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# Chapter 189: Fragments of a Mother
The moment Seo-ah stepped into the hospital room, she understood what she had been hoping for. That her mother would be sitting up. That her mother’s eyes would be clear, focused on her. That her mother would say something important. But reality was different. Her mother lay half-reclined on the bed, her gaze unfocused, as if looking through something—or running from it.
“Mom.”
Seo-ah’s voice barely escaped her lips. She couldn’t even be sure it was her own voice.
Her mother’s eyes slowly turned toward her. But focus came slowly, as if time itself moved differently in this space, and her mother moved at the same glacial pace.
“Seo-ah…”
Her mother spoke again. Her lips trembled. A thin line of saliva pooled at the corner of her mouth, which Do-hyun quickly wiped away with a tissue. The gesture was so practiced, so natural, that it seemed he’d repeated this small act countless times.
Seo-ah sat beside the bed, on the opposite side from Do-hyun. Now her mother was surrounded by both of them. Yet it still didn’t seem like enough.
“Mom, I’m here. I’m here with you right now.”
Seo-ah took her mother’s hand. It was warm. Alive. But even that offered no comfort, no certainty. As if warmth could prove nothing.
Her mother stared at Seo-ah’s hand for a long time, as if it were a stranger’s hand. As if trying to decipher who it belonged to.
“Your fingers…”
Her mother murmured.
“Mom?”
Seo-ah asked.
Her mother’s eyes lost focus again. But her lips continued moving, like a voiceless song. Or a refusal.
Haneul stood at the threshold of the hospital room—ready to enter but choosing not to, keeping a respectful distance. This moment belonged to Seo-ah, Do-hyun, and their mother alone.
“Mom, what did you say? Yesterday?”
Seo-ah asked. The things her mother had repeated. Father. Her own name. And something more.
Do-hyun opened his mouth to speak, but their mother moved first. Her hand. She gripped Seo-ah’s hand tighter, as if waking from a dream.
“Kang Min-jun…”
Her mother said the name.
It hung in the air, heavy. As if it carried the weight of decades accumulated in her mother’s chest.
Seo-ah’s fingers trembled. Kang Min-jun. It was the name of Kang Ri-u’s father. A name Kang Ri-u had spoken many times, as if it were the source of all her misfortune.
“Mom, who is Kang Min-jun?”
Seo-ah asked, her voice shaking without understanding why.
Her mother’s eyes focused again, holding steady longer this time. As if she was pouring every last ounce of energy into this moment.
“I… was afraid of you…”
Her mother spoke. Word by word. As if each word were its own sentence.
“What?”
Seo-ah asked. But she already knew. She had heard it during the previous hospital visit. But this time it was clearer. More direct.
“Your… voice…”
Her mother continued.
Silence descended. The monitor’s beeping continued, but even that sound felt distant.
Do-hyun murmured something.
“Mom, what are you saying? Sister’s voice, what’s wrong with it…”
But their mother didn’t seem to hear him. She was focused on finishing her words, as if knowing this was her last chance.
“Kang Min-jun… he…”
Her mother’s breathing quickened. The monitor’s numbers changed. Medical staff seemed about to enter, but her mother raised her hand to signal them to stop. She tried to, at least. But her arm barely moved.
“Mom…”
Seo-ah said, gripping her mother’s hand tighter.
“I was afraid… from the beginning…”
Her mother continued.
“Afraid of what? My voice—what’s frightening about it?”
Seo-ah asked. And in that moment, she realized how long she’d been wanting to ask this. About her voice. About her existence. About why she always had to be quiet.
“That…”
Her mother’s gaze changed. As if looking at something distant. The past.
“That changed everything…”
Her mother said.
Do-hyun stood. As if understanding that this conversation had moved beyond what he should hear. Haneul must have noticed, because when Do-hyun left the room, she followed him—as if it had been arranged beforehand.
Now only Seo-ah and her mother remained in the hospital room.
“My voice… what did it change?”
Seo-ah asked.
Her mother’s lips moved. But no sound came. As if her throat couldn’t form the words. As if they were too large or too heavy.
