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# Chapter 212: The Summons and Silence
Riou’s call came through at 6:23 a.m.
Seah was still sitting on the hallway sofa. The black folder lay across her lap, its documents half-unfolded. A birth certificate. Records of family registry corrections. On the final page, a single line handwritten in blue ink: “She must be protected. At any cost.” The handwriting wasn’t Riou’s. It looked like Min-jun’s.
When the phone rang, Seah was counting on her fingers. Alternating hands. Ten, twenty, thirty times. As if tallying numbers could anchor her to reality.
Riou. His name glowed on the screen.
Seah didn’t answer. Instead, she listened to the ringing—its rhythm. One second, two, three. Ring. Pause. Ring again. The pattern repeated. Like a heartbeat. Or an SOS signal.
Six rings, then silence.
Seven seconds later, it rang again.
Seah still didn’t pick up. She didn’t stop counting her fingers. Now on fifty. Thumb to pinky, then back again. Back and forth. Meaningless motion. But that meaninglessness was necessary. There had been too much meaning.
The phone rang. Again.
This time, Seah answered. She stopped counting.
“Yes.”
Her voice came out—but it didn’t sound like her own. It was as if someone else had borrowed her throat to speak.
“Seah.”
Riou’s voice trembled. Barely. But definitely trembling.
“Mom woke up. I heard the news from the hospital. They called me.”
“I see.”
Seah spoke—not words, but syllables. A sound closer to breath.
“Where are you?”
“The hospital.”
“Which hospital?”
“Seoul National University Hospital.”
Silence came through the line. Riou’s silence. The sound of him struggling to process it. Seah could feel it—his breathing. Shallow, as if he’d been running.
“Can I come now?”
Riou asked.
“Why.”
Seah asked back.
“Because Mom… woke up. Shouldn’t I go?”
Uncertainty threaded through his voice. As if he didn’t know what he was supposed to do. Or rather, what he should be capable of doing.
Seah didn’t answer.
“Seah?”
“Don’t come now.”
“Why?”
“Mom just woke up. The medical staff needs to run tests. And…”
Seah didn’t finish the sentence.
“And?”
“I’m not ready yet.”
Another silence arrived. Longer this time. Heavier. Within it, Seah sensed that Riou was thinking about the folder. The black folder she’d given him. The one now resting on her lap.
“Did you read the folder?”
Riou asked.
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know? About the child?”
Seah didn’t understand.
“What?”
“The child. You. What do you know?”
Riou’s voice cracked now. Almost into sobs.
“I know what I needed to know.”
Seah said.
“Which is?”
“That you and me… we have the same father.”
The sentence hung in the air. The moment it left her lips, it ceased being a hypothesis. It became fact.
Riou didn’t answer for a long time.
Then Seah understood he was crying. Not from his voice. From the silence itself. Silence had become weeping.
“I should have told you.”
Riou finally spoke.
“When?”
“From the start. When we first met. Or before that. Before your mother gave birth to you.”
“How old are you?”
Seah asked.
“Twenty-seven.”
“And me?”
“Twenty-four.”
Seah did the math. 27 – 24 = 3. Three years. Riou had been born first. Riou had been Min-jun’s son first. And that fact had been crushing her until now. No—was crushing her still.
“When did Mom meet my father?”
Seah asked.
“I don’t know.”
Riou said.
“How can you not know?”
“My mother never told me. Neither did my father. I just… figured it out. By thinking. By seeing you.”
Riou’s voice dropped lower.
“When I saw you, I remembered. What I was missing. What my father was afraid of.”
“What was he afraid of?”
Seah asked.
“You.”
Riou said.
Seah couldn’t comprehend this. How could she be the object of fear? She was just someone who kept silent. Someone who did nothing. What danger could she possibly pose?
“The last page of the folder. The handwritten note. Did you read it?”
Riou asked.
“Yes. ‘She must be protected.’”
Seah said.
“Who do you think wrote it?”
“Father?”
Seah guessed.
“Yes. Our father. My father. Your father. Our father.”
Riou spoke with deliberate emphasis on each word.
“Why ‘protected’?”
Seah asked.
“Because you’re dangerous. Your voice. Your song.”
Riou said.
“Why is my song dangerous?”
Seah asked.
At that moment, the hospital room door opened. A resident stepped out, relief evident on her face.
“The patient’s condition is very stable. Consciousness is clear, neurological responses are within normal range. There are no apparent complications. However, given the extended period of unconsciousness, recovery will need to be gradual. Having family present is truly beneficial.”
