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# Chapter 150: The Reconstruction of Voice
Her mother wasn’t in the ICU. She lay in a regular hospital room. Machines monitoring her heart stood in a line beside the bed, and an IV tube pierced her arm. Sea-ah stood in the doorway and watched. Without moving. As if she herself were one of those machines. A machine with the power turned off.
“Noona.”
Do-hyun rose from inside the room. He was still wearing his school uniform. Only then did Sea-ah become aware of time. 6:52 AM. Do-hyun should have been at school. But he was here. Sitting in an uncomfortable hospital chair. Since yesterday. Probably longer than that.
“Why did you come?”
Do-hyun asked. His voice was low. Not a question, but a tone of confirmation. A tone trying to verify that his sister was really here.
Sea-ah didn’t answer. Instead, she looked at her mother’s face. She was breathing. Her chest rose and fell. Her heart was beating. She was alive. Yet all of it felt like a scene from a movie to Sea-ah. Someone else’s life, unrelated to her own. A territory she was responsible for but couldn’t emotionally touch.
A doctor came in. A woman in her mid-thirties. She held a chart.
“Did mom wake up?”
Sea-ah asked. She was startled at herself. She had spoken. She had a voice. Though it wasn’t clean, though it trembled, though it sounded like someone else’s voice—it was still a voice.
“No. She’s still sedated. Her heartbeat was irregular, so we needed to stabilize her.”
The doctor spoke while looking at the chart. A professional tone. Words that sounded like a rehearsed script. An explanation repeated hundreds of times.
“When will she wake up?”
“Probably this evening. If her condition stabilizes.”
The doctor didn’t really look at Sea-ah’s face. She only focused on the chart. Sea-ah understood that too. A hospital was that kind of place. Not a place that saw people, but a place that saw bodies. Heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen saturation—a world made of numbers.
The doctor left. The smell of medicine remained. A smell of alcohol, herbs, and despair. Sea-ah stepped further into that smell and sat in a chair. Next to Do-hyun.
“When did mom start feeling bad?”
“Three days ago. She said her chest felt fluttery because she couldn’t take her medicine. And yesterday morning she collapsed. On the stairs. If I hadn’t caught her, it would’ve been worse.”
Do-hyun spoke. His voice was flat, but his fingers trembled. Sea-ah saw those fingers. They were similar to her own. Same shape. Same form. Except Do-hyun’s fingers still gripped something. Hope, or anger, or something.
“I’m sorry.”
Sea-ah said.
“For what?”
“Everything.”
Do-hyun didn’t answer. Instead, he spread his fingers wide. And placed his hand over hers. That was also speech. The oldest and most truthful kind of speech. Speech made by the body.
Sea-ah held that hand. It was warm. Like Do-hyun’s hand itself was alive. Blood flowing through it, nerves alive, capable of movement. Sea-ah looked down at her own hand. Her hand was also warm. She hadn’t realized that. That her own hand was still warm.
Beyond the hospital room window, Seoul’s morning was growing bright. November’s sun was weak. Like her own voice. But it was still rising. Still warming her body. Still touching her skin.
“Noona.”
Do-hyun spoke again.
“Yeah?”
“What will you say when mom wakes up?”
Sea-ah stopped and thought at that question. What should she say to her mother? That she was sorry? That she’d come back? That she’d be okay? It was all a lie. She wasn’t okay. She was still burning. But now that fire was a different kind of fire. Not a fire that consumed her, but a fire that warmed her.
“I don’t know. I’ll think about it when she wakes up.”
“I think it’ll be enough if you just hold mom’s hand.”
Do-hyun said. And those words made Sea-ah cry. For the first time. In days. No, in weeks. For the first time, tears flowed from her eyes. Quietly. Without a sound. Like rain falling. Quiet but continuous rain.
At 2:47 PM, a text from Hae-neul came in.
“Hey, where are you? This is serious. Did that bastard Kang Ri-u do something again?”
Sea-ah picked up her phone. She swiped the screen with her finger. Twenty-three missed calls appeared. Eight from Hae-neul. Fourteen from Do-hyun. One from an unknown number.
Sea-ah sent a reply to Hae-neul.
“I’m at the hospital. Mom’s heart isn’t doing well. See you tomorrow.”
After sending the reply, Sea-ah felt reassurance for the first time. Telling someone where she was. She realized how important that was. Telling someone where she was, what she was doing, who she was with. That was also a kind of song. A song that confirmed her existence.
At 5:12 PM, her mother woke up.
The medical staff rushed in. They ran tests. They checked the numbers. The numbers on the monitor changed. The heartbeat became regular. And her mother’s eyes slowly opened.
“Mom.”
Sea-ah spoke. Her voice trembled. But this time it wasn’t from numbness. It was from emotion. And that difference was immense.
Her mother looked at Sea-ah. It took time for her eyes to focus. From the effects of the medication. But eventually they focused. And tears formed in her mother’s eyes.
