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# Chapter 238: Until the Fire Burns
Kang Liou couldn’t finish his sentence.
Sae-ah knew it. Beneath the fluorescent lights of the corridor, she watched his lips move and then stop—as if the words were lodged somewhere deep in his throat. Or deeper still, in that narrow space between chest and heart, refusing to be spoken.
Sae-ah decided not to wait anymore. No more silence. No more half-truths. She turned to face him directly, to see his face head-on. And in that moment, she saw something she hadn’t seen before.
Kang Liou’s eyes were filled with water. Unshed tears. Tears that couldn’t fall. As if his tear ducts were refusing to open—the body’s last line of defense. Sae-ah knew that sensation. The pain of being unable to cry. That desperation when your body refuses what your heart demands. She raised her hand toward his face.
But Kang Liou moved first. He pulled away from her touch. Or rather, he didn’t accept it—as if he knew that accepting her hand would cause him to shatter completely.
“I competed in a piano competition in Berlin.”
His voice was mechanical. Emotion stripped away. Facts only.
“The Chopin Competition. The most prestigious one. I spent ten years preparing for it. Six hours every single day at the piano. It was my entire life. School, friends, love—I sacrificed everything for that competition. And I came in third.”
Sae-ah’s breath caught. She understood what third place meant. Failure. Ten years of devotion reduced to a bronze medal.
“And at that competition, I met someone.”
Kang Liou continued. His hand went into his pocket, then came out empty. Like he was searching for something. Or trying to hide something. In the end, his hand hung suspended in the air—unable to land anywhere, unable to touch anything.
“The head judge. His name was Mikhail. Russian. A man in his eighties. A legendary pianist. Someone I admired. I learned by studying his interpretations. I’ve listened to his recordings hundreds of times. And that man judged me. And I received third place.”
Sae-ah looked at Kang Liou’s face. His lips were trembling.
“After that, Mikhail found me. Right after the competition. And he asked me: Why do you play piano? I thought it was a strange question. So obvious. But he repeated it. Why? For what? For whom? And I couldn’t answer. Because I didn’t know. I only played because I could. Because I’d been conditioned to do it.”
From the hospital room, the sound of the heart monitor reached them. Regular. Mechanical. The sound of living. Sae-ah realized her own heart was beating at the same rhythm. As if she too were connected to that monitor. Or as if her own heart was becoming a machine.
“Mikhail told me: You’re afraid of the piano. You play because you have to. You continue because you have to. And you got third place because you don’t love it. You’re being controlled by it, not the other way around.”
Kang Liou clenched his fist toward the wall and struck it. Against the cream-colored surface. But the fist made no sound. As if the wall were soft. Or as if his fist were already dead.
“After that, I couldn’t play anymore.”
Sae-ah breathed sharply and moved to see him better, to face him directly. She stepped away from the wall. And she saw his hands. They were still trembling. As if they were resting on piano keys. Or refusing to rest on them.
“My fingers wouldn’t move. Not mentally—physically. My nervous system rejected it. Every time I tried to play, my fingers would seize up. The doctors called it psychosomatic symptoms. Psychological trauma expressing itself through the body. They said my body was protecting me because I was so afraid of the piano.”
Sae-ah took his hand. This time, Kang Liou didn’t resist. His hand continued trembling in hers, but it was no longer the trembling of rejection. It was the trembling of acknowledgment. The acknowledgment that his own body had betrayed him. And that someone else was accepting that betrayal.
“I spent ten years trying to fix it. Therapists. Medication. Meditation. Everything. And finally, my fingers started moving again. Slowly. But they moved. And I thought: Now I can play piano again. Now I can be myself again.”
Kang Liou looked directly into Sae-ah’s eyes. For the first time. His eyes were still wet. But now the tears were trying to fall.
“But it was a lie. I wasn’t myself again. I was just the owner of my fingers. Not myself. And I came back to Seoul. And I met you, Sae-ah.”
Sae-ah’s grip on his hand tightened. She said nothing. Because there was nothing to say. She spoke only with her hand. You’re not alone. You’re more than those fingers. And even if they tremble, I will keep holding on.
From the hospital room, she felt her mother’s eyes open. Not through the window, but through some other sense. As if all life were awakening at once. Or all death coming back to life.
“We need to find Do-hyun.”
Sae-ah said, releasing Kang Liou’s hand.
“And Mother.”
She turned back toward the room. Kang Liou followed. Not offering his hand. Simply following. As if that was the only thing he could do.
In the room, Mother slowly turned her head. Toward Sae-ah. Toward Kang Liou. Her eyes still held guilt, but now something else was mixing with it. Resolve. No—acceptance. The determination to accept her own past.
“Kang Liou… I’m sorry for… meeting you.”
Mother spoke. Her voice was broken, but it was no longer the voice of guilt. It was the voice of facing reality. The voice of confronting what she had done.
Kang Liou didn’t answer. Instead, he went to Mother’s bedside. And sat on the opposite side from Sae-ah. On both sides of Mother. As if they were already a family. Or had just decided to become one.
