her mother. Diving deeper into the water.