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# Chapter 128: Silence After the Courtroom
When her lawyer finished his final question, Seah felt as though she had already said everything—left nothing unsaid. The moment the cross-examination began, Kang Riou’s attorney rose to his feet. He wore a black suit and seemed far larger and heavier than Seah, his entire body a question mark.
“You claim the defendant ‘controlled’ you. Isn’t it possible that was an expression of love?”
Seah felt the weight of that question. It wasn’t a simple inquiry. It was an attempt to overturn her testimony. To rewrite her wounds with a different name, a different meaning.
“No.”
She answered.
“Yet the defendant provided you financial support. He sent your brother to school. He paid for your mother’s medical treatment. Aren’t those also forms of control?”
The attorney continued. His voice brimmed with the certainty that he was uncovering truth. Seah swallowed. This wasn’t a question she’d prepared for—couldn’t have prepared for. Because it was also true. Kang Riou had done all of it. And because of that, Seah had to bury herself deeper.
“Control through money is still control.”
“Then shouldn’t you have refused that money?”
The attorney asked.
Seah couldn’t answer. The precision of his question felt like a noose tightening around her throat. She should have refused. Yes, she should have. But she couldn’t—not because of Do-hyun’s tuition. Not because of her mother’s medical bills. Not because of the responsibility to protect someone. And that was exactly what Kang Riou had wanted. To create a situation where she had no choice but to accept.
“You described yourself as ‘burning.’ Doesn’t that intensity of emotion suggest you loved the defendant? Couldn’t that be evidence of your love?”
The attorney asked again.
Only then did Seah understand the technique of cross-examination. Taking her own words and twisting them into their opposite meaning. Rewriting her wounds. Making her truth into her lie.
“Love and pain are different things.”
Her voice was small but certain.
“But sometimes, aren’t they the same thing?”
The attorney smiled as he asked. It was a suggestion. Or a seduction. An invitation to abandon her testimony and tell a different story.
Seah looked at the courtroom. The judge sat expressionless. The jurors wrote furiously. She couldn’t tell what they were writing—her testimony or the attorney’s questions? Or were they comparing both, deciding which was more convincing?
“Not being able to distinguish between love and abuse—that’s what abuse is.”
Seah said. It was something Hae-neul had told her. Not in this courtroom, but in the basement of the tattoo shop, needle in hand.
The attorney asked no more questions. Instead, he glanced toward the defendant’s bench. Kang Riou sat unmoved, hands steady, as if he’d already transcended all of this.
The walk out of the courtroom felt longer than it was. Seah followed her attorney as camera flashes exploded. Questions flew at her. But she heard nothing. Her ears had closed. Or her brain couldn’t process the information. After exhausting all her energy in the witness stand, nothing remained but a shell.
Hae-neul waited in the lobby. When she saw Seah, she said nothing. Instead, she took her hand—warm, grounding. That touch alone told Seah she was still alive.
“How was it?” Hae-neul asked in the car, driving back into Seoul.
“It doesn’t make sense.”
“What doesn’t?”
“The things I said. My testimony. I thought it was true, but now I’m not sure if it really was. Like someone else said it. Not my voice.”
Seah’s fingers began to tremble again. She was grateful there was no lighter.
“So let me ask you. Did Kang Riou use violence on you? Really?”
Hae-neul asked.
“Yes.”
“Then that’s the truth.”
Hae-neul said simply, clearly—nothing like a lawyer’s voice.
“But the attorney—”
Seah started, but Hae-neul raised her hand to stop her.
“Attorneys get paid to talk. Their job isn’t to protect truth; it’s to protect their client. So what about you? You sat in that witness stand to protect yourself. Who needs to be stronger?”
Seah didn’t answer. Instead, she looked out the window. Seoul’s streets passed. Gangnam’s buildings. Gangbuk’s houses. The Han River’s water. Everything kept flowing. Like a signal that her time should flow too.
“When’s the verdict?”
“Three weeks.”
“What will you do until then?”
“I don’t know.”
And it was true. She couldn’t imagine what she’d do for those three weeks. Work? Sleep? Music? Everything seemed impossible now. As if after pouring out every emotion in that witness stand, only a vacuum remained.
“Are you getting a tattoo?”
Something resonated in Seah at that question. Like someone had reached into her chest and touched something raw.
“Yes.”
“What? Where?”
Seah thought of her previous tattoos. The one below her collarbone. The one on her arm. All marking her former self. What should a new tattoo mark? Who she was in the witness stand? Or who she’d become after?
“Anywhere.”
She finally answered.
Hae-neul smiled—not triumph, but recognition. An acknowledgment that she understood Seah.
When they reached Hapjeong Station, the sky was already darkening. Above the Han River, orange and purple painted the horizon. As if someone had set the sky on fire.
“Seah.”
Hae-neul said as she got out of the car.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t stay alone in that goshiwon. Come by the tattoo shop sometimes. Okay?”
“Okay.”
But it wasn’t a promise. Hae-neul knew that too. Seah wanted to be alone. For three weeks. Until the verdict came down. To see what she became during that time. Whether the fire went out or burned again.
