이 포스팅은 쿠팡 파트너스 활동의 일환으로, 이에 따른 일정액의 수수료를 제공받습니다.
# Chapter 201: The Signal at Dawn, What Refuses to Wake
Mom’s fingers trembled.
Seah saw it. A movement so small—millimeters, barely there—but unmistakable. Like someone pulling at those fingers from far away. Or like the last gesture of a person clawing upward from beneath deep water.
Dohyun rang for the nurse. He pressed the call button. For a stretch of time that felt both endless and instantaneous, nothing happened. In that silence, Seah felt her own heartbeat—fast, irregular, uncontrollable. Like something living. Something she couldn’t govern.
The nurse was a woman in her forties. Her name tag read Kim Jung-in. Her fingers traced along Mom’s arm, checking the veins, then gently—so carefully, as if afraid the eyelid might shatter—lifted her eye open.
“There’s a response,” Nurse Kim said. Her voice was clinical. Flat. The voice of someone who had repeated this a thousand times. But Seah thought: maybe it wasn’t emptiness. Maybe the feeling ran too deep to surface.
“Will she wake up?” Dohyun’s voice shook as he asked.
“The doctor will need to assess. But it’s a good sign. A response means there’s brain activity.”
Brain activity. The words hit Seah in the chest. Mom was here. Not just her body, but her mind. Her consciousness. Somewhere. Beneath deep water. Beyond thick fog. But here. Not entirely gone. Seah couldn’t tell if that terrified her or relieved her.
Nurse Kim lowered Mom’s eyelid and checked her pulse. She studied the heart monitor. Read numbers in a language only experts understood. Seah and Dohyun waited in that silence—like a diver’s daughter, waiting at the surface for her mother to emerge.
“Blood pressure’s slightly elevated. Pulse is within normal range. Breathing’s stable. The doctor will run tests in the morning. Keep watching for any changes until then. Press the call button if anything happens.”
Nurse Kim left. Her footsteps faded into the corridor. Somewhere else, another patient was waiting. Another family. Another silence. Time moved differently here—not the time of the everyday world, but the time of hospitals. The time of minutes and seconds. Where one moment felt like forever, and an hour passed like an instant.
Seah sat in the chair beside the bed. The chair where Kang Riou had sat. Was there still warmth left in it? Seah didn’t check. Checking would have made it too real. Made Kang Riou real. Made the word oppa—older brother—too real.
“Noona,” Dohyun said.
Seah didn’t answer. If she opened her mouth, she’d cry. And she didn’t feel like she had the right. Whose tears would these be? For Mom? For herself? For Kang Riou? Or for all of it tangled together?
“Is Kang Riou really… is he really our older brother?”
The words came out of Dohyun’s mouth like they cost him something.
“I don’t know,” Seah said. It wasn’t a lie. She really didn’t know. Didn’t know who Kang Riou was. Didn’t know who she was. Where this hospital room was. What time it was. Everything was murky. Like she was underwater. Or lost in fog.
Her phone rang. Not a vibration—a full ring. Sharp and loud, cutting through the hospital room like a blade. Seah picked it up with trembling hands. The screen showed a name: Haeul.
Seah stared at it. Haeul. Her best friend. Her oldest friend. But she couldn’t take this call. She set the phone down. The ringing continued. Once. Twice. Three times. Four.
Dohyun looked at her. He didn’t ask. Didn’t speak. But his eyes asked everything: Why aren’t you answering? Why not?
The ringing stopped. Then, seconds later, started again. Same name. Same number. Seah knew Haeul wouldn’t stop. Haeul didn’t give up. If she asked once, she’d ask ten times. If she worried once, she’d worry ten times. That was Haeul. And Seah knew it, but she couldn’t take her voice right now. That voice would break something. The last thread holding her together.
“Answer it,” Dohyun said.
Seah shook her head.
“Why?”
Seah didn’t respond. Couldn’t explain this silence. Couldn’t tell if it was protecting her or destroying her.
Her phone buzzed. A KakaoTalk message. Seah looked at the screen. Didn’t read it. But the preview was enough:
‘Haeul: Seah. Please. Do something. Say something. Anything.’
Seah flipped the phone face-down. Now the message wouldn’t show. Like it didn’t exist.
The hospital clock passed midnight. 12:17 AM. Seah wanted to remember this time. And she didn’t. The moment Mom’s fingers trembled. The moment Dohyun first used the word oppa. The moment Kang Riou was in Gangnam, searching through Dad’s documents.
“Will he find something?” Dohyun asked.
“I don’t know,” Seah said. I don’t know anything.
Dohyun seemed not to believe her. But he didn’t push. They were both exhausted. Too tired to ask more questions.