“Sea-ah?”
Her mother said. Her voice was weak. Like a voice coming from underwater. But it was clear. The voice calling her daughter. The same tone she’d heard on a Jeju beach fifteen years ago.
Sea-ah held her mother’s hand. It was warm. Like Do-hyun’s hand. No, even warmer. The warmth of life. And in that warmth, Sea-ah understood what she had to do.
At 7:03 PM, Hae-neul arrived.
She knocked at the entrance to the room. Sea-ah went out. Do-hyun stayed by their mother’s side. Hand still held.
“Are you crazy?”
That was the first thing Hae-neul said upon seeing Sea-ah. And it wasn’t a reproach but worry. Hae-neul looked at Sea-ah’s face. Long and carefully. As if tattooing it into memory.
“I’m sorry.”
“Hey, what is this—”
“I said I’m sorry.”
Sea-ah cut her off. And she embraced Hae-neul. In the hospital hallway. Under bright fluorescent lights. In a place where anyone could pass by. Sea-ah embraced her.
Hae-neul was surprised at first. But soon she patted Sea-ah’s back. Like when she’d first done her tattoo. Gently, firmly, with bearable weight.
“What did you do? Really. What did that bastard Kang Ri-u do?”
“Nothing. I just forgot I was a person. And now I remember.”
Sea-ah said. That was everything. Everything that was needed.
At 10:46 PM, Sea-ah returned to her goshiwon.
Do-hyun stayed at the hospital. By their mother’s side. He said he’d skip school tomorrow. Sea-ah didn’t stop him. She knew there were things more important than school sometimes.
She climbed the stairs of the goshiwon. Old wood creaked. Third floor. Her room.
She opened the door. It was still as she’d left it. The bed was messy, and scattered across her desk were timing charts and sheet music. A song she’d been trying to write days ago. An unfinished song.
Sea-ah sat at her desk. She looked at the sheet music. The first notes. Do, re, mi. The most basic notes. The opening notes of a song her mother used to sing when she was little. The breathing sound the haenyeo divers of Jeju made when they surfaced. The sound of being alive. The sound of breathing.
Sea-ah tapped her fingers on the desk. Do, re, mi. And she continued. Fa, sol, la, ti, do. One octave. A complete scale.
And she opened her mouth.
“Mm…”
Sound came out. Her voice came out. Her own voice. For the first time in days. No, in weeks. For the first time. And it was for herself.
Sea-ah continued singing. Not words, but notes. Not notes, but emotion. Not emotion, but sound. And that sound slowly began to take shape. It became syllables. It became sentences. It became song.
“Let’s live again. Let’s breathe again. It’s my turn to burn.”
The lyrics were rough. Unfinished. But that didn’t matter. Because this wasn’t a song for completion. This was a song for continuing. A song for beginning again.
At 11:22 PM, a text came in from Kang Ri-u.
“Sea-ah. I’m sorry. Really. No matter what else I say, this is the most sincere. I hope your mom is okay. And…”
The message ended there. There was nothing more. Probably Kang Ri-u didn’t know what else to say either. Sea-ah felt the same way.
Sea-ah didn’t reply. Instead, she read that message again and again. And she didn’t delete it. She just left it. Until sometime when it might be needed.
Just after midnight, Sea-ah opened her sheet music again.
And she wrote music all night. For the first time. Music for herself. A song no one asked for. A song no one could buy or sell. It was Sea-ah’s. Completely. Forever.
At 4:03 AM, Sea-ah finally completed the song.
There was no title. The lyrics were still incomplete. But the melody was certain. And that was enough. A single melody was enough to prove that she was alive.
Sea-ah recorded that melody on her phone. With her voice. With an imperfect voice. With a trembling voice. But with her own voice. And she saved it.
Then she sent it to Hae-neul.
“You want to see what I did? Come over tomorrow. Just us two.”
Hae-neul’s reply came three seconds later.
“Hey. What is it. What did you do?”
“Something good. Not something bad. Just… me.”
Sea-ah sent.
Then Sea-ah lay in bed. On the narrow bed of the goshiwon. She looked at the mold on the ceiling. It was still growing. But now Sea-ah wanted to remove it. No, she wanted to learn to live with it. Instead of perfect removal.
She closed her eyes. And listened to her song again. Without headphones. Only in her head. That melody repeated. Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, ti, do. And again. And again. An endlessly repeating scale. That was also beautiful.
At 6:47 AM, Sea-ah woke again.
But this time it wasn’t from a phone call. Her body had woken up. Naturally. Like the sun rising. She wanted to rise too. And for the first time, she felt that it was possible.
Sea-ah got out of bed. And she opened the window. The cold November Seoul morning air came in. Cold and clean and the smell of being alive. And in that smell, Sea-ah heard the first note of her next song.
“Let’s live.”
That was all. But it was enough.