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# Chapter 227: A Mother’s Voice
Sae-ah took her mother’s hand.
She felt how thin her fingers had become—like the bones of a bird, or the strings of an instrument. And that hand was warm. Sae-ah was startled by it. Instead of the coldness she’d expected, there was heat. The heat of life. Proof that her mother was alive.
“You’ve finally come.”
Her mother spoke. Her voice was still weak, but now it sounded less like fragility and more like deliberate calm.
Kang Ri-woo stood across from the bed, with their mother between them. His face was expressionless, but the muscles in his neck were taut—as if he were struggling to swallow everything he’d said. Sae-ah noticed it. His fingers were trembling. Very subtly. Like hands that had reached for piano keys but stopped.
“What did Mother say?”
Sae-ah asked. Her own voice sounded strange to her—as if someone else was using her vocal cords.
Her mother squeezed Sae-ah’s hand harder.
“I need to tell you about Kang Min-jun.”
Her mother said.
“That man. You’ve never met him, have you? You don’t know what he looks like?”
Sae-ah shook her head. She only knew the name: Kang Min-jun. CEO of JYA Entertainment. A power broker in the music industry. And now, from her mother’s lips, the man called her father. That was all.
“Kang Min-jun was a fearful man.”
Her mother continued.
“From the first time I met him. Everything he had—money, power, influence—was all meant to hide his fear. I knew because I had the same scent.”
Her mother swallowed. That motion seemed painful too.
“Kang Min-jun was afraid of music. Real music, I mean. Not manufactured music, not packaged music, not music that sells. Music where someone’s soul just pours out raw. He thought if such music existed, his empire would crumble. So he tried to control music. All of it.”
Ri-woo moved—a gesture to stop her. But their mother continued.
“And that man knew I had it. In my voice. In the sound that came when I sang. So he wanted me. No—he wanted what I had. And he wanted to make sure no one could ever hear it.”
Sae-ah didn’t move. Under the hospital’s fluorescent lights, holding her mother’s hand.
“That man and I were together for three years. And during those three years, I didn’t sing. Not real music. Ri-woo, who I gave birth to—Min-jun’s son—was born during those three years. And you were made within those three years too.”
Her mother squeezed Sae-ah’s hand even harder.
“But you were different. From the start. You cried the moment you were born. Not ordinary crying, but… music-like crying. Do you know what Min-jun’s face looked like when he heard you? Terror. Pure terror. Like he knew something he’d created would destroy him.”
Sae-ah’s chest began to race. Slowly, but steadily.
“Kang Min-jun was afraid of you. You were the thing that could topple his empire. So he wanted to erase you. Or more precisely, he wanted to make you not exist.”
“Mother.”
Ri-woo spoke. His voice was a warning. But their mother didn’t stop.
“Your father didn’t want to acknowledge you. He wouldn’t register you in the family registry, wouldn’t give you a name, wanted to deny your very existence. But I resisted. In only one way—by erasing myself.”
Her mother’s tears fell. Very slowly, as if time itself wanted to deny them.
“I left Kang Min-jun. After three years. I took Ri-woo with me. But I didn’t take you with me.”
Sae-ah’s fingers fell from her mother’s hand. Against her will.
“Why?”
Sae-ah asked. It was the question she should have asked twenty-four years ago.
“Because…”
Her mother fell silent. Only the hospital monitor’s sound continued. A steady beep. Her mother’s heartbeat. Proof of life.
“Because Min-jun wanted you more. What he wanted to erase had paradoxically become the thing he believed he most needed to possess. So he took you. And I… I only took Ri-woo.”
Sae-ah left the hospital room.
The movement was automatic—as if her body had rejected her will, or perhaps the opposite was true. Her body moved faster than her intention. The door closed behind her, and she stood in the hallway.
Fluorescent lights illuminated her. Cold. Precise.
Do-hyun sat in a chair in the corridor, counting something on his fingers. One, two, three, four, five. Then back to one. Obsessively, as if anchoring himself.
Sae-ah sat down beside him. Without speaking.
“What did hyung say?”
Do-hyun asked, not stopping his counting.
