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# Chapter 167: How One Loses a Voice
When her mother’s words ended, Seo-ah became aware of her fingers moving. As though someone else entirely was controlling her hands. She gripped the hospital bed’s sheets, then released them. Again and again. Gripping. Releasing. Like a heartbeat. Like she needed to prove she was still alive. The fluorescent light in the ward remained in its place. 1:52 AM. Time kept flowing. The world kept spinning without pause. But inside Seo-ah, everything had already stopped.
“What did Mom do wrong?”
Her voice emerged. But it didn’t sound like her own voice. Like a sound from someone else’s body. Like she hadn’t wanted to say it, but her mouth was already moving.
Her mother’s eyes flickered again. Eyes trying to focus. But they couldn’t. Perhaps the medication. Perhaps tears. Or perhaps simply a refusal to look at Seo-ah.
“I didn’t even know what love meant, yet I tried to give it to you. I tried to give you what I never received from your father. I tried to find in you the warmth I never got from men.”
Her mother spoke. And Seo-ah understood. This was the truth. That even under the influence of medication, these words alone were sincere. A truth that falsehood couldn’t disguise as falsehood. And that made it all the more terrible.
“So… so I was the one being dragged along by Kang Ri-u?”
Seo-ah asked. As though waiting for someone to speak aloud an answer she already knew.
“You were looking for my father. You were searching for the same man I was searching for. We were both trying to fill the same hole. And in the process…”
Her mother’s voice became muffled. Like sinking into water.
“In the process, what?”
Seo-ah asked again. Now there was no sound in her voice. Only her lips moving.
“You burned away like you were nobody.”
Her mother said.
Seo-ah couldn’t know exactly where those words were directed. Who they were aimed at. Were they for her? Or for the things she’d done? Or for Kang Ri-u? Or for the entire world? Everything could be the same statement. Everything could be something different. And that was the horror of this moment. The absence of clarity. The absence of certainty.
Seo-ah rose from the bed. Slowly. As though her body were made of something heavy. As though someone was resisting every time she moved. Her mother was watching. Her eyes unfocused, but she knew Seo-ah was leaving.
“Seo-ah.”
Her mother called.
“Yeah.”
Seo-ah answered. But she didn’t stop moving.
“I’m sorry. Really. I’m sorry to you. I’m sorry to your father. I’m sorry to Do-hyun too.”
Her mother said.
“Why should Mom be sorry?”
Seo-ah asked. Standing at the door. Not turning around.
Her mother didn’t answer. Instead, only the sound of the BiPAP machine continued. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. As though that were her mother’s last words. As though all her mother’s truth had been entrusted to that machine.
Seo-ah left the hospital room.
The corridor was brighter. The hospital hallway at approaching dawn was the brightest hour of the day. As though someone had turned on every light while the night was passing. Seo-ah’s shadow beneath the fluorescent lights was long. As though her body was telling her it was larger than herself. As though her soul couldn’t keep up with her body.
She was descending the stairs. She didn’t take the elevator. As though she thought she had to walk. As though this pain could only be expressed through physical effort.
When she reached the first floor, Seo-ah took out her phone. The screen was dark. The battery was nearly gone. 1 hour and 17 minutes of calls. That was all that remained between her and Do-hyun. One hour and seventeen minutes. What had she said in that time? Nothing. Almost nothing. Do-hyun had talked, and she had only listened. And that was her way. Always.
She stepped outside the hospital. Seoul at dawn. April dawn wasn’t warm like summer, but it wasn’t cold like winter either. Just in between. Middle ground that leaned toward nothing. Seo-ah breathed in that middle air. As though it defined her. As though she too was floating somewhere in the middle.
“Seo-ah.”
A voice came from behind. Seo-ah turned.
It was Kang Ri-u. Dressed in dark clothes, his face even paler, his hands still trembling. As though he’d been waiting all night. As though he knew she would come out.
“What are you doing here?”
Seo-ah asked. But the question had no force. As though she already knew the answer. As though she’d already foreseen this moment.
“I’m taking you away.”
Kang Ri-u said.
“Where?”
Seo-ah asked.
Kang Ri-u didn’t answer. Instead, he opened his hand. As though waiting for Seo-ah to take it. As though his trembling hand was his final offer.
“Kang Ri-u. I can’t anymore…”
Seo-ah started. But she didn’t finish the sentence. Because she didn’t know exactly what she could no longer do. Love? Be deceived? Live a lie? Everything was right, and nothing was right at the same time.
“I know.”
Kang Ri-u said.
“Know what?”
Seo-ah asked.
“That you don’t want to take my hand. That you want to leave me. That you want me dead.”