“I have a lot to tell you,”
Kang Liou said slowly. Carefully.
“But not now. Right now, what we need to do is… find Do-hyun.”
Sae-ah looked at Kang Liou and realized: he had changed. Or revealed himself for the first time. Those trembling fingers. That broken voice. They were all part of him. And now he wasn’t hiding them.
The fluorescent lights in the corridor still hummed. But now Sae-ah understood what that sound meant. It wasn’t just electricity. It was the sound of fire burning. And that fire wouldn’t go out. Because someone kept pouring fuel on it. Someone kept trying to keep it burning.
Sae-ah left the room. Kang Liou followed. Mother’s gaze trailed after them. From the bed. But she was no longer lying completely still. She was slowly sitting up. As if she understood she needed to be part of this journey.
In the corridor leading to the elevator, Sae-ah tried to find Do-hyun. But the elevator was already there. And inside was Do-hyun. Alone. His face was pale. As if all his blood had drained away. Or all emotion had been removed.
“Noona.”
Do-hyun saw Sae-ah. And Kang Liou. And the direction of the room.
“Did Mother wake up?”
Sae-ah nodded.
“And Kang Liou too. He’s our older brother now.”
Do-hyun said nothing. He simply stepped out of the elevator. And headed toward the room. His stride was quick, but his movements were mechanical. As if someone else were controlling his body.
Kang Liou caught the elevator door. Preventing it from closing. At the last moment.
“Thank you, Sae-ah.”
He said it. In a very small voice. Almost a whisper.
“What are you doing?”
Sae-ah asked.
“I think I need to go down. For a bit. I need to clear my head.”
Kang Liou answered. And stepped into the elevator. The doors closed. And Sae-ah was left alone. In the middle of the corridor leading to the room. In that space where she didn’t know whether to move forward or step back.
Sae-ah headed toward the room. Slowly. And the moment she saw Do-hyun, she knew. That she was missing something. In Do-hyun’s face. In his eyes. What his eyes were telling her. Sae-ah needed to know what it was.
“Do-hyun, what is it? Where were you?”
Sae-ah asked.
Do-hyun sat beside Mother’s bed. And slowly took out his phone. And showed her the screen. A news article was displayed. With a large photo. It was someone Sae-ah knew.
‘JYA Entertainment CEO Kang Min-jun found dead at home. Apparent suicide.’
Sae-ah’s breath stopped. Kang Min-jun. Father. Her biological father. Kang Liou’s father. The man who abandoned Mother. Reading the news of his death, Sae-ah didn’t know what she was supposed to feel. Sadness? Anger? Relief? Fear?
“A few days ago.”
Do-hyun said. His voice was shaking.
“Where was I? I saw the news. And I thought you needed to know. And I read all the articles. About what Kang Min-jun did. What he did at JYA. And I understood. Now. Why Mother is like this. Why Father stays silent. Everything.”
Sae-ah tried to read the news article, but the letters wouldn’t come into focus. As if her eyes were rejecting it. And where was Kang Liou? Sae-ah wondered. Does Kang Liou know about this news? Where is he now? What is he doing as he learns his father is dead?
The fluorescent light in the room seemed to grow brighter. Or Sae-ah’s eyes were beginning to accept it more strongly. As if darkness were being removed. And everything was being exposed. All secrets. All lies. All deaths.
And Sae-ah heard the fire burning. Inside the fluorescent tube. It wouldn’t go out. Because there was still someone. Still something. Still work to be done.
Sae-ah looked at her hands. The hands that had held Kang Liou’s. They were no longer trembling. Since when. As if when she held someone else’s hand, her own hand had stopped. Or as if her hand was being stopped by someone else’s.
And Sae-ah knew. That things would be different from now on. Everything would be different. Because now she was no longer alone. Mother was there. Do-hyun was there. And Kang Liou too. The man with trembling fingers. His fingers were now still in her hand.
A nurse entered the room. Routine checks. Blood pressure. Pulse. Oxygen saturation. Everything was normal. Mother had woken. Do-hyun had returned. Sae-ah was here. And Kang Liou too. Somewhere.
“Has your father come to visit?”
The nurse asked.
Sae-ah was silent. Father. What did that word mean now? Kang Min-jun? Or the man who raised her? Or Kang Liou? Or someone else entirely to Do-hyun?
“Yes.”
Do-hyun answered.
“Our father is here.”
And Sae-ah realized: what was Do-hyun saying? Was he talking about Kang Liou? Or himself? Or something completely different?
The fluorescent lights in the room kept humming. That sound seemed endless. Because it was proof of life. Proof of fire burning. And that fire would no longer burn for anyone else. Only for themselves. Only for their own survival. Only for their own flames.
Sae-ah looked out the window. Seoul’s night skyline. Millions of lights. Each light was someone’s home. Someone’s life. Someone’s flame. And one of them had just gone out. Kang Min-jun’s flame.
But the other lights were still burning. Sae-ah’s light. Do-hyun’s light. Kang Liou’s light.
And Mother’s light too. In the bed, slowly, but certainly, burning again.