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# Chapter 113: Silence Before the Courtroom
The sound of the plane descending synchronized with Sae-ah’s heartbeat.
A flight from Jeju Garak Regional Airport to Seoul’s Gimpo. Outside the window, clouds scattered, revealing Seoul’s outline beneath. The Han River. Buildings. Roads. All of it a dense maze of concrete and glass. Sae-ah held her breath watching it. Like returning underwater. Like counting oxygen the way her mother did.
Haewon sat beside her.
Haewon had come. On a flight yesterday evening. All the way to the Jeju accommodation to pick Sae-ah up. And now they were on this plane together. In her hands was a gray paper bag. Something was inside. Sae-ah didn’t ask. Not until Haewon said something. That was how they communicated. Transmitting only what was necessary through silence.
“Scared?”
Haewon asked as the plane descended toward the runway.
Sae-ah didn’t answer. Fear wasn’t a sufficient word. Fear was too small an emotion. This wasn’t fear—it was erasure. The sensation of herself slowly disappearing. Like a flame flickering in the wind.
“You’re alive. Remember that. You didn’t die. And you won’t.”
Haewon spoke while taking Sae-ah’s hand.
Sae-ah looked at that hand. Long fingers. A musician’s hand. But now it was warm. Not cold like Kangryu’s, without any intention to control. Simply a hand existing. A hand saying: I’m here.
The plane landed.
The courthouse looked more worn than Sae-ah expected.
Seoul Central District Court. That was its exact name. Sae-ah stood before it. With Haewon. And with her lawyer. What was the lawyer’s name? Kim something. Sae-ah had met her last evening but already forgotten. She couldn’t remember people’s names, yet the case number stayed with her. 2024-Go-1847. Those numbers had burned into her mind like flames.
“Don’t be nervous. You’re the victim. You’re innocent.”
The lawyer said this.
Sae-ah tried to believe it. But her body didn’t. Her body knew the truth. Courtrooms weren’t places where innocence existed. They were where guilt was defined. And all guilt existed only through someone’s testimony. If Sae-ah didn’t speak, Kangryu was innocent. That was the law.
“Will Kangryu be here?”
Sae-ah asked.
“Yes. The defendant has the right to attend. His lawyer may also cross-examine you.”
The lawyer said this as naturally as if discussing the weather.
Sae-ah’s chest contracted. Cross-examination. Kangryu’s lawyer would try to dismantle her words. Try to cast doubt on her testimony. Try to prove she was lying.
“You can do this.”
Haewon took her hand again.
Sae-ah looked at her. That face. Those eyes. How desperate they were. That desperation—the desperate faith in her—transmitted to Sae-ah. Warmly. Painfully.
When she entered the courtroom, everything was gray.
The walls were gray. The floor was gray. Even people’s faces appeared gray. Sae-ah walked toward the witness stand. Her feet announced they didn’t belong in this space. Like walking on water. Suspended while simultaneously preparing to sink.
The judge appeared elderly. Sixties? Seventies? Sae-ah couldn’t judge precisely. Age was no longer relevant information. What mattered was that the judge saw her. Precisely. Like her mother spotting fish underwater.
She took the oath. Hand raised. “I will tell only the truth.” When those words left her mouth, Sae-ah couldn’t be certain she could tell only the truth. She didn’t know what truth was. Had she loved Kangryu? Hated him? Both? What happened when truths contradicted?
The prosecutor asked.
“What is your name?”
“Na Sae-ah.”
Even saying her own name felt strange. Like speaking someone else’s name.
“When did your relationship with the defendant, Kangryu, begin?”
“About six months ago.”
The words continued coming. As if someone else was speaking. Sae-ah heard her own voice and questioned whether it was truly hers. A voice so cold, so distant, so emotionless—could that be her?
“What effect did the defendant have on you?”
The prosecutor continued.
Sae-ah thought. Effect. That word was too weak. Effect was like wind. Light, passing, leaving no trace. But Kangryu wasn’t that. Kangryu was a typhoon. A typhoon that destroyed everything. No—not a typhoon. Fire. Fire that made Sae-ah herself burn.
“He… burned me.”
Sae-ah said.
The courtroom went silent. As if everyone had stopped breathing.
“Could you explain more specifically?”
The prosecutor asked.
Sae-ah spoke. Everything. The Han River. Kangryu’s arms. Her own arms. Those moments. And how those moments burned her. How she lost herself. How her voice became not her own.
And then she saw him.
Kangryu was there. Across the courtroom. Beside the security officers. She’d tried not to look at him while speaking, but her eyes went there anyway. His face. His hands. His fingers were trembling. They were in a cast. The hand she’d broken. That hand was trembling now.
Seeing that, something in Sae-ah shattered.