“About Father.”
Sae-ah answered.
“Our father?”
“Yeah.”
“Kang Min-jun?”
“Yeah.”
Do-hyun stopped counting.
“I looked him up. On Google. There’s a photo of CEO Kang Min-jun. Do we look like him? Do we look like our father?”
Sae-ah didn’t answer.
“Did you see? Did you see the photo?”
Do-hyun asked again.
“No.”
“Why? Aren’t you curious?”
Sae-ah was silent.
“I was curious. Really. What kind of man is our father. What kind of face the man who did that to our mother had. So I found out. And…”
Do-hyun stopped.
“And what?”
“That man died eight months ago. A car accident. Driving alone.”
Sae-ah’s fingers trembled.
“You okay?”
Do-hyun asked.
“I’m here.”
“What are you thinking right now?”
Sae-ah thought. But there was nothing to think about. Or there was too much to choose from. The fact that the man called her father was dead. What that meant. That her identity as his daughter could never be confirmed now. Whether that was liberation or a trap.
From the hospital room, she heard Ri-woo’s voice. A conversation with their mother. Sae-ah couldn’t distinguish the words. She only heard the tone. Ri-woo’s was low, measured, holding something back. Her mother’s was weak but certain.
Do-hyun took Sae-ah’s hand.
“Your hand is cold.”
Do-hyun said.
“The hospital is cold.”
Sae-ah answered. It was a lie. The hospital temperature was fine. The problem was Sae-ah’s hand. Or Sae-ah herself. As if she were cooling down. As if no heat source could warm her anymore.
Do-hyun put her hand in his pocket. To warm it with his own body heat. With the warm hand of a seventeen-year-old boy.
“You okay?”
Do-hyun asked.
“Yeah.”
“That’s a lie, right?”
“Yeah.”
Do-hyun let out a sad laugh. Or a laugh of surrender.
“What did hyung say? Besides about Father?”
Do-hyun asked.
“What?”
“Hyung said something. About what Father said at the end. He said he should tell us. That we need to understand.”
Sae-ah remembered. Ri-woo’s voice. Low, measured, mixed with fear and longing. The fire that Father brought. The wounds Father left. The responsibility Father ran from.
“What did hyung say?”
Do-hyun asked again.
“Later.”
Sae-ah answered.
“Now?”
“Now… now I need to hold Mother’s hand.”
The hospital room door opened again. Ri-woo emerged. His face was pale—as if he regretted everything he’d just said. Or hoped it were all lies.
Ri-woo looked at Sae-ah. Something floated in his eyes. Not tears. Sae-ah was sure of that. Tears were a sign of weakness, and what floated in Ri-woo’s eyes was something else. Guilt perhaps. Or responsibility.
“Sae-ah.”
Ri-woo said. His voice was strong again. As if he knew who he was.
“I need to confirm what Mother told you.”
Sae-ah stood. Do-hyun’s hand fell from hers.
“Confirm what?”
Sae-ah asked.
“Did Mother say you’re not Min-jun’s daughter?”
Sae-ah didn’t answer.
“Tell me. Please.”
Ri-woo said.
“Yes. Mother said I’m not Min-jun’s daughter. That I’m a child she chose.”
Ri-woo didn’t move. As if those words had frozen him.
“But that’s a lie.”
Ri-woo said quietly.
“What?”
“Mother lied. Or the truth Mother knows and the truth I know are different. What Father told me at the end was…”
Ri-woo swallowed.
“Father said you were his purest weakness. The weakest point he had. And that this weakness would destroy him. So he wanted you. And at the same time, he abandoned you. That was Father’s only answer. To have what he wanted while simultaneously rejecting it. To love while simultaneously killing.”
Sae-ah’s fingers trembled. Not weakly this time.
“So what Father told me was: protect Sae-ah. But keep Sae-ah away from Mother. Only then can Sae-ah live. Only then can Sae-ah avoid burning in Father’s fire.”
Ri-woo’s voice broke.
“So I came here. I waited eight months. I waited for Father to die. And now Father is dead, and I’m here, and Mother is awake, and Sae-ah…”
Ri-woo looked at Sae-ah.
