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# Chapter 126: The Night Before Court
Dohyeon’s call came at 1:47 a.m. Seah was lying in her gosiwon bed, staring at the ceiling, a lighter still gripped in her hand. The habit of flicking it on and off persisted. Three times. Always three times. She didn’t know where it started, but she felt compelled to do it. Three flames. Three darknesses. Three repetitions that felt like prayer.
“Noona. You’re still awake?”
Dohyeon’s voice was thin, carrying the accent of Jeju. Hearing it made Seah realize how long she’d left that kid alone. How was school? Was he eating? How was their mother? The last time Seah had seen Dohyeon, he was fourteen. Now he was seventeen. Three years had slipped through her fingers—or rather, she’d turned her back on them.
“What made you call at this hour?”
Seah asked, clicking the lighter off. Darkness rushed back in.
“Couldn’t sleep. Tomorrow’s your court day, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So I thought you probably weren’t sleeping either.”
Dohyeon said. It was a startlingly accurate guess. Seah hadn’t slept much in the past four days. When she closed her eyes, she saw Kang Riyu’s fingers—trembling, leading her, pressing down on her. She needed to see them. In court. From the witness stand. In front of everyone.
“What about Mom?”
Seah asked.
“She’s asleep. But it looks like she’s crying even while sleeping. There were tears on her pillow.”
The lighter flared again. This time just once. The flame wavered—her hand trembling slightly.
“Dohyeon.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry.”
Silence stretched across the distance between Jeju and Seoul. The silence of that distance. He didn’t answer. Instead, she heard his breathing—not a child’s breath anymore, but a man’s. A breath that showed how much he’d grown.
“Noona, what am I supposed to say? ‘It’s okay’? ‘It’s not your fault’? But that’s a lie.”
“Yeah.”
“So I’ll just listen. To you. What are you going to say in court?”
Seah clicked the lighter off again. Darkness swallowed the room. The gosiwon became pitch black, the mold stains on the ceiling transforming into shadowy shapes. The mold was growing. Growing even when unseen. Like trauma.
“The truth.”
“What is the truth?”
She lit it again. The ceiling reappeared, mold spots visible once more. Black dots. Microscopic life forming a single pattern.
“Everything Kang Riyu did to me was wrong. But what it left behind isn’t a mistake or someone’s fault. It’s just a wound. A lingering wound. And there are people who saw it—people who made me show them that wound. So I have to speak about it. What it looked like. How deep it was.”
She spoke slowly. Off, on, off. Three times. The smell of burning filled the tiny room—perhaps the smell of her own soul, singed by flame.
“Noona.”
“Yeah.”
“You know what I’m doing after I graduate?”
“No.”
“A band. Our band. A producer’s interested. Not a big agency, just a small label. But they like it. And they like the songs I wrote. You know what those songs are?”
“No idea.”
“The songs you used to sing. The ones from your old band. I remembered them. The melodies. So I wrote sheet music. Without you. And I added lyrics. My lyrics. So now those songs are mine. But they’re still yours too. You get it? You need to be here. Not disappearing somewhere.”
His voice shook.
Seah set down the lighter. Her hands trembled. It fell on the bed, still burning. She picked it up, turned it off. Darkness. Light again. Off. On. Off. She didn’t know how long this cycle would continue.
“Thanks, Dohyeon.”
“For what?”
“For being there.”
“You’re there for me too. Don’t forget that.”
The call ended. Seah was alone again. With the lighter. With the mold on the ceiling.
After 3 a.m., Seah left the gosiwon. She didn’t think about where to go—just followed her feet. Toward the Han River. Past Hapjeong Station. Night Seoul was a completely different city from daytime. Only neon signs remained—the blue light of convenience stores, the red glow of pojangmachis, the orange of jjimjilbangs. The city existed only in light.
She reached the riverside. The river at night was black. Unseen depths. Unknowable currents. No one could know what lay below. That’s what made a river a river—its uncertainty. Its uncontrollability.
“Are you insane?”
A voice came from behind. Haeneul. Did she close the tattoo shop? No, she’d said something about staying up late. So why was she here? Seah turned.
Haeneul had a cigarette in her mouth, her face pale, dark circles under her eyes—the marks of a night spent tattooing.
“You closed the shop?”
“Yeah. Finished with the last client and came out. Then I got a signal from you. Felt uneasy about it.”
“A signal?”
“Friend’s intuition. What were you about to do?”
Seah didn’t answer. She looked back at the river. Black water. It looked like a mirror, but her reflection didn’t show—the night was too deep.
“Were you planning to go in?”
“No.”
