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# Chapter 197: The Weight of Family, the Color of Silence
Kang Riou’s eyes found Dohyeon. It was a moment of recognition—like standing before a mirror and seeing your own face for the first time. The same eyes. The same angle of cheekbones. The same shape of lips. Everything aligned. Seia witnessed that moment, and it turned her bones to ice.
Dohyeon looked back at Kang Riou, his gaze equally recognizing. But there was anger there too. Anger at having found him. Or anger that he was here at all. No—more precisely, anger that he’d only just appeared now.
“Who are you?”
Dohyeon asked. Not a question. A challenge.
Kang Riou didn’t answer. Instead, he looked at Seia. A question in his eyes. Did you tell him? That question swept across Seia’s face.
Seia shook her head. Not with words—only movement. No, I didn’t tell him. He figured it out himself.
Kang Riou’s shoulders sagged, as though someone had just placed a heavier weight on his back. His hands were still trembling. Under the fluorescent lights of the hospital room, the tremor became unmistakable. A glitch in the nervous system. Or a signal of emotion on the verge of erupting.
“I am—”
Kang Riou started, then stopped.
“Are you our older brother?”
Dohyeon asked again. This time, louder. Clearer.
“Yeah.”
Kang Riou answered. One syllable. But years were contained within it. Years of silence. Years of distance. Years of choice.
Dohyeon studied him from head to foot, as though seeing someone for the first time. Seeing his older brother. Seia watched how Dohyeon’s facial muscles shifted. From anger to confusion. From confusion to something far more complex.
“Why are you here now? Mom…”
Dohyeon started to speak but couldn’t finish.
Kang Riou stepped into the room. Slowly. As though violating sacred ground. His eyes went to the figure in the bed—their mother. And stayed there. As if unable to look anywhere else.
“Mom?”
Kang Riou whispered. It wasn’t a question. It was recognition. Or prayer. Seia heard something in that voice—something that had been embedded since childhood. Or even before that.
Haneul gripped Seia’s arm tighter, as though anchoring her to reality.
“Kang Riou, right now—”
Seia began.
“Who is our father?”
Dohyeon suddenly asked in a loud voice. It was a question no one had prepared for. As though asked by someone who knew precisely where to drive the blade.
Kang Riou’s body wavered. Actually wavered. Seia thought he might need to steady himself against the wall. But he didn’t. Instead, he held himself. His arms wrapped around his own body.
“Your father…”
Kang Riou said. Then stopped. “Our fathers are not the same.”
That sentence filled the room. Even the monitor’s beeping receded to its periphery. That sentence became the center.
“What?”
Dohyeon asked. But he already knew. Seia could tell he already knew. He just needed to hear it aloud. To confirm. To prove to himself that he was right.
Kang Riou knelt beside the bed. With movements slower than anything Seia could imagine. As though gravity itself weighed heavier in his world. His hands continued to tremble. The trembling never stopped.
“Our father is Kang Minjun. The CEO of JYA. And your father…”
Kang Riou said.
Dohyeon stopped breathing. Seia knew he’d stopped—not by sound, but by silence. She realized silence could be louder than anything else.
“Didn’t Mom ever tell you? All this time?”
Kang Riou asked. But he was asking the woman in the bed, not them. Their mother couldn’t answer. She was unconscious.
“I’ll find out.”
Kang Riou continued. “All the answers. In Dad’s documents.”
“Why?”
Dohyeon asked. His voice cracked. Seia heard that fracture, and felt her own chest split open again.
“Because…”
Kang Riou said. This time, he looked at Seia. “To protect you and our mother.”
That word pierced through Seia. Protect. That word. The word Kang Riou had already used. But this time it sounded different. Deeper now. Heavier. More desperate.
Seia looked at the woman in the bed. Still sleeping. Or absent. Her face was peaceful. As though she had no idea what her children were saying in this moment. Or as though she knew but couldn’t intervene.
“Kang Riou…”
Seia spoke. Her voice wasn’t her own. It was lower. Older. As though it belonged to someone who had lived for years.
