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# Chapter 220: When Fire Burns Your Fingers
Kang Ri-u’s fingers moved across the bench. Seo-a saw it—irregular, deliberate, as if reaching for piano keys. But there were no keys. At 11:47 PM in Hangang Park, there was no music, no instrument, no structure. Only two people and their trembling hands.
“You said I was fire.”
Kang Ri-u spoke. His voice was low. Almost a whisper.
“What do you mean?”
Seo-a asked. She already knew what she’d said, but she was curious how he would interpret it.
“Fire that never goes out.”
Kang Ri-u repeated.
“Then what are you? The fuel for that fire? Or someone who watches a person burn, knowing the flames can’t be extinguished?”
Seo-a didn’t answer. Kang Ri-u continued.
“I think you believe Kang Min-jun is an arsonist. That my very existence is his crime. But by your own words, I’m the fire. So I don’t know who’s the fuel and who’s the flame.”
The Han River moved. Even past eleven at night, Seoul remained awake. Buildings across the river still glowed, and somewhere, car horns sounded. The world kept turning. Beyond the hospital room. Beyond the place where her mother’s fingers wouldn’t move.
“Kang Ri-u.”
Seo-a called his name.
“What.”
“What are you thinking about right now?”
Kang Ri-u let out something like laughter. But it wasn’t laughter. It was something else. A sound his body made. Like a machine breaking down.
“Mother called my name for the first time. In that hospital room. ‘Kang Ri-u.’ In twenty-four years, I’d never heard my mother say my name. Kang Min-jun, yes. I’ve been called that plenty. But my name, from her…”
He couldn’t finish.
Seo-a understood. It wasn’t something words could capture. Twenty-four years of silence collapsing in a single utterance of a name. It could only be expressed in music. Or in fire.
“What did Do-hyun say?”
Kang Ri-u asked suddenly. Like he was running from another subject.
“Do-hyun?”
“Yeah. After your mom woke up. What did Do-hyun say?”
Seo-a pictured Do-hyun’s face. A seventeen-year-old boy’s face. A face that had grown up too fast. As if someone had hit fast-forward on him.
“Do-hyun thought… he had to be strong. That the youngest had to be the strongest.”
Seo-a said.
“But that’s breaking now.”
Kang Ri-u left the bench. Suddenly. Like someone had pushed him. He stood and walked toward the river. To the park’s railing. He stopped there. His fingers still trembling.
“What do I say to Do-hyun?”
Kang Ri-u asked, gripping the railing. His fingers pressed against the metal.
“How do I call myself his brother? How do I apologize?”
Seo-a stood. Slowly. And came to Kang Ri-u’s side. To the railing. She took hold of it too. Her fingers were cold. The night air had chilled the metal.
“I don’t deserve to be a brother.”
Kang Ri-u continued.
“I didn’t know Do-hyun. Didn’t know Mother. Didn’t know you. I only saw myself. My trembling fingers. My uselessness.”
“Kang Ri-u.”
Seo-a said. Her voice was low and certain.
“What are you doing?”
Kang Ri-u looked at her. His eyes were dark. At 11:47 PM in Hangang Park. In places the light didn’t reach. His eyes were black.
“I…”
He said.
“I don’t know what to do anymore. Mother was silent. For twenty-four years. And now she’s spoken. And Min-jun? Where is Min-jun? Why isn’t he here? Why hasn’t he appeared in front of his own son?”
Seo-a couldn’t answer that. Kang Min-jun wasn’t here. He existed legally, but not here. Not in the hospital room, not in Hangang Park, nowhere. He wasn’t witnessing his children fall apart.
“I…”
Kang Ri-u spoke again.
“I wonder if Min-jun even knows what he did. What made Mother silent for twenty-four years. What do you think? Is that love? Or violence? Or both?”
Seo-a gripped the railing tighter.
“I don’t know about that. But I know one thing. You’re asking me about Min-jun right now. But you’re not Min-jun. You’re Kang Ri-u. You’re not the person who lived in silence for twenty-four years. You’re the result of that silence. And you’re one of the people who broke it…”
Seo-a stopped. Her voice was shaking.
“What are you doing? Gripping the railing like that?”
Kang Ri-u let go of the railing. Slowly. As if it was a difficult task.
