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# Chapter 215: Kang Min-jun’s Fingers
Seo-ah’s mother tried to sit up in bed, ignoring the medical staff’s instructions. As if lying down was the same as lying—as if her body needed to straighten, needed to stand.
Kang Ri-u approached and placed a hand on their mother’s shoulder. Seo-ah watched that hand. It was trembling. Not from Kang Ri-u’s own weakness, but shaking as it tried to support their mother’s weight.
“Stay down, Mom.”
Kang Ri-u spoke. The first time he’d called her that. The word hung in the air, suspended—as if being born for the first time.
Their mother looked at Ri-u’s hand, then covered it with her own. Seo-ah watched the two hands overlap. Ri-u’s—a pianist’s hands, delicate and musical. Their mother’s—a diver’s hands, salt-worn and scarred. They lay one over the other.
“You’re Kang Min-jun’s son, aren’t you?”
Their mother asked.
“Yes.”
Ri-u answered.
“Then you understand what kind of man he is.”
Their mother’s eyes fixed on the ceiling. But there was no ceiling there—only the past. Seo-ah understood. Her mother’s eyes were seeing somewhere else entirely.
“I know a lot,” Kang Ri-u said carefully.
“Not enough,” their mother replied.
Silence filled the room. The fluorescent lights hummed above it. Seo-ah checked the clock: 7:34 AM. Morning deepening. Outside, someone laughed in the hospital corridor. Someone was still living. Someone else was speaking of the past from the border between life and death.
“Kang Min-jun didn’t steal my song,” their mother said.
“What?” Seo-ah asked.
“It was never mine. It was always his. From the start.”
Their mother’s voice changed—as if she were wearing someone else’s voice. Or finally reclaiming her own.
“I wrote the lyrics. He created the melody—or so he said. But later, I learned the truth. That melody came from somewhere else.”
Seo-ah’s body went rigid. Those words. Somewhere else. Plagiarism. Theft.
“So what happened?” Seo-ah asked.
“So I stepped down from the stage myself. Min-jun didn’t push me. I chose to leave. Because I knew what I was singing wasn’t mine, and it wasn’t his either.”
Their mother squeezed Ri-u’s hand harder, as if it were the only thing real.
“And then I ran.”
“Where?” Ri-u asked.
“Back to Jeju. To my mother. Back to being a diver. And there… I met you.”
Their mother’s eyes finally looked at Ri-u—as if seeing him for the first time. Or every time for the first time.
Seo-ah began counting her fingers. Again. Alternating hands. She needed to move her body to process this. Her mother had given birth to Kang Min-jun’s child. Kang Min-jun—the CEO of JYA Entertainment. The man who turned music into product. The man who stole her mother’s voice.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Ri-u asked.
“I couldn’t.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t want me to. And I… neither did I.”
Their mother’s voice thinned.
“When you were born, Min-jun came to me. He said: ‘You need to choose. Either erase this, or decide. You can be my son, or you can be no one. But you cannot be both.’”
Seo-ah stopped breathing. That ultimatum. A man to a woman. At the birth of her child. It wasn’t a choice—it was coercion.
“What did you choose?” Seo-ah whispered.
“You,” their mother said, looking directly at Seo-ah. Fourteen days of silence and twenty-four years of secrets lived in her eyes.
“You chose not to be his son. To be forgotten instead.”
Ri-u’s body stiffened.
“He doesn’t know you exist. Never has. Doesn’t know your name. Officially, legally, in every way—you’re not his child. Only biologically.”
“Then why—” Ri-u started, then stopped.
“Why do you know now? Why am I telling you?”
Their mother finished his question.
“Yes.”
“Because you’ve grown. You came looking for him yourself. Looking for your father. Looking for your name. And I… I no longer had the strength to lie.”
Tears streamed down their mother’s face again. The first tears since waking fourteen days ago. And now these. They seemed to come from different times, as if time itself were folding backward.
Seo-ah looked out the window. Seoul kept moving. Cars flowed over Gangnam Station. Someone was going to work. Someone was going to school. Someone was facing their past.
“And Seo-ah?” Ri-u asked.
Their mother didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she looked at Seo-ah. For a long time. As if seeing her for the first time.
“Seo-ah is the daughter of a man I met after I escaped from Min-jun.”
“After you escaped?” Seo-ah asked.
“Yes. When I rose again in Jeju, I had you. Your father was… a good man. A very good man. But he left.”
Their mother’s voice flattened.
“Why?”
“Because of me. Because of my silence. He tried to save me. To make me speak. But I couldn’t.”
Their mother stared at the ceiling.
“So he left. And I raised you alone. In silence.”
Seo-ah was looking at her mother, but at the same time, she was looking at herself. The thought that this woman could be her. That this silence could become hers. That these scars could be her scars.
“Is Kang Min-jun still alive?” Seo-ah asked.
“What?”
“Is he still alive?”
Silence. Long silence. In it, Seo-ah could hear her own heartbeat. Her mother’s breathing. Ri-u’s fingers trembling.
“Yes. And he’s looking for you,” their mother finally said.
“For me?”
“No. For your voice.”
In that moment, Seo-ah’s throat went dry. Her voice. Didn’t that belong to her? Her throat? Her song?
“Why?”
“Because you’re like me. You can sing. You can stand on stage. And Min-jun knows that. He’s always known. Since you were a child.”
Seo-ah thought of her childhood in Jeju. With her mother. Those singing moments. The times her mother never spoke, only listened.
“That’s why I never told you,” their mother continued.
“Never told you about your voice. Your talent. Because I understood it could be a curse. Like it was for me. You could burn, too. For nothing.”
Seo-ah looked at her hands. Her fingers. How many times had she counted them? How many times had she counted to confirm she existed?
“Mother,” Ri-u said, “what did you tell Min-jun about Seo-ah?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing at all. Seo-ah just became my daughter. Not his. Just mine. That’s all I could do.”
Ri-u’s fingers trembled more. Seo-ah watched them—her brother’s hands. The word still felt strange. Those fingers shaking.
“Then why tell us now?” Ri-u asked.
“Because…”
Their mother’s voice cracked.
“I could have died. In that bed. And if I had, neither of you would ever know the truth.”
Their mother tried to sit up again. This time, Ri-u didn’t stop her. He helped, supporting her back with his hands.
When she was halfway up, Seo-ah saw her mother’s face clearly. Fourteen days of unconsciousness. Mask marks still visible. Eyes swollen. Lips pale. But those eyes—they were alive. As if for the first time.
“When do you think he’ll come?” Seo-ah asked.
“I don’t know,” their mother said. “But he will. You’re his daughter. And you’re still singing.”
Seo-ah touched her throat. Her throat. Her voice. What if it already belonged to someone else?
“What should I do?” Seo-ah asked.
Their mother didn’t answer. Instead, she took Seo-ah’s hand. Warm. In it lived fourteen years of silence and twenty-four years of secrets.
“Don’t stay silent,” their mother finally said. “Whatever the cost. Speak. Sing. Exist.”
Tears fell again, but this time they weren’t from crying. They were like a blessing. Or a curse.
Ri-u still supported their mother’s back. His fingers still trembling. Seo-ah watched them. Her brother’s hands. A pianist’s hands. Hands that could no longer play.
The fluorescent light flickered. 7:47 AM. The world outside kept turning. Over Gangnam Station. Over the Han River. And in this room, past and present were meeting. And the future was waiting.
Seo-ah touched her throat again. Her voice. Still hers. For now.
END OF CHAPTER 215