“Sae-ah is still burning.”
Sae-ah didn’t move. In front of the hospital room door. Under the fluorescent lights. Before her brother—and a stranger. Beside her brother Do-hyun.
“I don’t want to hear that.”
Sae-ah said.
“Hear what?”
Ri-woo asked.
“About Father. That I’m Father’s weakness. That I’m Father’s fire. That I’ll destroy Father. All of that. I don’t want to hear any of it.”
Sae-ah went back into the hospital room.
Her mother still lay in bed. Sae-ah took her hand again. This time, harder.
“Mother.”
Sae-ah said.
“What should I do?”
Her mother looked at Sae-ah’s hand. As if seeing it for the first time.
“You have to live.”
Her mother said.
“That’s all. You just have to live. Not for anyone. Not for anything. Just live.”
Sae-ah couldn’t understand those words. How living could be so simple. Or how it could be the hardest thing of all.
Outside the room, she heard Ri-woo’s voice. A conversation with Do-hyun. Sae-ah decided not to listen. Instead, she held her mother’s hand. Until that warmth became her own.
The fluorescent lights continued to illuminate them. Cold. Precise. Like a judge. Or a witness. Silent with the silence of one who has seen everything.
# The Weight of Truth
The fluorescent light in the hospital corridor continued its incessant humming. That sound seemed like proof that the world kept turning. Ri-woo swallowed as he heard it. His throat was dry. No—his entire body felt parched. The secret he’d carried for eight months was now about to be released into the air.
Sae-ah stood in front of the hospital room door. Her posture looked like she’d tried to flee but stopped. Her shoulders were tense, her fists clenched. Ri-woo couldn’t see her face, but he could feel the tension radiating from her entire body.
“Or the truth I know might be different,” Ri-woo continued.
His voice was low. Deliberately low so his breath wouldn’t be detected. After eight months of waiting, this moment had come. Now that Father was dead, this was the only time he could speak this truth. Ri-woo repeated the motion of putting his hands in and out of his pockets.
“What Father told me at the end was…”
He swallowed again. This time louder. Ri-woo worried Sae-ah could hear it. But she still didn’t move. Do-hyun stood beside her, his face full of anxiety. He seemed to know what his brother was about to say.
Ri-woo took a deep breath. That breath mingled with the disinfectant smell floating from the hospital room. The smell of a hospital. A smell mixed with death and despair. Father must have breathed this same air during his final days.
“Father said you were his purest weakness.”
Ri-woo’s voice trembled. He hadn’t known it would be this difficult to say these words. When he heard them directly from Father’s mouth, they were just information. An order Father was giving him. But now, in this moment, repeating these words in front of Sae-ah, revealed how cruel they were.
“He said you were the weakest point among everything he had. And that this weakness would destroy him.”
Ri-woo watched Sae-ah’s movements. Her back seemed to stiffen further. Her shoulders rose and fell. She was holding her breath.
“So Father wanted you. And at the same time, he abandoned you.”
This was the most important part. The part Father had repeated during his last visit to Ri-woo. Father’s eyes had already taken on the color of death, but his pupils still held the glimmer of something deep. Like looking into a deep pond.
“That was Father’s only answer. To have what he wanted while simultaneously rejecting it. To love while simultaneously killing.”
Ri-woo felt how cold his own voice sounded. It was strange that he could produce such a cold voice. No, not strange—terrifying. Father’s voice seemed to echo through his own voice.
The heart monitor in the hospital room continued its steady beeping. That rhythmic sound was like a clock counting time. Witnessing this moment.
Sae-ah’s fingers began to tremble. At first it was a very small tremor. Like electricity flowing through. But soon it grew larger. This time, not weakly. Ri-woo saw it and continued speaking. He couldn’t stop anymore. Like a dam bursting and water pouring through, once the words started flowing, they couldn’t stop.
“So what Father told me was: protect Sae-ah. But keep Sae-ah away from Mother.”
Ri-woo’s voice was now barely a whisper. Yet that whisper seemed to echo through the entire corridor.