“I have something I need to do.”
Kang Riou said. He stood from the bed. Slowly. As though his body were carved from stone.
“Now? In the middle of the night?”
Haneul asked.
“Yeah.”
Kang Riou answered. “There’s no time.”
“No time for what?”
Dohyeon asked.
Kang Riou didn’t answer. Instead, his eyes found Seia’s. And in them, Seia could read something. Fear. Anxiety. And a resolve underneath, trying to contain it. As though he were transforming his fear into concrete action.
“Seia. You stay here. With Mom.”
Kang Riou said.
“Where are you going?”
Seia asked.
“To Dad’s house. Gangnam.”
Kang Riou answered.
“In the middle of the night? Alone?”
Seia asked.
Kang Riou didn’t answer. Instead, he left the room. His footsteps echoed down the corridor, growing distant. Fast. The footsteps of someone resolved.
Seia looked at Dohyeon. His face was blank like a white page. As though someone had erased all emotion from it. And Seia understood—Dohyeon now knew more than she did. And she understood what that knowledge would do to him.
“Dohyeon.”
Seia spoke.
“What kind of person is our older brother?”
Dohyeon asked. It wasn’t a question about Kang Riou. It was a question about himself. Who am I? Who is my older brother? What kind of family are we?
Seia had no answer.
Haneul placed a hand on Dohyeon’s shoulder. It was such a simple gesture. But it was the only action possible. The only language available. Touch. Presence. Being together.
“Mom… what did Mom do?”
Dohyeon spoke again.
Seia looked at the bed. Their mother’s chest rose and fell slowly. Regularly. Like a pump. A machine’s pump, breathing life into something. And Seia thought—Mom probably doesn’t even know. What she’s done to this family. Or what was done to her.
“I don’t know.”
Seia said. It wasn’t a lie. She truly didn’t know.
Time passed. Minutes or hours, Seia couldn’t tell. The hospital room’s fluorescent lights remained on. The monitor continued its beeping. And the three of them—Seia, Dohyeon, and Haneul—sat in silence beside the bed.
Haneul took out her phone. Checked the time.
“It’s 3:47.”
Haneul said. Speaking unnecessarily. As though to prove time was still moving forward.
Seia’s phone rang. A message notification. From Kang Riou.
I’ve reached Dad’s document room. Are you safe?
Seia read the message once. Then again. As though there might be hidden meaning beneath. Another message written in another language. But it was clear. Are you safe?
She didn’t answer. How could she? How could she know if she was safe or unsafe? Safety was relative. Was she safe when Kang Riou was nearby? Or safe when he was gone? Or was everything dangerous?
Dohyeon gazed out the window. Night. Still night. Seoul’s night seemed endless. As though it would continue forever. And Seia realized—even if this night ended, something else would begin. A deeper night. A blacker night. That was the truth of this family.
“Seia.”
Dohyeon spoke. His voice had changed tone. Lower now. More mature. Or more defeated.
“Yeah?”
Seia asked.
“What should I do?”
Dohyeon asked.
That question pierced through her again. So honest. So desperate. Seia knew Dohyeon was looking at his older sister. Expecting her to have answers about this situation.
But Seia had no answers.
“I don’t know.”
Seia said again. “For now, just stay with Mom. That’s all.”
Dohyeon nodded. But it wasn’t agreement. It was surrender. Or acceptance. Accepting that even his older sister didn’t know.
The phone rang again. Not a message—a call. From Kang Riou.
Seia answered.
“Yeah?”
Seia said.
“I found the documents.”
Kang Riou said. His voice sounded breathless. Or shocked.
“What?”
Seia asked.
“Everything about your father. It was in Dad’s secretary’s office. In a secret document room.”
Kang Riou said.
Seia’s hands trembled. No—it wasn’t just her hands. Her entire body was trembling. As though someone were vibrating her from the outside. Or as though she were vibrating from within.
“What was there?”
Seia asked.
Kang Riou didn’t answer. Instead, she heard the sound of pages turning. Many pages. Documents. Contracts. Or letters.