“I…”
He said.
“I keep thinking I’m alone. Still. Even though Mother called my name, even though you said I was fire, even though Do-hyun acknowledged me as his brother. I still can’t shake this feeling of being alone.”
“That’s…”
Seo-a said.
“That’s because of you.”
Kang Ri-u looked at her.
“You keep saying you’re alone. So you are alone. Mother sees you, Do-hyun sees you, even I see you. But you keep looking at your own fingers. Your own trembling. That’s why you’re alone.”
Silence came. Kang Ri-u heard what she said. And he knew it was true. He’d known it all along. But knowing and accepting are different things. Like knowing a chord in music and being able to play it.
“I need to ask you something.”
Kang Ri-u said.
“How are you doing this? How are you enduring all of this? Knowing Min-jun is your father. Knowing I’m your brother. Knowing Mother was silent for twenty-four years. How are you sitting in that hospital room counting your fingers?”
Seo-a looked at her own fingers. Still trembling. One, two, three, four, five. And again. Left hand. One, two, three, four, five.
“I…”
Seo-a said.
“I don’t know. I’m just doing it. Counting my fingers, sitting in Hangang Park at 11:47 PM, talking to you. I don’t know how it’s possible. But it is possible. People just keep living. Even when they don’t know why.”
Kang Ri-u looked at her hands. The trembling fingers. As if sending signals. Or trying to play music.
“I can’t understand you.”
Kang Ri-u said.
“How can you be so composed?”
“Composed?”
Seo-a laughed. It was real laughter. For the first time. The first time in hours.
“I’m trembling right now. My fingers are shaking, my heart is shaking. But this is all I can do. Keep going while trembling. If you want to call that composure.”
Kang Ri-u took her hand. Suddenly. Like a drowning man grabbing a rope. His fingers touched hers. Two trembles met. It wasn’t a greater trembling. The opposite. When two small trembles met, they created resonance. Like music.
“When…”
Kang Ri-u said. His voice low and broken.
“When did I start depending on you?”
“I don’t know.”
Seo-a answered.
“But we’re here now. In Hangang Park. At 11:47 PM. Holding hands. And we’re alive. Isn’t that enough?”
Kang Ri-u didn’t answer. Instead, he looked at the Han River. The river at night. Lights danced on the water. Seo-a looked too. In the same direction. Both of them seeing the same thing. The same river. The same night. The same lights.
“Do you…”
Kang Ri-u said.
“Do you really think I’m fire?”
“Yes.”
Seo-a answered.
“Fire that never goes out. Fire that keeps burning, that no one can extinguish. That’s what you are.”
“Then what are you?”
Kang Ri-u asked.
“What are you?”
Seo-a thought. For a long time. Watching the lights on the Han River. Watching how they danced on the water. Understanding that no light stays still. That everything moves.
“I…”
Seo-a said.
“I think I’m the fuel for that fire. The thing that keeps it burning. And while that fire burns, I burn too. So we both don’t die. Because we’re already burning.”
Kang Ri-u’s fingers gripped her fingers tighter. It was a sad gesture. Or a gesture of gratitude. Or both.
“Us being…”
Kang Ri-u said.
“Us being together is strange. All of this is strange. But at the same time, it feels natural. Like this is the only way. To burn together like this.”
“Yeah.”
Seo-a said.
“Yeah. We burn together. And that’s our only choice. Or burn out alone in the dark.”
11:52 PM. Hangang Park still held them. Their hands remained clasped. And the river kept flowing. The world kept turning. In the hospital room, Mother was probably still looking at the ceiling. Somewhere, Do-hyun stood alone. And Kang Min-jun—Kang Min-jun was still nowhere.
But in this moment, the lights on the Han River danced. And two trembling fingers had become one, still sending signals. To someone. To no one they knew. But certainly to someone.
Seo-a didn’t check the time. It no longer mattered. Time flowed on, they kept burning, and the lights kept dancing. That was enough. That was more than enough.
“Thank you.”
Kang Ri-u said. Almost murmuring.
“For what?”
“For existing.”
Seo-a didn’t answer. Instead, they looked at the Han River together. The night river. The river of flames. And beneath it all, two hands remained clasped. Trembling. But not letting go.