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# Chapter 210: The Weight of the Black Folder
The medical staff entered, and Sae-ah stepped into the corridor with Do-hyun. Fluorescent lights swallowed them whole. 5:15 a.m. The threshold between night and dawn. The last darkness before morning breaks.
Do-hyun moved toward a chair, then stopped. Instead, he went to the window. The 32nd-floor corridor window. Seoul lay beneath them. Beyond Gangnam Station, the lights of Cheongdam-dong spread out, and farther still, the Han River flowed like a black ribbon.
“Noona.”
Do-hyun’s voice was small. Barely audible.
“Yeah?”
“Is Kang Ri-u really Dad’s son?”
Sae-ah didn’t answer. She looked out the window instead. The city lights. Somewhere among them, Ri-u existed. On the 32nd floor. Or higher. Or lower. Sae-ah couldn’t know.
“Did you hear him? What did Ri-u say? In Dad’s office?”
Do-hyun asked again. His voice was seventeen years old, but it carried far more weight than that. The exhaustion of sleepless nights. Guilt. The fear of a child becoming an adult.
“I haven’t heard anything yet.”
Sae-ah lied. But it wasn’t entirely false. Ri-u hadn’t spoken it aloud. What he’d left behind instead was a black folder. A folder containing two faces.
Sae-ah’s fingers touched her pants pocket. The folder was there. The one Ri-u had given her. Black. Heavy. The weight was more than physical.
“Noona, what should I do?”
Do-hyun asked.
This question terrified her most. The one she least wanted to answer. Because when Do-hyun asked for her help, it meant she had to know something about this situation. It meant she had to be someone who could lead in any direction. But Sae-ah was lost. Completely lost.
“Mom’s awake now, so the medical staff will need to run tests. After that… let’s think about what we can do.”
Sae-ah spoke in a voice she didn’t even believe.
Do-hyun nodded. But his eyes never left the window. Seoul at dawn. Seoul before people woke. Seoul still dreaming.
“Noona.”
Do-hyun spoke again.
“What?”
“If Ri-u becomes our brother, what about our father?”
That was the real question. The one Sae-ah needed to hear. But couldn’t answer.
“Our father is still our father. That’s all.”
The words came without thinking. Perhaps the most false and yet the most true thing she could say.
While the medical staff examined their mother, Sae-ah sat on a sofa outside the room. She held the folder. Black. Heavy. Physically heavy.
Her fingers trembled. Like Ri-u. Like their mother. Like their father.
Sae-ah opened the folder.
Photographs. Multiple photographs. At first, she couldn’t understand. Just identification information and photos on a black background in white text. Like ID pictures. Or police records.
First photo: Na Sae-ah. Herself. Age three. A photo taken at a beach in Jeju. Her father holding her up. Sae-ah smiling. Completely happy.
Second photo: Na Ri-u. Kang Ri-u. Around ten years old. Somewhere in Gangnam. In front of what looked like a piano academy. A cold expression. But beneath that coldness, something broken.
Third photo: Their mother. In her twenties. Still young. Wearing a haenyeo’s wetsuit. Her eyes were bright then. Eyes unafraid.
Then came older photographs. Kang Min-jun. Sae-ah knew her father’s face from photos her mother had shown her. But these were different. Min-jun when he was young. Min-jun holding Ri-u. Min-jun with their mother. Min-jun smiling.
Behind them were documents. A birth certificate. Ri-u’s birth certificate. Their mother’s name was recorded as the mother. And in the father’s field: Kang Min-jun.
Sae-ah understood. She was looking at official documents of what she’d already known.
Ri-u was her brother. Her older brother by the same mother. Kang Min-jun’s son.
And Sae-ah was Kang Min-jun’s daughter.
Her fingers continued to tremble.
At the very back of the folder was something else. A letter. Handwritten. In what appeared to be Ri-u’s handwriting.
“To Sae-ah,
If you’re reading this, Mother has woken up. Or will wake up. I found these files in Father’s office. Father has kept them for fourteen years. I don’t know why. Perhaps insurance. Or a tool of control. Father thinks of people that way.
I brought these because you need to know. Who you are. Where you come from. And where you are now.
I spoke with Father a few hours ago. He told me about various ways to make money. Real estate. Stocks. And people. Father sees people as commodities. You’ve already experienced that. In the music industry. In contracts. And now in family.
I lived that way too. As Father’s product. But something changed when I met you. I still don’t know exactly what changed, but something did.
I don’t know where I should go now. Maybe I should leave Father. Or face him. Or die. I don’t know.
Just know this: I wanted to protect you. That’s all. That was the only way I could.”
Kang Ri-u”
Sae-ah read the letter again. And again. She kept rereading the last line. “That was the only way I could.”
She didn’t want to know what those words meant.
When the medical staff emerged, Do-hyun stood up. The resident spoke.
“Your mother’s condition is more stable than we expected. Brain activity is normal, and her physical responses are good. It’s remarkable recovery for someone who’s been resting for fourteen days. There must have been a special reason. Our patients often experience this. When they have a reason to wake up, they do.”