“Seia…”
Kang Riou finally spoke. “Your father is…”
And he stopped.
“What?”
Seia asked again.
“I can’t tell you over the phone. I need to show you in person.”
Kang Riou said.
“Now?”
Seia asked.
“Yeah. Now. This moment.”
Kang Riou said.
Seia looked at the bed. Mother still sleeping. Dohyeon still looking out the window. Haneul watching her. And those three presences—the bed, the window, the face—were tearing her apart. They all pointed in different directions. And Seia knew she had to go in all of them at once.
“I’ll go.”
Seia said.
“Seia…”
Haneul said. A warning.
“I have to go.”
Seia said.
Dohyeon turned around. His eyes searching for her. As though trying to confirm she wouldn’t disappear.
“Dohyeon. Stay here. With Mom.”
Seia said.
“What about you?”
Dohyeon asked.
“I’m going to find answers.”
Seia said.
Leaving the room, Seia understood she was leaving again. Leaving her family. She didn’t count how many times. She only understood—how much this family was built on leaving. And how deeply that leaving had wounded them all.
In the elevator, Seia looked at her hands. Still trembling. Like Kang Riou’s. Like their mother’s. Or perhaps they were all the same hands. Hands of the same family. Hands of the same anxiety. Hands of the same secrets.
The night streets swallowed Seia. And she felt herself burning. No longer for someone else, but toward her own truth. Whatever it was.
# The Night of Truth
Kang Riou didn’t answer.
Silence flowed through the phone line. Seia held the receiver to her ear, feeling that silence. As though it had physical weight. As though someone on the other end was holding their breath. Five seconds. Ten seconds. Fifteen seconds. Time stretched.
Instead, what she heard was the sound of pages turning. Many pages. The whisper of paper brushing against paper repeated over and over. Documents. Contracts. Or letters. Seia’s ears sharpened. Each sound carried something important. Something about her father.
“Seia…”
Kang Riou finally spoke. His voice was low, thin, the tone of someone who didn’t want to be heard. Seia felt her heart accelerate.
“Your father is…”
And he stopped.
That void was enormous. Seia heard every sound in the hospital room. Mother’s shallow breathing. The medical equipment’s beeping. Dohyeon’s occasional rustling when he moved. And beneath it all, Kang Riou’s rough breathing. He’d clearly started to say something, then stopped. Something significant. Something irreversible.
“What?”
Seia asked again. Her voice had risen without her noticing.
“I can’t tell you.”
Kang Riou said. His words were slow, careful, as though he were chewing stone.
“Not over the phone.”
“Then what?”
“I need to show you in person.”
Kang Riou said.
Seia’s fingers gripped the bed sheet. That grip seemed to anchor her to reality. Show her in person? What about her father did he need to show her?
“Now?”
Seia asked. Her voice was small.
“Yeah. Now. This moment.”
Kang Riou said.
Seia looked at the bed. Mother still sleeping. The masked face looked even paler beneath the dim light from outside. Her chest rose and fell slowly. That was the only evidence. That she was still alive.
Dohyeon still faced the window. His small body leaned against the frame, his face reflected in Seoul’s night lights. He seemed to be waiting for something. Or someone.
Haneul watched Seia. Her eyes tracking her. As though sensing she might disappear.
And those three presences—the bed, the window, the face—were fragmenting her. Mother was here. Dohyeon was here. Haneul was here. They all needed her. As though Seia were the thread connecting them.
They all pointed in different directions. The bed said stay. The window said go. Haneul’s eyes screamed don’t leave. And Seia understood she had to go in all directions simultaneously. That it was impossible. Yet she had to do it anyway.
“I’m going.”
Seia said. Her voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.
“Seia…”
Haneul said. Not just calling her name. A warning. A warning of despair.
“I have to go.”
Seia said. Louder this time.
Dohyeon turned around. His eyes searching for her. As though trying to find certainty that she really wouldn’t disappear.
“Dohyeon.”
Seia said. She poured all the calm she could into her voice.