How long had Kang Riou been gone? An hour? Two? How far was Gangnam from Seoul Station? Thirty minutes by taxi. Forty-five by subway. And how long to find Dad’s house? To get inside? Seah didn’t know. Did Kang Riou have a key? Would he break in? Would the police come?
Seah looked out the window. Seoul at night. Lights everywhere. Someone’s home. Someone’s office. Someone’s life. All of it continuing. Indifferent to Mom’s awakening. Indifferent to Kang Riou’s search. Indifferent to Seah’s world falling apart. The world kept turning. That was the most terrifying part. That it just kept turning, while she stood still.
Would Mom wake? Seah wanted it. Really wanted it. But she was afraid too. If Mom woke, what would she say? What would come out? What would spill? Seah didn’t feel ready. Not yet.
“What are you doing, noona?” Dohyun asked.
Seah didn’t answer. What could she say? That she was waiting? That she was drowning in silence? That she wanted to disappear? She couldn’t say those things to Dohyun. He was already carrying too much.
Her phone rang again. A call this time. Haeul. Seah knew it without looking. But she didn’t answer. The ringing just continued, cutting through the hospital room, breaking the silence around Mom, slicing through a night where nothing changed.
Dohyun grabbed Seah’s hand.
It was sudden. Seah looked at him. His eyes were on Mom. But his hand was holding Seah’s. Like he was trying to hold onto two people at once. Like he had to.
“It’s okay, noona. It’s going to be okay.”
It was a lie. They both knew it. Nothing was going to be okay. But they needed that lie. Right now. If they let go of it, Seah felt like she’d completely fall apart.
Where was Kang Riou now? Walking through Dad’s apartment hallway? Opening file cabinets? Had he found everything already? Had he met Dad? Talked to him? Hit him?
Seah looked at her fingers. The ones Dohyun was holding. Thin. Pale. With broken nails. But these fingers were warming Dohyun’s hand. She felt it. Her hand was heating his. She mattered to someone.
The hospital monitor kept beeping. Regular rhythm. Mom’s heartbeat. Mom’s breath. Proof that Mom was still here. Seah listened to it like it was music. The most basic music. The pulse of life. A signal sounding from the boundary between death and living.
“She’s going to wake up,” Seah said. Not to Dohyun. To herself. Or to Mom. Or to the night.
“Yeah,” Dohyun repeated. “She’s going to wake up.”
And together, they chose to believe that lie. Until morning came. Until Mom’s eyes really opened. Until Kang Riou came back. Until everything was clear. For now, they needed this lie. This silence. This waiting. This togetherness.
Seah squeezed Dohyun’s hand tighter. Like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to earth. The only thing she could hold onto while everything else washed away. An older brother. Kang Riou. A man named Kang Min-jun. All of it was shaking her world. But Dohyun’s hand was warm. Dohyun was here. That was enough. For now.
The night continued. Seoul’s night. The hospital room’s night. And in that darkness, Mom’s fingers trembled sometimes. Very slightly. Millimeters. Like someone underwater, reaching upward. Seah saw it. And she waited. For that hand to break the surface.
3:30 AM. Dohyun had fallen asleep in the chair, his head resting against the edge of the bed. An uncomfortable position. But he wanted to be close to Mom. Seah watched him. Still a young face. But exhausted beneath it. The face of someone carrying the weight of family.
Seah picked up her phone. Again. Turned on the screen. Dozens of messages from Haeul. Endless messages. The last one:
‘Haeul: I’m going crazy. Answer me. Please. Where are you?’
Seah typed slowly. One letter at a time.
‘Seah: Here. Hospital. Mom’s. It’s okay.’
It’s okay was a lie. But Haeul would understand. She’d understand Seah’s lie. Because Haeul had nights where she needed lies too.
The reply came immediately.
‘Haeul: Got it. See you in the morning. Let’s get food.’
Let’s get food. Such ordinary words. Such everyday promises. Seah was grateful for them. More than grateful for Kang Riou’s “I’ll protect you.” More than the documents. More than all the secrets. Haeul’s “let’s get food” saved her.
4:30 AM. Mom’s eye twitched.
Seah saw it. Clearly. More distinctly than before. Like someone was rising from underwater. Slowly. But definitely. Seah didn’t wake Dohyun. She wanted to keep this moment to herself. The moment Mom was coming back.
Seah held Mom’s hand. Thin. Cold. And Mom’s hand squeezed back. So weakly. But unmistakably.
“Mom,” Seah whispered.
She didn’t know if it was a prayer or a confirmation. But the word was necessary. Like a signal that this night would end. Like a promise that this silence would break. Like hope that Mom was coming home.
And dawn continued. The hospital clock moved toward 5 AM. Night was ending. Or maybe everything was beginning. Seah couldn’t know. But she knew Mom’s hand was holding hers.
That was enough. For now.