Kang Ri-u said. And it wasn’t true. Or it was true and wasn’t at the same time. Seo-ah no longer knew what she wanted.
“But you won’t leave.”
Kang Ri-u continued.
“Why are you so certain?”
Seo-ah asked.
“Because you’re afraid of being alone like me. Because you want to feel warmth by burning someone up like I do. You’re the same as me.”
Kang Ri-u said.
When those words reached Seo-ah, something shattered. This time it didn’t collapse inward. It truly broke. Into pieces. Irreparably. Like the silent explosion of a falling mirror. Like she’d already been broken, and had only refused to admit it.
“I’m not like you.”
Seo-ah said. But her voice held no conviction.
“Then prove it.”
Kang Ri-u said. And pushed his hand closer.
Seo-ah was staring at that hand. The trembling hand. Kang Ri-u’s hand. Her father’s hand. Every man’s hand. And her own hand was trembling too. Like a mirror.
“You took my voice.”
Seo-ah said. Suddenly. Like words suppressed for so long finally bursting out.
Kang Ri-u stopped.
“What?”
“You took my voice. Slowly at first. Then completely. Now I can’t sing. I can’t speak. I can’t even cry or laugh. I lost my voice.”
Seo-ah said.
And it was the truth. The real truth. It wasn’t that Kang Ri-u had destroyed Seo-ah—it was that he had silenced her. In a quiet way. With gentle hands. In the name of love. And Seo-ah, her mother, all women were being silenced the same way. Without sound. Without trace. Like death.
“Will you give me back my voice?”
Seo-ah asked. But it wasn’t a question. It was a command. A command to herself. A command only she could hear.
Kang Ri-u’s hand trembled. More violently. As though an uncontrollable storm was passing through his body.
“I can’t do anything for you.”
Kang Ri-u said. It was an admission. An admission of his helplessness. And Seo-ah understood. This was sincere. That Kang Ri-u didn’t love her. That he only needed her. And that need had only looked like love.
2:23 AM.
Seo-ah walked past Kang Ri-u’s hand. As though it didn’t exist. As though it were part of the air.
“Seo-ah.”
Kang Ri-u called. But Seo-ah didn’t stop.
“Seo-ah!”
Louder. But she kept walking.
“I can’t live without you!”
It sounded like a scream. Outside the hospital at dawn. Like someone who had lost their soul.
Seo-ah left his voice behind and kept walking. Toward the Han River. The morning air brushed her skin. Neither warm nor cold. Middle air. And Seo-ah realized. That she too was middle. Alive while dead. Existing while disappearing. And that was exactly what she’d been doing all along. Burning herself up. For no one. Just to do it.
Behind the hospital, in the Han River Park, there was a bench. Seo-ah sat there. 2:27 AM. Watching the slowly brightening sky. Morning would come soon. And when it did, another day would begin. Another lie. Another silence. Another burning.
Seo-ah looked at her hands. Still trembling. Like Kang Ri-u’s hands. Like her father’s hands. And Seo-ah understood. This was her fate. Trembling. Endless trembling. And no one would stop it.
Her phone rang. Do-hyun. 2:29 AM. He probably hadn’t slept in hours.
Seo-ah didn’t answer. Instead, she just looked at it. The ringing sound. It meant something still remained in her life. That someone still needed her. But Seo-ah knew now. That this too was a lie. That this too was another way of burning her up. And she was still burning in that fire, and no one would pull her out.
The call ended. And soon it rang again.
Seo-ah didn’t throw her phone into the river. Instead, she put it in her pocket. As though she thought she had to keep ringing. As though this was her only remaining duty.
The dawn was retreating. Slowly. As though deciding it could do nothing to help in this world. The last stars were disappearing. And soon the sun would come. Another day. Another lie. Another silence.
Seo-ah looked at the Han River. The water was still flowing. Endlessly. Without stopping. As though telling her she too must flow. As though telling her she too must be swept away by someone’s hands.
And Seo-ah realized. How perfectly accurate the words were—that she couldn’t sing. Because singing requires a voice, and that voice must be hers. But her voice was no longer hers. It belonged to Kang Ri-u. To her mother. To Do-hyun. To everyone. Not to her.
2:52 AM.
Seo-ah stood up. Slowly. As though her body were extremely heavy. And she walked. Where? She didn’t know. But she walked. As though it were the only thing she could do.
And behind her, Kang Ri-u remained standing. Hand raised. As though believing his hand could save someone. But it was a lie. No one could save anyone. They were all burning together. Quietly. In silence. And no one could speak of it.
Because there was no voice.