“Only then can Sae-ah live. Only then can Sae-ah avoid burning in Father’s fire.”
Ri-woo pulled his hands from his pockets. His fingers were shaking. Even after carrying these words for eight months, actually speaking them was a completely different experience. He was only now realizing how deep a wound these words would leave in Sae-ah. Father was dead. But Father’s words were still alive. They would take root deep inside Sae-ah and grow.
“So I came here. I waited eight months. I waited for Father to die.”
Ri-woo’s voice broke. Really broke. It felt like something was caught in his throat. Whether it was tears or a scream, he didn’t know.
“And now Father is dead, and I’m here, and Mother is awake, and Sae-ah…”
Ri-woo finally looked at Sae-ah.
In that moment, Sae-ah turned around. Ri-woo could see her face. It was still a young face. But what hung over that face was something far older, far deeper than her years. Her eyes were wide, her mouth slightly open. As if she were screaming silently.
“Sae-ah is still burning.”
Ri-woo said. Those words were a declaration. A diagnosis. And simultaneously a curse.
Sae-ah didn’t move. In front of the hospital room door. Under the fluorescent lights. Before her brother—and a stranger. Beside her brother Do-hyun.
Do-hyun looked at Ri-woo. His face held an expression of incomprehension. But it quickly faded. Do-hyun had known the weight of this family since childhood. He knew how heavy these words were.
“I don’t want to hear that.”
Sae-ah finally spoke. Her voice was rough, like broken glass.
“Hear what?”
Ri-woo asked. As if he didn’t know. But he already did.
“About Father. That I’m Father’s weakness. That I’m Father’s fire. That I’ll destroy Father.”
Sae-ah’s voice grew louder.
“All of it. I don’t want to hear any of it.”
In that voice was anger. But not just anger. There was also fear. And despair. And something even greater than that. It was rejection. A rejection that sought to deny her very existence.
Sae-ah went back into the hospital room. That movement was flight. But flight even knowing there was nowhere to flee. Because there was Mother inside.
Inside the room, the heart monitor’s sound continued its steady rhythm. Mother still lay in bed. That face was peaceful. As if nothing had happened. Or as if she already knew everything was over.
Sae-ah took her mother’s hand again. This time harder. As if afraid Mother would go somewhere. Or as if she herself might drift away.
“Mother.”
Sae-ah said. Her voice was small. Almost a cry.
“What should I do?”
Her mother slowly looked at Sae-ah’s hand. It was her daughter’s hand holding hers. But that hand seemed unfamiliar, as if she were seeing it for the first time. Her mother was startled that Sae-ah had grown so much. No, it wasn’t Sae-ah’s size that startled her. It was the weight that hand carried. She knew what that hand was holding.
Her mother slowly squeezed Sae-ah’s hand tighter. The warmth of that hand reached her. It was still warm. There was still life.
“You have to live.”
Her mother said. Her voice sounded like a prayer.
“That’s all. You just have to live. Not for anyone. Not for anything. Just live.”
Those words were simple. So simple they became complicated. How living could be so simple. Or how it could be the hardest thing of all. Sae-ah couldn’t understand those words.
Or she chose not to understand them.
Outside the room, she heard Ri-woo’s voice. A conversation with Do-hyun. Sae-ah decided not to listen. They would all be about Father. About Father’s choices. About Father’s death.
But Sae-ah no longer needed to hear Father’s words. Father was dead. Father’s fire, Father’s weakness, Father’s choices—all of it was dead.
Or it wasn’t.
Sae-ah decided to push that thought away. Instead, she held her mother’s hand tighter. Until that warmth became her own. Until it became the most fundamental part of what made her. Until it became life itself.
The fluorescent lights continued to illuminate them. Cold. Precise. Like a judge. Or a witness. Silent with the silence of one who has seen everything. And in that silence, Sae-ah decided to live. Not for anyone. Not for anything. Just to live.
But how difficult that would be, she would learn slowly, in the days to come.
In the hospital room, there were only two people and the sound of machines. The heart monitor’s steady rhythm. That was proof of life. That was the only truth.
Sae-ah listened to that sound and slowly closed her eyes.