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# Chapter 205: What Father Left Behind
Sea-ah lifted her hand in the fluorescent glow of the hospital room, then lowered it. She lifted it again, as if checking whether it even belonged to her. Her fingers continued to tremble—barely perceptible, measured in millimeters, yet undeniable. Like someone pulling her hand from very far away.
How long had it been since Kang Ri-woo left with those documents? Time had lost all meaning. The clock on the hospital wall read 3:47 AM. Still dawn. This night refused to end. Or perhaps it shouldn’t.
Do-hyun had not released his mother’s hand. Not once. When Sea-ah left the room. When Ri-woo left. Not now. His fingers had gone nearly numb from gripping, but he couldn’t let go. If he did, he felt certain his mother would vanish again—slip back into those dark waters, that black sea.
Sea-ah looked out the window. Seoul’s night. The lights of Gangnam glimmered in the distance. Down there, someone was living. Someone was sleeping. Someone was dreaming. Did they know who her father was? Could they speak his name?
Kang Min-Jun.
She repeated the name silently, moving only her tongue, shaping the syllables without sound. Kang. Min. Jun. Three syllables. Three blades. Cutting into her.
“Noona.”
Do-hyun’s voice was barely audible, as if even he couldn’t hear himself.
“Yeah?”
Sea-ah answered.
“Mom… she keeps searching for something. Her fingers keep moving. She’s trying to push my hand away.”
Fear threaded through his words. “This isn’t supposed to happen.”
Sea-ah rose slowly from her chair, moving with such care it seemed fragile things might shatter. She approached their mother’s bedside and looked at her face.
Their mother’s eyes were open. Only slightly—barely a crack. But open. Something lived in that sliver. Consciousness. Or memory. Or terror.
“Mom.”
Sea-ah whispered.
Their mother’s mouth moved as if to speak, but no sound came. Her tongue was dry, her lips cracked—fourteen days of silence and IV fluids.
“Don’t try. Rest.”
Sea-ah placed her hand on her mother’s forehead. The skin was cold—not the cold of death, but something better. The cold of something still alive.
Her mother’s eyes searched for Sea-ah. Unfocused, yet searching. Finding her.
And from those eyes, tears fell.
Slowly. As if her mother had lost even the capacity to cry properly. Yet the tears came—from the corner of her eye, tracing her temple, dampening the pillow.
“What is she looking for?”
Do-hyun asked, his voice trembling.
Sea-ah watched her mother’s hand. Still moving. Pushing away. Reaching. Grasping for something.
“Mom.”
Sea-ah took her mother’s hand. Over Do-hyun’s. Their fingers met—Sea-ah’s, Do-hyun’s, and beneath them, their mother’s. Three hands. One family’s hands.
“What did Ri-woo say? What did Father—what did he say?”
Do-hyun asked.
Sea-ah didn’t answer. Instead, she watched her mother’s eyes. Now they were fully open. Both of them. Focused. Directly on Sea-ah’s face. On her eyes.
“She’s looking for you,” Do-hyun said, realization dawning in his voice. “She keeps looking for you.”
Their mother’s mouth moved again. This time, sound emerged. A tiny sound. Like someone calling from very far away.
“Sea… ah…”
It was her name. Their mother speaking her name. After thirty years of silence, finally with her voice.
Sea-ah’s hand shook more violently. But she held on. She held her mother’s hand.
“I’m here, Mom. I’m right here.”
Her own voice sounded unfamiliar—very low, very gentle. Like she was lulling her mother back to sleep rather than waking her.
Their mother’s eyes closed. But her hand continued moving, searching for Sea-ah’s hand, for Do-hyun’s hand, for her children.
The hospital’s fluorescent lights remained bright and indifferent. Beneath them, three hands met. The only warmth in this endless night.
Kang Ri-woo was leaving the thirty-second-floor office. File in hand. Fingers trembling. He’d headed straight for the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator.
From the thirty-fourth floor to the first. Over six hundred steps. He didn’t count them. He simply descended. He may or may not have heard his father’s voice calling behind him. It no longer mattered.
“Let Sea-ah go.”