“Stay here. With Mom. Like a good older brother.”
Dohyeon’s face crumpled. But he turned back to the bed. Took their mother’s hand.
“What about you?”
Dohyeon asked.
“I’m going to find answers.”
Seia said.
“About Dad?”
Dohyeon asked. His voice was so small, so fragile, as though speaking those words might shatter something.
Seia didn’t answer. Instead, she brushed his hair back. It was soft, warm, alive. Everything here was alive. Mother. Dohyeon. Haneul. And herself. But her father?
Leaving the room, Seia understood she was leaving again. She tried not to count her steps. But she did. From bed to door: ten steps. That was how she measured her distance from her mother.
Leaving her family. She tried not to count how many times she’d done this. But she knew. Too many times. Since childhood. To go to school. To go to university. And now.
She simply understood—how much this family was built on leaving. A family that existed only through departure. A family connected only through leaving. And how deeply that departure had carved wounds into all of them. Beneath the bed. Beyond the window. Deep in the pupils of their eyes. It was all written there.
Walking toward the elevator, Seia looked at her hands. She raised them. Spread her fingers. They were still trembling. Very slightly. Like a magnitude-2 earthquake.
Kang Riou’s hands would be trembling too. On the other side of the phone. Their mother’s hands as well. Even lying in that bed. Dohyeon’s hands too. The way he’d gripped the bed sheet.
Perhaps they were all the same hands. Hands of the same family. Hands of the same anxiety. Hands of the same secrets. Hands of the same pain. Seia knew all those hands. Their pulses. Their warmth. Their fear.
The elevator doors opened. Seia entered. The doors closed. And she was alone. Inside a thin metal box, descending, as though heading toward the center of the earth.
Walking out into the night streets, Seia texted Kang Riou. Her fingers danced across the keyboard. Trembling fingers.
I’m coming. Where are you?
Kang Riou’s reply came immediately. As though he’d been waiting for nothing else.
Near Gangnam Station. Waiting in the parking lot. Dad’s parking lot.
Seia’s fingers stopped. Our father. Kang Riou had a father too. The same person as her father. That father was in the parking lot? No—Kang Riou was in that parking lot.
Seia hailed a taxi. The driver didn’t ask questions. Taxi drivers in the middle of the night ask nothing. They don’t ask their passengers’ reasons. They simply do their job. Take an address, and go. To the destination. Or to another secret.
“Parking lot near Gangnam Station.”
Seia said.
The driver nodded. His face visible in the rearview mirror. An older man. Probably in his sixties. Had probably seen much in his life. Many nights. Many passengers. Many secrets.
“At this hour?”
The driver asked. Ah, he does ask.
“Yeah.”
Seia said.
The driver nodded again. No more questions. He moved the car. Into Seoul’s night.
Seoul’s night swallowed Seia. The buildings. The neon signs. The passing cars. Night encompassed all of her. She was aware she was no longer outside the hospital room. She was inside the city. Among millions of other lives. Were they all searching for something? Were they all leaving as well?
Seia felt herself burning. From inside. It wasn’t anger. Not fear either. It was something deeper. A thirst for her own truth. No longer for someone else, but toward her truth. Toward who her father was. Toward why her family was so broken.
Whatever it was.
Seia looked out the window. Seoul’s night flowed past. Gangnam Station was drawing near. The parking lot was drawing near. Kang Riou was drawing near. And the truth about her father.
The taxi slowed. The parking lot entrance appeared. Dark, deep, like a cavern.
“Is this it?”
The driver asked.
“Yeah. Thank you.”
Seia said. She handed over money. With a tip as well.
“Be careful.”
The driver said.
“Okay.”
Seia answered.
She got out of the taxi. The air was cold. Night air. The smell of concrete and car oil. And something else. The smell of fear. The smell of secrets.
Deep in the parking lot. That’s where Kang Riou waited.
And in his hands were papers. Many papers. The ones he’d been turning over on the other side of the phone.
Seia walked forward.
Toward the answer to every question.