Seo-ah leaned closer, trying to read her mother’s lips, as if lip-reading were a medical technique.
“…Kang Min-jun… made you… I’m sorry…”
Her mother whispered. Or rather, spoke with only her lips.
“Sorry for what?”
Seo-ah asked. But her mother had already closed her eyes, as if speaking those words had exhausted her completely.
The monitor’s beeping accelerated. She should press the call button. But Seo-ah didn’t move. Instead, she continued holding her mother’s hand, trying not to feel the warmth slipping away.
The hospital room door opened. A nurse. Seo-ah stood automatically, as if her body were betraying her. The nurse checked her mother’s vitals and looked at Seo-ah.
“Your mother is trying to calm herself. It looks like she’s returning to a more stable state. That’s a good sign.”
The nurse said in a professional tone.
Seo-ah nodded. But she didn’t know what she was nodding to. Whether this was truly good news, or a signal that more lies were coming.
The nurse left. Her mother remained with her eyes closed, breathing slowly and deeply, as if searching for something within herself.
Seo-ah sat back beside the bed and took her mother’s hand again. Warmth still remained. But she didn’t know for how much longer.
“Why did Kang Min-jun make me?”
Seo-ah murmured, regardless of whether her mother could hear her.
“And why are you afraid of me?”
Another question.
“Did my voice… really change everything?”
The last question.
The silence in the hospital room deepened. The fluorescent light still cast its cold pallor, the monitor still beeped. Yet all of it felt as if it were happening in a different world from hers.
The hospital room door opened again. This time it was Do-hyun, alone. Haneul seemed to be in the hallway.
“Sister…”
Do-hyun said.
“Yeah.”
Seo-ah answered.
“What did… Mom say?”
Do-hyun asked.
Seo-ah didn’t answer. She didn’t know what to say. How could she explain Kang Min-jun’s existence? That he was her father? That her mother apologized for Seo-ah’s own existence?
“Nothing.”
Seo-ah lied.
Whether Do-hyun believed the lie or wanted to believe it, Seo-ah couldn’t tell. But he asked no further questions. Instead, he sat on the opposite side of their mother’s bed and took her other hand.
And so their mother was surrounded by both of them again. Yet it still didn’t seem like enough.
Time passed. Seo-ah couldn’t say how much. But outside the window, the sky gradually began to brighten. Dawn was breaking. It felt like the hour when all lies end.
Seo-ah’s phone rang.
The battery had been dead for hours, yet somehow it was receiving power. Or perhaps it was a dream.
The screen displayed a name: ‘Kang Ri-u.’
Seo-ah didn’t answer. Instead, she turned off the screen.
And in that moment, something shifted in her mother’s hand. As if her mother were letting everything go. As if she were slipping away.
Seo-ah gripped her mother’s hand tighter.
“Mom, I’m here. I’m here with you.”
Seo-ah said. And she knew she was lying. She wasn’t here. She was already somewhere else. In Kang Min-jun’s shadow. In Kang Ri-u’s grasp. In the nightmare of discovering what her voice had changed.
Do-hyun watched her. He looked at Seo-ah’s face. And said nothing. As if he already knew. As if he had already accepted that terrible truth.
The hospital room’s fluorescent light flickered. Once. Twice.
And Seo-ah realized she was already burning. Not by Kang Ri-u’s hand, nor her mother’s, nor Kang Min-jun’s. But by her own.
The monitor’s beeping continued. The hospital’s night was ending.
But Seo-ah’s night was only beginning.
# The Weight of a Voice
## Part One: Questions
The silence in the hospital room wasn’t physical. Seo-ah realized this. Silence was something alive, slowly strangling her throat.
“Did my voice… really change everything?”
Seo-ah’s voice was small. As if she had to burn a piece of her soul just to speak. Her mother’s eyes remained closed. But Seo-ah knew she had heard. Her mother’s fingers had flinched.
“A different question.”
Her mother said. Her voice was impossibly thin. Like the sound of bending paper. Frail enough to snap at any moment.
“Mom, please.”
