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# Chapter 129: Silence in the Car
Hae-neul’s fingers gripped the steering wheel with the precision of someone threading a needle. On the Han River Boulevard, traffic lights cycled between red and green, but Hae-neul said nothing. She was watching how devastated Se-ah had become.
Thirty-two minutes had passed since leaving the courthouse. Se-ah was counting. The habit of measuring time in minutes persisted—as if quantifying it could give her control over reality. But control was an illusion. She’d learned that much sitting in the witness box.
“Want to grab something to eat?”
Hae-neul asked. Her voice was casual, but layered beneath it was something tender. Not a suggestion that she needed food, but that she needed to keep living. That she needed to keep breathing.
“No.”
Se-ah’s answer was small. Since leaving the witness stand, her voice had grown quieter and quieter. As if every word she’d spoken had been absorbed into the court transcript, leaving nothing left of herself to say.
“Coffee then?”
Hae-neul offered.
Se-ah didn’t answer. She looked out the window instead. Late autumn was flowing past. Trees shifting from yellow to brown. A season balanced between death and life. Se-ah had always loved this time of year—because everything in it was half-burning, just like her.
The car crossed the Jamsil Bridge. The Han River flowed beneath them. Se-ah watched that water. Three years ago, that was where Kang Ri-u had tried to take her. The water still moved at the same speed, in the same direction. It appeared unchanged, but Se-ah understood now—every moment brought new water. Nothing stayed the same.
“Did you notice?”
Hae-neul asked.
“Notice what?”
“Your hands.”
Se-ah looked down at her own hands. They weren’t shaking. They hadn’t shaken on the witness stand. They hadn’t shaken under the courtroom lights. Her hands rested calmly on her lap, as if they belonged to someone else entirely.
“Yeah.”
“They weren’t trembling?”
“No.”
“What do you think that means?”
It wasn’t a casual question. It was an invitation for Se-ah to rediscover herself.
Se-ah thought back. Sitting in that witness box. When Kang Ri-u’s lawyer twisted her words, threw them back at her distorted. When she resisted. Through all of it, her hands had remained steady. As if her body believed in what she was saying.
“I think… truth doesn’t shake.”
Se-ah spoke slowly, as if discovering something in the moment. The weight of truth. It wasn’t instability—it was a force that held you together.
Hae-neul smiled. There in the car, waiting at a light, she smiled. Not a smile of victory. A smile of recognition. Of confirmation.
“When you first came into my tattoo shop, your hands were shaking so badly.”
Hae-neul said. The light turned green. The car moved forward.
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t believe in yourself then. That’s why you shook. But now it’s different. Now you know what you did. You know what’s right. You know what’s a lie.”
Her voice was as steady as the hands on the wheel.
“I still don’t know a lot of things.”
Se-ah said. It wasn’t a lie. She still didn’t know why she couldn’t let Kang Ri-u go. Why she’d given up so easily on what was hers. What came next.
“What don’t you know?”
“Everything.”
The car turned toward Han River Park. Hae-neul’s choice. She’d rerouted them—away from the courthouse, past the cameras and reporters.
“That lawyer. You saw him?”
Hae-neul asked.
“Yeah.”
“He’s good at what he does. He took your words and flipped them, tried to turn your truth into lies. But you held your ground.”
“I didn’t hold my ground. I just spoke. I just told the truth.”
“That’s what holding your ground is. When someone tries to steal your words, protecting them. That’s what it means to endure.”
The car pulled into the Han River Park parking lot. 4:22 PM. The sun was already halfway down. Winter was coming, and the days were getting shorter. Se-ah looked out at the riverside path. A few people were out walking. Mostly elderly couples. Young lovers. No one middle-aged. As if the middle had disappeared, leaving only the extremes.
“Want to walk?”
Hae-neul asked.
Se-ah didn’t answer. She just got out. Hae-neul followed. They walked the riverside path in silence, their footsteps the only sound.
The smell of the river reached them. Cold, metallic, slightly rotten. Se-ah remembered three years ago when she’d felt Kang Ri-u’s warm fingers here. Those warm fingers that had tried to pull her into the river of death. Now those fingers would be shaking. Just like she’d seen them shake in court.
“How many years do you think he’ll get?”
Hae-neul asked.
Se-ah didn’t answer. The verdict wouldn’t come for two weeks. 336 hours. She wondered how she’d survive them.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t matter?”
“Whether he goes in or comes out, it won’t change my life. My life already changed.”
It wasn’t a lie. Kang Ri-u’s freedom or imprisonment was irrelevant. What mattered was what she’d said in that witness box. It was recorded now. A legal record. Someone would read it. Someone would know her. A stranger would know her story.
They kept walking. Along the river, along the path. The sun kept falling. And as it fell, the water grew darker, as if drinking in the sun’s color.
“Se-ah.”
Hae-neul said.
“Yeah.”
“What are you going to do now?”
Not what are you doing tomorrow. But what will you do with your life?
Se-ah didn’t answer. She had no answer. The truth she’d spoken on that stand was about the past, not the future. The future was still empty. And the responsibility to fill it fell on her.
“I don’t know.”
“Anything?”
“No.”
“Then start with this.”
Hae-neul pulled something from her pocket. A phone. On the screen was something open.
Se-ah looked. A music streaming app. And on that screen was a single song. A play button was ready.
“What is it?”
“Have you heard it?”
“No.”
“It’s number ten on the charts right now.”
Se-ah tried to read the title. But the letters blurred. Not the letters—her vision.
“What?”
“This song was sung by Park So-jin. You remember her? That girl I asked you about before. The plagiarism case. But it’s different now.”
Hae-neul’s voice was getting quieter. Emotion was overwhelming her.
“Different how?”
“Your name is in the credits. As a composer. Na Se-ah. Your name. It’s right there.”
Se-ah couldn’t understand at first. But when Hae-neul held the phone up again, when she enlarged the credits section, Se-ah understood.
Na Se-ah (Composition, Lyrics)
When she saw those words, Se-ah’s hands began to shake. The hands that hadn’t shaken in the witness box now trembled. As if her body didn’t believe what her eyes were seeing.
“Who… who did this?”
“Park So-jin. She requested the credits be corrected. With the company. And now this song is yours. Not just hers anymore.”
Se-ah took the phone. The screen was right there in her hands. She looked again. Her name was still there. Unchanged. As if it had always been there.
“How…?”
“Park So-jin realized something when you testified. The video was posted on YouTube. And when she saw it, she understood what she’d done. And she wanted to fix it.”
Hae-neul’s words came through, but Se-ah wasn’t fully hearing them. Her ears caught the words, but her heart was fixed on the screen. Na Se-ah. Her name. For the first time, her name recorded with her music.
And then, for the first time, Se-ah cried.
She hadn’t cried in the courtroom. But now, on the Han River path as the sun set, in front of one friend, she wept.
It wasn’t sadness. It wasn’t victory either. It was simply crying. Everything she’d held down for so long pouring out. Everything she couldn’t say finally flowing free.
Hae-neul placed a hand on her back. Without words. Just the weight of a hand. And through that touch, Se-ah knew she wasn’t alone.
The river kept flowing. The sun kept setting. Se-ah kept crying. That was everything. At the boundary between truth and lies. Between past and future. Between death and life.
This crying wasn’t an ending.
It was a beginning.