It wasn’t a complete lie. She had thought about it. But it wasn’t a plan—just a thought. Like forgetting that thoughts could become actions.
“Fine. Let’s go then.”
Haeneul extended her hand.
Seah looked at it. Haeneul’s hand. The hand that held tattoo needles. The hand that had etched ink into hundreds of skins. Now it was reaching for her.
She took it.
The café was hidden in a back alley of Hongdae—a place Seah had walked past for months but never noticed. A small door. A handwritten sign above it: “A Night for Musicians—Skylight Café.”
“The owner’s someone I know. A musician. Makes songs all night, works part-time during the day. Like a mentor figure. I thought you’d like it.”
Haeneul said.
She opened the door. Warm air spilled out. And music—soft piano music. The most beautiful music Seah had ever heard. It was sad, but not hopeless. A song that proved sadness could become music.
Six people sat inside. One at the counter. One at a table with a laptop. One playing guitar. Others doing their own things—someone sleeping, someone reading.
“Sit.”
They took a window seat. Outside, the nighttime streets of Hongdae still glowed. The city still awake. Still moving with light.
The counter person brought coffee—something Seah hadn’t ordered.
“Americano. No sugar.”
“Thank you.”
“Haeneul told me. About court tomorrow. Made it strong. Picked a piano piece I thought you’d like too.”
Seah took a sip. It was hot—burned her tongue. The pain was clear. A good sign. A sign she was still alive.
“Is tomorrow really important?”
“Very.”
“Then sleep here. In a comfortable spot. We’ll watch over you.”
Seah had no reason to refuse. She sipped the coffee instead. The piano continued. Someone’s song. Someone’s sorrow. But now it was shared. Made into music. Music for everyone.
Time passed. Around 5 a.m., Seah’s eyes closed—automatically, without resistance, as if someone had gently lowered her eyelids.
Haeneul retrieved a blanket and draped it over her. Then she sat beside her. Without speaking. Just being present.
Seah’s dreams were empty—or forgotten. But she knew she could reach into the darkness. She knew someone would take her hand.
The courtroom was smaller than she’d expected.
When she woke at 6 a.m., Seah didn’t know where she was for a moment. An unfamiliar ceiling. An unfamiliar sofa. But Haeneul was beside her, still watching.
“Did you sleep?”
“Yeah. Thank you.”
“What time is court?”
“Ten.”
“We should shower and head out. You bring clothes?”
Seah shook her head.
“I’ll buy you something. What color do you want?”
“Black.”
“Black’s pretty heavy, isn’t it?”
“That’s me. Heavy.”
The courtroom really was smaller than expected.
10 a.m. Seoul Central District Court, Criminal Division 7. Judge’s bench. Prosecution desk. Defense table. And witness stand. Everything maintained careful distance. Someone once said distance creates respect. They were wrong. Distance creates fear.
Seah took the oath. Hand raised. Swearing to tell only the truth. It was the only thing she could do—gathering truths, speaking them aloud.
The prosecutor began.
“What actions did the defendant take toward you?”
Seah spoke slowly. Kang Riyu’s hands. How they gripped her. How they pressed down. Why they trembled. Surrender. Capitulation. When it all began.
“And what happened after?”
She answered. The hospital. Kang Riyu’s bed. Those fingers on it—the ones that had stopped moving. Why she’d seen them.
“Can you describe what the victim felt?”
Seah paused. What was the accurate answer to that?
“Like I was burning. Like fire was burning inside me. But I couldn’t put it out. Because someone kept pouring fuel on it.”
The courtroom went silent. Everyone heard it. The judge. The prosecutor. And Kang Riyu.
His fingers trembled on the defendant’s table. When Seah saw it, he shoved his hands into his pockets—hiding the shaking.
She saw it. And she understood. Kang Riyu was burning too. Burned by the weight of what he’d done.
The defense attorney stood.
“How are you interpreting the defendant’s actions? Do you truly believe they were malicious?”
“I don’t know if it was malicious. But it doesn’t matter. The result is the same. I was wounded. That wound is still there.”
“But isn’t the defendant suffering too?”
She looked at Kang Riyu once more. His trembling hands. His pale face. His hollow eyes.
“Yes. It seems like it.”
“Then—”
But Seah had already said everything. There was nothing left.
When she stepped down from the witness stand, her hands were still trembling. But not from fear anymore. It was the trembling of confession. A confession that she was alive.
Haeneul was waiting outside the courtroom. She didn’t speak. She just held her.
Seah thought: The fire hadn’t gone out. But it was hers now. Not given by someone else. Not thrown by Kang Riyu.
A fire she kept burning herself.
That was enough.