Seo-ah asked again. Louder this time. Feeling the weight her voice carried. Each word heavy enough to kill. The voice Kang Ri-u gave her. The voice made from Kang Min-jun’s blood.
“One last question.”
Her mother opened her eyes. They looked like an ancient well that had seen decades pass. An darkness with no bottom. Seo-ah felt herself falling into that well.
The fluorescent light continued casting its cold white glow. Seo-ah hated that light. Under it, everything was clearer, and everything was more hopeless. The walls were white. The bed was white. Even her mother’s face was pale as a corpse.
“—”
Seo-ah’s lips trembled. No words came. Because she already knew what she wanted to ask. And she already knew the answer. That her mother hated her. That her mother regretted her existence. Because of Kang Min-jun.
The monitor beeped. Rhythmic. That sound marking her mother’s heartbeat. Seo-ah grew anxious with each beep, flooded with guilt—as if she were killing that heart herself.
“Because of… Father?”
Seo-ah barely managed.
Her mother didn’t answer. Instead, she turned her face away. That small movement told Seo-ah everything. It was a ‘yes.’ The most terrifying kind of ‘yes.’
“Or is it just… my existing at all?”
This time her mother closed her eyes. Deeper. As if trying to shut out the entire world.
Seo-ah looked down at her hands. They were trembling. They hadn’t trembled when they were Kang Ri-u’s hands. They hadn’t trembled when they could kill. But now, when they were simply her own hands, holding her mother’s—they trembled.
“Mom…”
Seo-ah said again. But that word died. It vanished into the air, as if it had never existed.
## Part Two: Do-hyun
Time passed—Seo-ah couldn’t say how much. Minutes, perhaps. Or hours. Time as a concept lost all meaning within these hospital walls. Only silence and beeping existed.
The hospital room door opened again.
Sound. The creak of the door. It was like her heart opening and closing. Someone entered. Seo-ah lifted her eyes.
It was Do-hyun. Alone.
He walked in carefully, reverently, as if entering sacred space. His footsteps were silent. His movements slow. As if terrified of waking their mother.
Sounds drifted from the hallway. Haneul was there. Probably talking to a doctor or nurse. Her voice was faint but distinct.
“Sister…”
Do-hyun said. He looked at Seo-ah. More precisely, he looked into her eyes, as if answers lay there.
“Yeah.”
Seo-ah answered, very quietly.
“What did… Mom say?”
Do-hyun asked. His voice was careful but desperate. Seo-ah knew. He knew too. That something terrible had happened.
Seo-ah didn’t answer. She didn’t know what to say. How could she explain? The existence of a man named Kang Min-jun. The fact that he was her father. That her mother apologized for Seo-ah’s own existence.
Kang Min-jun.
Just thinking the name sent chills across her skin. Who was that man? What had he done to her? What did his voice sound like?
But Seo-ah didn’t want to remember. Remembering meant accepting that it had really happened.
“It’s nothing.”
Seo-ah lied.
She felt her lie. Felt it floating in the air. Lies were physical things. They were black and sticky, and they stank. Like rot.
Do-hyun might have believed the lie, or wanted to believe it. But he asked no further questions. Perhaps respecting his sister’s boundaries. Perhaps simply not wanting to know the truth himself.
Instead, Do-hyun sat on the opposite side of their mother’s bed. Opposite from Seo-ah. And he took her mother’s other hand.
And so their mother was surrounded by both of them again.
Seo-ah watched the scene. Their mother in the middle, children on both sides. Like part of some religious ritual. Like they were performing a ceremony to send their mother to heaven.
But it still didn’t seem like enough. Their mother’s face still seemed to hold something unsaid. Her lips trembled slightly. So weakly that it might have been Seo-ah’s imagination.
“Mom?”
Seo-ah asked.
Her mother didn’t answer.
## Part Three: Dawn
Time passed. Seo-ah didn’t know how much. A clock hung on the wall, but looking at it terrified her. Time passing meant her mother slipping further away.
The sky outside the window gradually began to brighten.
Dawn came.
Seo-ah had always loved this hour. Dawn was different from other times. Neither night nor day, but something in between. The hour when all lies ended. Or where all lies began.