When Seah returned to the goshiwon, she lay down immediately. The mold stains on the ceiling were visible again. They’d grown darker over the past three days—growing even when unseen. She counted them one by one, as if numbering them could calm her.
Her phone rang. Do-hyun. 4:23 PM. She answered.
“Noona. Did it go okay?”
His voice was worried.
“Yeah.”
“Really? You told them everything in court?”
“Yeah.”
Silence flowed through the line. In it, she could hear his anxiety.
“Noona. I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Everything. That I’m a burden. That I’m tying you down. That you feel like you have to do it.”
Seah couldn’t answer. Because she already knew it. But hearing it said aloud was different. When someone said it directly, it became a fact.
“Don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything.”
“That’s a lie.”
Do-hyun said.
Seah swallowed. When had the kid become so sharp? Or had she made him that way?
“Yeah. It’s a lie. You did a lot. That’s why I’m sorry.”
“So what will you do? From now on?”
Seah stared at the mold stains. One, two, three. Still counting.
“I don’t know. I think I’ll wait for the verdict. Then after… I’ll figure out what to do next.”
“So three weeks?”
“Yeah.”
“What will you do during those three weeks? The convenience store?”
“No. Just… exist. That’s all.”
Do-hyun fell silent again. Seah knew what that silence meant—his understanding.
“Noona. I love you.”
His final words.
Seah received them. As they passed through her body, something melted. Or burned. Or both at once.
“Yeah. Me too.”
The call ended. The goshiwon fell silent again. Only her breathing remained. And water sounds from upstairs—someone showering. It sounded like rain. Like someone in the sky was crying.
Seah didn’t look for a lighter. Instead, she tried to make fire with her fingers. Like a magician. If she snapped them, fire would come.
But nothing came. Of course not. Fingers can’t make fire. They can only ignite it.
So what was she? A finger that lights fire? The fire itself? Something burning?
She raised her hand toward the ceiling. The mold stains appeared between her fingers. Her hands didn’t tremble. Like in the witness stand. As if having already told the truth, there was no reason left to shake.
Night deepened. Through the semi-basement window, only legs were visible. Someone walked fast. Someone slow. Everyone was going somewhere. Seah alone remained here. For three weeks. Until the verdict.
No one knew what she’d become in that time. Not the attorney. Not the judge. Not Do-hyun. Not Hae-neul. Only Seah could know. Or had to know.
She closed her eyes. And felt it again—those steady fingers. Not hers. His. From the defendant’s bench. But they’d become the same now. Through the language of trauma. Through the court record. Through the waiting for judgment.
Fire was burning somewhere. Seah could feel it. Inside her body. Inside the goshiwon’s walls. Somewhere in all of Seoul. She had to feel it. Until it consumed everything.
Three weeks. The time seemed short and long at once. Like all time ever was.
## Waiting for the Verdict
Seah picked up her phone, put it down. Her eyes fixed on Do-hyun’s contact. She sighed. Her finger hovered over the call button. Finally, she pressed it. The dial tone rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Her throat tightened.
“Hello?”
Do-hyun’s voice was young. Her younger brother. Early twenties. But recently, his voice had grown lower. As if carrying heavy things had weighed his voice down too.
“It’s me.”
Her own voice sounded unfamiliar. Like she was imitating someone else. Feigning strength. But that was her defense. So Do-hyun wouldn’t see her break.
“What’s wrong? Your voice—”
“I’m just going to wait until the verdict comes. Then… then I’ll think about what comes next.”
The words left her mouth, and she couldn’t tell if they were true or false. Like the courtroom interrogation, her own words had become evidence against her. Before the judgment, what she actually wanted no longer mattered. What mattered was surviving until the judge decided.
“So three weeks?”
“Yeah.”
“What will you do those three weeks? The convenience store?”
A practical question. What Seah had to do. Buy food, endure, breathe, sleep, wake again. But beneath Do-hyun’s words lay another question. ‘Noona, are you really okay? What will happen after all this? What am I supposed to do?’
“No. Just… I’ll be here. That’s all.”
Another pair of legs passed outside the window. Someone’s footsteps. Quick, decisive, purposeful. While Seah’s were fixed. In this room. In this goshiwon. For these three weeks.
Silence flowed through the phone line. Not uncomfortable—Seah knew it was Do-hyun’s way of understanding. Conveying what words couldn’t through silence. Like in the courtroom. Sitting in the witness stand at the boundary between what must be said and what cannot be.
“Noona. I love you.”
The words came suddenly, and that made them heavier. Not his usual joking tone. Not an apologetic one. Just pure confession. A simple declaration of love for his sister in the midst of everything.
Seah received it. She pressed the phone closer to her ear. She could hear Do-hyun breathing. And as his words passed through her body, something melted. Or burned. Or both at once. As if ice and fire could exist together.
“Yeah. Me too.”
That was enough. The end of the conversation.
The call dropped. The screen went dark. The goshiwon fell silent. Only her breathing. Ragged. Abnormal. Like someone gasping above water.
And water sounds from above. Someone showering. It sounded like rain. Like tears falling from the sky. Seah closed her eyes and let herself fall into that sound. Wanting to flow with it.