That had been the last thing Ri-woo said to his father. His father hadn’t answered. Only laughed—a short, pitying laugh.
As he descended the stairs, Ri-woo felt the file’s weight. In his fingers. In his arms. In his chest. If this had real weight, how heavy must Sea-ah have been? Thirty years as part of Father’s business. Part of Father’s assets.
And himself? Ri-woo searched for his place in that file. But his name wasn’t there. Kang Ri-woo. His identity as Father’s son. Nowhere.
Only two children. Their photographs. Their names. Their identification numbers. Their bank records. And Father’s deposits. Father’s withdrawals. Father’s lies.
When he reached the lobby, Ri-woo pulled out his phone. He thought about calling Sea-ah. But what would he say? “My father sold you”? “I didn’t know”? “I’m sorry”?
All lies. Or not lies, yet still lies.
Instead, he headed for the hospital. 3:47 AM. Moving toward 4:00. This night still wasn’t over.
When Ri-woo opened the hospital room door, he saw Sea-ah. Holding their mother’s hand. Over Do-hyun’s hand. Three hands overlapped.
Sea-ah saw him. Saw Ri-woo with the file.
“What did you find?” Do-hyun asked.
Ri-woo didn’t answer. Instead, he set the file on the table slowly, as if handling explosives. He rested his hand on top, his fingers touching its edge.
“Where’s Father?”
Sea-ah asked.
“Upstairs. On the thirty-fourth floor. Probably.”
Ri-woo’s voice trembled now too. “I don’t think he’s coming down.”
Do-hyun stared at the file while still gripping their mother’s hand.
“What’s in it?”
“Our mother. And noona. And probably a lot of other people.”
Sea-ah didn’t move. Still holding her mother’s hand. Who had drifted into a deeper sleep, though her hand remained warm in Sea-ah’s grip.
“Noona, look at the file.”
Do-hyun said.
“I don’t need to.”
Sea-ah replied.
“Why?”
“Because I already know.”
It was a lie. And not a lie. Sea-ah didn’t want to know exactly what that file contained. If she knew, something would end. Something would begin. Something she couldn’t take back.
Ri-woo’s hand remained on the file. Pressing it. Pushing it away. Or perhaps holding it so it wouldn’t escape.
“Ri-woo.”
Sea-ah said his name.
“Yeah?”
“Go to Jeju. To where Mom is from.”
“What for?”
“I’m not sure. But I think you need to.”
For the first time, Ri-woo looked directly into Sea-ah’s eyes. Something lived there. Not sadness. Not anger. Not fear. Something else. Acceptance. Or surrender. Or something mixing both.
“Will you come with me?”
Ri-woo asked.
Sea-ah didn’t answer. Instead, she squeezed her mother’s hand tighter.
Do-hyun continued staring at the file. A seventeen-year-old boy searching for who his father was. What his family was. Who he was. In those documents.
The hospital’s fluorescent lights remained bright and indifferent. Moving toward 4:00 AM. No one knew when this night would end. Or what would remain after it did.
Jeju’s night was different from Seoul’s.
While Sea-ah’s mother lay in that hospital bed, the haenyeo—the women divers of Jeju—were entering the sea. At 4:30 AM. While the sky was still black.
Sea-ah imagined them. Wet-suit clad figures. Most in their fifties or older. Wrinkled faces. Skin darkened by sun. But their eyes—bright with the light of survival. The light of will.
Cold water. Black water. Deep water. They descended, holding their breath. Down. Deeper. For their families. For their livelihood. For themselves—though not with their own voices. That was the cruelest part. Unable to cry out, only to resist with their bodies, entering the silent depths.
That was how Sea-ah’s mother had lived.
“Mom,” Sea-ah whispered to no one, to the ceiling, her voice so fragile above the machines’ rhythm.
“Can you tell me what it was like? The last time you went in. The last time you came up with me.”
Only silence answered.
The silence in this hospital room was nothing like Jeju’s silence. Jeju’s was natural, complete. This silence was broken—by the constant beeping of machines. The steady hum of the ventilator. The metronomic pulse of the heart monitor.