“Sister…”
Do-hyun spoke. His voice was barely audible. As if it too would soon disappear.
“Yeah.”
Seo-ah answered.
“Was Father really…?”
Do-hyun asked. Not a complete sentence. But Seo-ah understood what he meant.
Seo-ah didn’t answer. Instead, she looked out the window. The sky brightened more and more. Black to gray. Gray to blue. Changing. As if the entire world was shifting color.
“Mom apologized.”
Seo-ah finally said.
Do-hyun moved, but said nothing.
“For her existence hurting Mom.”
Seo-ah continued.
“Sister…”
Do-hyun said.
“It’s nothing.”
Seo-ah lied again.
In that moment, Seo-ah’s phone rang.
Sound. A phone’s ring. It was like someone calling out her heart. The ringing sounded like a heartbeat.
Seo-ah looked at her phone. The battery had been dead for hours. She knew this for certain. It was already dead when she came to the hospital this morning. But now the screen was lit. Receiving power from somewhere.
Or it was a dream.
A name appeared on the screen.
‘Kang Ri-u’
Just seeing that name, Seo-ah’s body froze. Her fingers wouldn’t move. Her legs wouldn’t move. Only her heart kept beating.
Kang Ri-u.
Who was the owner of that name? Was it male or female? Did it love her or hate her?
Do-hyun watched Seo-ah.
She didn’t answer. Instead, she turned off the screen. Ended the call. As if knowing that conversation would kill her.
The call ended.
In that moment, something shifted in her mother’s hand.
Seo-ah felt it. Her mother’s fingers weakened. As if her mother were letting everything go. As if she were leaving this world.
“No!”
Seo-ah cried out.
She gripped her mother’s hand tighter. It was cold. Ice-cold. But Seo-ah didn’t let go.
“Mom, I’m here. I’m here with you.”
Seo-ah said. Her voice shaking.
And she knew she was lying.
She wasn’t here.
She was already somewhere else. In Kang Min-jun’s shadow. In Kang Ri-u’s grasp. In the nightmare of understanding what her voice had changed.
It was all happening at once. Seo-ah felt like she had two bodies. One holding her mother’s hand. Another already in a different world.
“Seo-ah…”
Do-hyun said.
He looked at her. At her face. And said nothing. As if he already knew. As if he had already accepted that terrible truth.
## Part Four: Fire
The hospital room’s fluorescent light flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Like the world itself was blinking. Moving between existence and non-existence.
Seo-ah realized she was already burning.
Who set her ablaze? Kang Ri-u? Kang Min-jun? Her mother?
No.
She had set herself ablaze.
That realization completely paralyzed her. Her voice. Her choice. Her hands. All of it had destroyed her own self.
The monitor’s beeping continued.
Rhythmic. Evidence that her mother’s heart still beat. But that sound seemed to be slowing.
“Mom…”
Seo-ah said.
Her mother’s eyes opened. Just slightly. As if even that took enormous effort.
What did Seo-ah see in those eyes?
Hatred? Or love?
Or was it simply exhaustion? Infinite exhaustion from everything.
“I…”
Her mother said. In a very weak voice.
“I’m sorry. Seo-ah.”
Hearing those words, Seo-ah’s world ended.
No. It didn’t end. It simply changed.
The hospital’s night was fading.
Dawn light entered through the window. That light was cold but pure. Light that revealed everything.
But Seo-ah’s night was only beginning.
It was a night that would never end.
In that night, Seo-ah would forever search for who she was. What she was.
Kang Ri-u’s voice. Kang Min-jun’s shadow. Her mother’s love and hate. Do-hyun’s silence.
All of it mixed in darkness.
The hospital room’s fluorescent light continued flickering.
Seo-ah closed her eyes.
But that didn’t help. Because that darkness wasn’t external. It was the darkness within her.
And it would continue forever.
Her mother’s hand was still warm.
But that warmth would soon fade.
Seo-ah knew this.
And she was accepting it.
Slowly. Quietly. As if someone were draining her life away.
THE END