After the staff left, Sae-ah and Do-hyun returned to the room.
Their mother was awake. Eyes open. Yet she seemed to see nothing. As if her eyes were open but her mind was somewhere else.
“Mom.”
Sae-ah called to her.
Their mother’s eyes slowly turned toward Sae-ah. Focus sharpened. And in that moment, something flickered in her mother’s eyes.
Fear. Or recognition. Or memory.
“Did you… see Ri-u?”
Their mother asked. Her voice clearer than before. Memory returning as she woke.
“No.”
Sae-ah lied.
“You need to see Ri-u.”
Their mother spoke as if she’d just realized something important.
“Why?”
Sae-ah asked.
Their mother didn’t answer. Instead, she lifted her hand. Reaching for Sae-ah’s hand. But it stopped midway. Trembling. As if it wasn’t her own.
“That boy… he should have abandoned me. He should have…”
Their mother whispered.
Sae-ah couldn’t understand. What their mother was saying. That Ri-u had abandoned her? What did that mean?
“Mom, what are you saying?”
Do-hyun asked.
Their mother closed her eyes. As if her own words had already revealed too much.
“I’ll tell you later… I’ll tell you later.”
And their mother fell asleep again. Or chose not to wake. Or didn’t want to remain in this moment any longer.
Sae-ah quietly set down the black folder. Above it, Ri-u’s letter was visible.
“That was the only way I could.”
Sae-ah took out her phone. The screen showed ten missed calls from Kang Ri-u. All between 4 and 5 a.m. None answered.
Sae-ah texted him.
“Oppa, where are you?”
The reply came immediately. As if he’d been waiting, phone in hand.
“At the Han River. Are you coming?”
Sae-ah’s fingers moved.
“I’m coming. Wait for me.”
Do-hyun grabbed her arm.
“Noona, what are you doing?”
“I have to go.”
“Mom just woke up. We can talk now.”
“I need to see Ri-u first.”
Sae-ah said. That was also a lie. She didn’t need to see him because he was her brother. She needed to see him because their mother had done something to him, and he was about to do something to himself.
And what that something was, Sae-ah didn’t want to know. But she had to.
“Do-hyun.”
Sae-ah spoke.
“Yeah?”
“Will you stay here? With Mom?”
Do-hyun nodded. But his eyes were sad. The eyes of someone aware of his limits.
Sae-ah stood. She left the room. The fluorescent lights of the 32nd-floor corridor illuminated her. At the end was the elevator. Below it, Ri-u waited.
The Han River flowed. Black water. Reflections of light on its surface. Seoul’s lights. The lights of a city awake twenty-four hours.
Sae-ah entered the elevator. Pressed the button. First floor. Lobby. And beyond.
The elevator descended. From the 32nd floor to the first. Down. And with Sae-ah, the black folder descended too.
Inside it still lay photographs. Na Sae-ah. Na Ri-u. Kang Min-jun. Their mother. And Ri-u’s letter.
“That was the only way I could.”
The elevator reached the first floor. The doors opened. The lobby appeared. The hospital lobby. Overnight nurses and a few patients. The quiet of dawn.
Sae-ah stepped out.
The Han River was visible. Black water. And standing on its edge, a man. A man in a black coat. A man holding his phone.
Kang Ri-u.
His fingers were trembling. Visible even from a distance.
Sae-ah walked toward him. Along the Han River path. 5:47 a.m. Still dark. But soon it would brighten.
Ri-u turned. He saw Sae-ah. And he closed his eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
Ri-u whispered.
Sae-ah didn’t take his hand. Instead, she held up the folder. The black folder. Confronted his face with it.
“What is this?”
Sae-ah asked.
Ri-u didn’t answer.
“Did Father give you this?”
Again, Ri-u remained silent.
“Why… did you bring these?”
Sae-ah asked. Her voice trembling.
Ri-u slowly opened his eyes. In them lay something. Despair. Or resolve. Or a mixture of both.
“You need to know. Who you are.”
Ri-u said.
“I know.”
Sae-ah said.
“You don’t.”
Ri-u said.
And in that moment, Sae-ah understood. Why Ri-u had given her the folder. Why he’d spent the night searching his father’s office for these documents. Why he’d called her to the Han River.
Ri-u wasn’t trying to save her.
Ri-u was trying to send her away.
And that was what Sae-ah had feared most.
“Oppa…”
Sae-ah said.
But Ri-u no longer listened. He turned. He looked at the Han River. Black water. Light above it. And soon, the light of dawn.
“I’ll stay here. You go.”
Ri-u said.
Sae-ah’s fingers trembled.
“Oppa, what are you doing?”
Sae-ah asked. Already knowing.
Ri-u didn’t answer.
Sae-ah grabbed his arm. Grabbed and pulled.
“Oppa!”
Sae-ah cried out.
And in that moment, the light of dawn fell upon the Han River.
[END OF CHAPTER 210]