Sea-ah lifted her mother’s hand. The skin was paper-thin. Blue veins rose to the surface. How many abalone had this hand harvested? How many sea snails? How many times had it grasped something underwater?
Sea-ah’s own hands resembled them. Long fingers like her mother’s. Prominent knuckles. Genetics passed down like this. Misfortune inherited in the shape of hands.
A nurse entered. Middle-aged. Name tag reading ‘Park Hye-jin.’ She’d seen Sea-ah many times before.
“How is Mom doing?”
Sea-ah asked. The same question, asked repeatedly.
Nurse Park examined Sea-ah’s face carefully, then looked at Do-hyun still gazing out the window. Watching the sky turn from black to deep purple to soft orange.
“The doctor will explain when he arrives. For now, there’s been no change in her condition.”
No change.
What did that mean? That she wasn’t getting better and wasn’t getting worse? Or that she was continuously declining, but had nowhere left to fall?
Sea-ah didn’t ask. She knew how dangerous questions could be.
After Nurse Park left, Do-hyun finally spoke.
“What are you doing?”
His voice was low and rough. Like gravel being dragged.
“Holding Mom’s hand.”
“That’s not what I meant. What are you really doing here? Sitting. Just sitting.”
Sea-ah didn’t answer. Do-hyun knew. He understood that holding her hand was all she could do.
“What’s Ri-woo doing?”
Do-hyun asked himself this time.
“He went out to the hallway. To take a call.”
“From who?”
“I don’t know.”
Do-hyun returned to silence. The silence deepened, as if they were sinking underwater together. Slowly, but without pause.
Ri-woo had left the room with the file.
Sea-ah didn’t know exactly what it contained. But she knew it was heavy. Not just in weight, but in what it held.
The hallway was fluorescent. Unrelenting in its brightness, day or night. The hospital hallway had no distinction between dark and light. Always the same illumination. Always the same temperature. Always the same smell—disinfectant mixed with human decay.
Ri-woo walked toward the stairwell. To make a call that couldn’t be overheard.
His face was pale. Beyond pale—gray. As if all blood had drained away. He knew where it had gone. To his chest. Pumping rapidly, thundering there.
He pulled out his phone. His hand trembled. He opened his recent calls.
Father
He hovered there. For how long? Ten seconds? Thirty? Time compressed.
He called.
“Hello?”
His father’s voice. Awake at 5 AM.
“Father, it’s Ri-woo.”
“I know. I saw the number.”
No emotion. Only exhaustion. Deep and ancient.
Ri-woo lifted the file again. Checking its weight.
“I’m at the hospital now. Where Mom is. In ICU.”
Silence.
“I don’t think Mom will wake up. Because of what you did.”
Another silence. Deeper this time.
“Ri-woo.”
His father’s voice lowered. Threatening.
“Fair warning. Stop. Right now.”
“I’m going to report you to the police.”
The words cut through the dawn air. Ri-woo was shocked by his own clarity. How cold. How certain.
He heard his father’s breathing. Rapid. Furious.
“What can you prove? What do you even know? You don’t know anything—”
Ri-woo hung up.
His hand shook more violently. But something lifted simultaneously. Like something pressing down on his chest for decades had finally released. What it was, he didn’t know. But it was gone.
He leaned against the stairwell railing. Covered his face with his hands.
There was no going back now. Once spoken, words cannot return. Once released, they cannot be recalled.
When he returned to the room, Do-hyun was still holding their mother’s hand.
Another hour had passed. An hour since Ri-woo left. Nothing had changed. The same breathing rhythm. The same monitor waves. Time had long since lost meaning.
Do-hyun studied their mother’s hand carefully. The wrinkles on the back. Between the fingers. The blue veins at the wrist. This hand that held him. This hand that struck him.
Both. Simultaneously.
When Sea-ah returned, Do-hyun lifted his head. But his eyes couldn’t focus. As if he saw through her to the wall beyond.
“Did Mom wake up?”
Hope threaded through her question.
“No.”
Do-hyun answered.
“And Ri-woo?”
“Still in the hallway, I think.”