No—she didn’t shatter. Rather, she sealed herself completely shut. Like an oyster closing its shell. Like a haenyeo holding her breath underwater. Sae-ah completely sealed her emotions in that moment.
“May I continue?”
The prosecutor asked.
Sae-ah nodded silently.
And she continued. Everything. Kangryu’s control. His hands. His promises. All those lies. How they bound her. How she followed his choices instead of her own.
The courtroom was silent. So silent that Sae-ah could hear her own heartbeat. Like a drum. Like someone was knocking on her chest.
And then Kangryu’s lawyer stood.
“I have questions.”
The lawyer said. An older man. In a formal suit. Sae-ah couldn’t look at his face. Because looking at it would shatter her into pieces.
“Is there evidence that the defendant intended to harm you?”
Sae-ah understood what he was asking. He was asking about Kangryu’s intent. Did Kangryu want to hurt her? Or did he want to love her? Both?
“He… thought he loved me.”
Sae-ah answered.
“Then can you say the defendant harmed you?”
Sae-ah’s chest stopped. That question was too precise. Too sharp as a blade. Because it was true. Kangryu didn’t mean to hurt her. Kangryu wanted to love her. But that love was control, and that control was harm. What was the distance between them? Where was the boundary?
“He… controlled me. Controlled my choices. Controlled my body. Controlled my voice. And that was harm.”
Sae-ah said.
The lawyer continued.
“But you were with him voluntarily, weren’t you?”
Sae-ah couldn’t answer. Because that was also true. She had chosen. Chosen Kangryu. Chosen that control. Because she knew she couldn’t choose. That choice didn’t exist for someone like her. So she chose control. At least she could understand what it was.
“Yes. At first, it was voluntary. But later… it wasn’t a choice either. It was survival.”
The courtroom went silent again.
In that moment, Sae-ah realized something. It wasn’t forgiveness of Kangryu. Forgiveness existed in language. But what Sae-ah realized existed in silence. It was that Kangryu was as broken as she was. Burning in flame as she was. And that flame had burned them both.
The lawyer continued asking. Trying to break her testimony. Looking for contradictions. But Sae-ah was no longer afraid. Because contradictions existed. Inside her. And those contradictions made her whole. Her imperfect self. Her broken self. Her burning self.
“Did you push the defendant at the Han River?”
The lawyer asked.
“Yes. I pushed him.”
“Why?”
“To survive.”
The courtroom went silent again. That silence was deep. Deep like water. In that silence, Sae-ah could feel her mother. In the Jeju waters, counting oxygen. And the sound she made surfacing. Breath sounds. The sound of being alive.
She looked at Kangryu again. His face had gone white. As if all blood had drained from it. As if he already knew he was dead.
And in that moment, Sae-ah knew what she had to do. What she had to say. What she shouldn’t say. What she had to abandon.
“Are there further questions?”
The judge asked the lawyer.
The lawyer shook his head.
“I have completed my testimony.”
Sae-ah stepped down from the witness stand. When her feet touched the ground, that was the most truthful moment. The most real moment. The moment she returned into her own body.
Haewon was waiting. Behind the courtroom. Her face was wet. Tears had fallen.
“You did well. Really well.”
Haewon embraced Sae-ah.
Sae-ah buried her face in Haewon’s chest. In that warmth. That life. That existence. And in that moment, she truly felt alive. Not through flame, but through breath. Through heartbeat. Through the warmth of fingers.
Kangryu remained in the courtroom. With his lawyer. Beside the security officers. Sae-ah didn’t look back. She didn’t need to. Because she had already escaped that flame. Still burning, but no longer burning her.
She left the courtroom.
Seoul’s sunlight struck Sae-ah’s skin. It was warm. Warmer than expected.
“What will you do now?”
Haewon asked.
Sae-ah thought. That question. And what answer she wanted to give.
“I’m going to sing.”
“What?”
“My song. For the first time. With my name. With my voice.”
Haewon didn’t smile. But something appeared on her face. Something you could call hope.
“Then we’ll start from the beginning. You’re free now.”
Sae-ah looked at her hands. Her fingers were trembling. Slightly. But it wasn’t the trembling of fear. It was the trembling of music. The trembling of music trying to escape her body.
And that was the most truthful flame Sae-ah had ever felt.
A flame that didn’t burn her. A flame that illuminated her. A flame that warmed her. A flame she ignited herself.
As Sae-ah left the courthouse, her phone rang. An unknown number. But the area code was Jeju.
It wasn’t her mother. It wasn’t Dohyun. Then who was it?
Sae-ah didn’t answer. Not now. Right now, hearing her own breathing was more important.
But the phone kept ringing. Four times. Five times. Six times.
That number was her past. And her past was calling her now.