The resident said.
Seah nodded. The phone was still pressed to her ear. Riou was there. On the other end of the line.
“May I go in now?”
Seah asked.
“Yes, absolutely. Just be mindful that the patient is still in early recovery, so try not to let her stay awake too long.”
The resident said.
Seah stood. She picked up the folder. And told Riou:
“I need to see Mom.”
“Yeah. That’s right. I’ll come later. See her first.”
Riou said.
“And Riou.”
Seah said.
“Yeah.”
“Why did you give me that folder?”
Seah asked.
A long silence came through.
“I was the only person who could give you the truth. That’s why.”
Riou finally answered.
“That’s the heaviest thing you could give me. You know that?”
Seah said.
“I know.”
Riou answered.
“I gave it anyway. Because lying to you—continuing to lie—was heavier still.”
Seah ended the call. Riou’s voice disappeared. And in that moment, she thought again about what he’d said.
You’re dangerous. Your voice. Your song.
Seah thought of her own voice. The songs she’d sung in the high school choir. Her mangled English name spoken at the convenience store. The melodies she hummed alone in her room late at night. The compositions she’d written. Where was the danger in any of that?
No.
She understood then. The danger wasn’t in the songs themselves. It was in what people felt when they heard them. Something. Something unnamed. But something that definitely existed. That was the danger.
Seah entered the hospital room.
Her mother was awake. As dawn painted the window, she stared at the ceiling. Do-hyun was asleep in the chair beside her, head tilted to the side, mouth slightly open. The exhaustion of a seventeen-year-old. It hurt to see it.
Seah sat beside her mother’s bed. She placed the folder on her lap.
Her mother’s eyes slowly found her.
“Seah.”
Her mother whispered.
“Yes, Mom.”
Seah said.
“Are you… okay?”
Her mother asked.
Seah didn’t answer. Instead, she took her mother’s hand. Placed it in her own. Her mother’s hand was still cold, still weak. But Seah felt it move. A movement trying to hold her.
“What didn’t I know, Mom?”
Seah asked.
Her mother didn’t answer.
“What Riou said I should be protected from. What Father said. Why?”
Seah asked again.
Tears pooled in her mother’s eyes. Slowly. One drop at a time.
“Because I failed to protect you.”
Her mother said.
“From what?”
“From your voice.”
Her mother said.
Seah didn’t understand this. How do you protect someone from their own voice? How is such a thing possible?
“Did you want to protect me?”
Seah asked.
Her mother nodded. Even that movement seemed to take effort.
“Why?”
“Because your voice was… too loud. It was burning you. It burned you.”
Her mother said.
Hearing this, Seah suddenly understood. Not completely. But she understood.
Her mother believed that Seah was burning because of her voice. That it would burn her. So she’d tried to suppress it. In every way she could.
Seah squeezed her mother’s hand tighter.
“Mom. I’m going to keep burning.”
Seah said.
“What?”
Her mother asked.
“I don’t know. But I think I need to stop trying to extinguish it. I think I need to accept it instead.”
Seah said.
Her mother closed her eyes. All her regrets were contained there. All her apologies. All her fear.
And outside the window, morning had fully arrived. Dawn was over. Night had passed. Now it was day. A merciless day. A day where everything is revealed.
Seah picked up the folder. And showed it to her mother.
“What is this, Mom?”
Seah asked.
Her mother looked at the folder. At the documents inside. And she realized she could no longer close her eyes. Everything was now in the light.
“I need to tell you. Everything. I need to tell you everything.”
Her mother said slowly.
“Now?”
Seah asked.
“When else.”
Her mother answered.
And Seah sat. Beside her mother’s bed. Under the harsh fluorescent light of morning. With her mother, who had broken fourteen days of silence. And her mother opened her mouth. To speak the heaviest truth.
“You were supposed to be Min-jun’s child. Not mine. But I…”
Her mother began.
“What?”
Seah asked.
“I chose to give birth to you. With a different man. Not Min-jun. And that… that ruined everything.”
Her mother’s voice grew quieter.
Seah heard this. And everything began to rearrange itself once more. Every silence gained meaning. Every fear found its cause.
Do-hyun was still asleep in his chair.
Outside the window, Seoul’s morning continued. Indifferent morning. The kind that goes on whether a family’s world is collapsing or not.
And Seah began counting on her fingers again. Listening to her mother’s confession. From one to ten. And back from ten to one. Endlessly.