Sea-ah moved to the window. 5:20 AM. The sky shifting from purple to pale orange. A new day beginning. A new day carrying all of yesterday’s weight.
“I want to ask you something,” Do-hyun said suddenly.
“What?”
“Why Mom is like this. Really.”
Sea-ah didn’t answer. Do-hyun would know.
“It’s because of Father, right?”
Still no answer.
“Sea-ah, what do you know?”
Do-hyun’s voice rose. Emotion finally breaking through. Anger or sorrow—indistinguishable.
“What do you know that you won’t tell me? Whose fault is this?”
“I… I’m not entirely sure myself.”
Sea-ah was honest.
“Does it matter right now?”
“What does matter then?”
“Mom waking up. That’s what matters.”
Do-hyun squeezed their mother’s hand harder. As if the force alone could wake her.
But she didn’t wake.
Ri-woo returned without the file. He’d left it somewhere. His eyes were red and swollen.
Sea-ah and Do-hyun watched him. Neither asked questions. Because they already knew. Something had broken. Something had ended.
Ri-woo sat in the chair at their mother’s feet.
“Mom… I’m sorry.”
His voice was barely audible.
“I’m so late.”
5:40 AM.
The clock on the wall continued its relentless march. The second hand ticking. Tick. Tick. Tick. Like a heartbeat.
Sea-ah stared at it.
This night still wasn’t over.
But perhaps it didn’t need to be. While it continued, things remained possible. Change was possible. Mother could open her eyes. Confession was possible. Father could admit his crimes. Forgiveness was possible. This broken family could hold hands one more time.
But when dawn breaks?
What comes after?
Courts would intervene. Police would arrive. Judges would render verdicts. Everything would become clear. The blurred would sharpen. And clarity wasn’t always kind.
Sea-ah chose not to think about it. Instead, she focused on the warmth of her mother’s hand.
Hand. Warmth. Connection.
That was everything.
Did Do-hyun think the same? He too refused to release their mother’s hand. It had started as duty. A son’s obligation. But now it was something else. Not feeling. Just the warmth of a hand. Nothing more.
Ri-woo touched their mother’s foot. Her feet beneath the blanket. Still warm. Still alive. Life persisted in these hands, these feet.
“Mom, I’ve done what I needed to,” Ri-woo whispered. “I reported Father. To the police.”
Sea-ah and Do-hyun watched him. His face wavered like a portrait drawn on water.
“What happens now?”
Sea-ah asked.
Ri-woo shrugged.
“I don’t know. I think only time remains.”
Time. Now it was no longer in their hands. It belonged to institutions. To law. To systems beyond them.
The room fell silent. Only machines spoke. The heart monitor in its steady rhythm. The ventilator in its constant pulse.
Their mother didn’t wake.
6:00 AM.
The sky transformed completely. Black to blue to orange to soft yellow. The sun was rising.
By now, the haenyeo of Jeju would be emerging from the water. Warming their bodies. Eating breakfast. Or arguing with their husbands on the way home. Feeding their children before school.
But Sea-ah was here. In this hospital room. Imagining Jeju while holding her mother’s hand.
“What are you thinking?”
Do-hyun asked.
“About Mom. The last time she dove. The last time she came up.”
“She never told you?”
“No. She never could.”
Do-hyun nodded. Understanding something finally. Their mother’s silence hadn’t been chosen. It had been imposed. Stolen.
Ri-woo stood. Walked to the window.
“It’s morning now.”
He said it like a fact. Like an end.
“Yeah,” Sea-ah agreed. “It is.”
The three of them stood in the light breaking through the window. A new day. The day that would change everything. Or confirm that everything had already changed.
Their mother slept on.
And perhaps that was merciful. Perhaps in that sleep, she was finally somewhere safe. Somewhere without weight. Somewhere without drowning.
The hospital’s fluorescent lights had dimmed slightly, overwhelmed by the natural light pouring through the windows. For the first time in hours, the room felt less like a cage.
Sea-ah held her mother’s hand and watched the sun rise over Seoul.
Something had ended.
Something was beginning.
And in between—in this thin moment between night and day—they were finally, somehow, together.