She got out of bed. Walked the narrow room. She needed to find a lighter. Light a cigarette. Inhale smoke. That would be proof she was still alive.
But there was no lighter. Where? On the desk? Beside the bed? The window sill? Nowhere. Right, she’d taken it out yesterday and didn’t bring it back. Another thing lost. Seah tried to make fire with her fingers. Like a magician. Snap them and fire would come.
But nothing came. Of course not. Fingers can’t create fire. Only ignite it. Only create friction. Maybe that had been enough once.
So what was she? A finger that lights fire? The fire itself? Something that burns?
In the witness stand, her fingers had trembled. With every question. “Is that the truth?” “Did you witness it?” “Did you want it?” They’d trembled each time. As if the trembling was a sign of lying. But it wasn’t. It was fear. Fear when truth was too large.
She raised her hand toward the ceiling. The mold stains appeared between her fingers. Black marks. Traces of moisture. Evidence of how long she’d been here. Those fingers didn’t tremble. Not like in the witness stand. As if having already spoken all the truth, there was no reason left to shake.
Night deepened. Through the semi-basement window, only legs were visible. Someone walked fast. Someone slow. Some with excited steps, some exhausted. Everyone was going somewhere. But Seah remained fixed here. In this narrow room. This goshiwon. These three weeks.
No one knew what she’d become in that time. Not the attorney. Not the judge. Not Do-hyun. Not Hae-neul. Hae-neul. Even thinking her name hurt. Where was she now? Waiting for the verdict too? Or had she already returned to her life?
Only Seah could know. Or had to know. Who she was. What she wanted. Whether she was guilty or innocent. The judge would decide by law. But she had to decide by her own heart. That was her only responsibility.
Seah lay in bed. Stared at the ceiling. The mold stains looked like stars. Stars in a night sky. But they weren’t. They were traces of decay. Fungus from moisture. Marks of lifeless things. Like her own heart.
And again she saw those fingers. The ones from the defendant’s bench. Steady fingers. Not hers. His. But they’d become the same now. Through the language of trauma. Through the court record. In the waiting for judgment. Who was victim and who was perpetrator no longer mattered. What mattered was that they both suffered the same way.
Midnight. The time glowed on her phone screen. Seah didn’t call anyone. Couldn’t call anyone. She’d already said everything. In court. In meetings with her attorney. At the police station. Only silence remained.
Fire was burning somewhere. She could feel it. Inside her body. Inside the goshiwon’s walls. Somewhere in all of Seoul. In someone’s heart. Until that fire burned, she had to feel it. Couldn’t ignore it. Couldn’t extinguish it.
Another footstep passed outside. Someone going home. Someone finishing work. Someone heading toward a new meeting. Seah heard the footstep’s sound. Imprints on asphalt. Evidence of time. Proof of things flowing.
Three weeks. The time seemed short and long. Like all time always is. The past is always too long. The future always too short. Only the present is exact. But the present is already the past.
Seah closed her eyes. And waited. For the verdict. For her ending. Or for a new beginning.
For those three weeks, Seah woke at the same time each day. Six AM. In that gray hour before sunlight reached the semi-basement window. As if her body knew when judgment would come. And each day she did the same thing. Washed her face with water. Drank black coffee. Counted the footsteps outside her window. Waited for a certain number to pass. Then lay back down and counted the mold stains on the ceiling.
Do-hyun called every other day. Always the same question. “What are you doing? Are you eating?” Always the same answer. “Yeah. I’m fine.” It was a lie, but it was the best they could do.
Her attorney called one day before the verdict. “Prepare yourself. Judges are unpredictable. But our evidence is sufficient.” Was that hope or warning? Seah couldn’t tell anymore.
And then the day of judgment arrived.
The courtroom was still cold and solemn. When the judge entered, everyone stood. Seah stood too. But in standing, she felt her legs weren’t her own. Like she was operating someone else’s body.
The judge spoke. Read the verdict. Legal terminology. Details of the case. Review of evidence. And finally:
“The defendant Seah is hereby…”
In that moment, Seah’s ears stopped working. She could see the judge’s lips moving but heard nothing. Like someone had hit mute. What she heard instead was her own heartbeat. Pounding. Regular. Desperate. Proof of life.
Everything after was blurred. Her attorney said something. Someone congratulated her. She left the courtroom. Sunlight touched her face.
And night came. The semi-basement room of the goshiwon.
Seah lay in bed. The verdict was in. But what was decided no longer mattered. What mattered was that she had to live again. Regardless of guilty or innocent.
Outside her window, another night flowed. Someone still going somewhere. Someone returning home. Someone walking toward a new start.
Seah raised her hand to the ceiling’s mold stains. They no longer looked like stars. Just mold. Traces of moisture. Proof of living.
And she felt it. That she was still alive. That the fire was still burning. When it would go out, she didn’t know. But in this moment, it was definitely burning.
Three weeks had ended. But another three weeks were beginning. And another. The verdict wasn’t the end, Seah understood now. The verdict was just the beginning.
She closed her eyes. And waited. For tomorrow. For the day after. For all the days that would come.
Night.