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# Chapter 228: The Place to Return
Her mother’s words had not finished. Sae-ah knew this. In the silence. Her mother’s lips had tried to move, but that movement had stalled. As if certain sentences didn’t deserve to be spoken. Or as if once spoken, they could never be taken back.
The fluorescent light of the hospital room illuminated that silence. Cold. The kind of light that created both brightness and shadow simultaneously. Sae-ah looked at her own hands. Her hands, fallen away from her mother’s. Those fingers were trembling. Very subtly. As if someone far away were playing a violin, and the entire air was vibrating with it.
“If you left…”
Sae-ah spoke. Her own voice was trembling too.
“Why do I exist?”
Kang Ri-woo moved. Very quickly. To the side of her mother’s bed. As if someone thought they needed to stop Sae-ah. But her mother raised her hand. That hand was directed not at Ri-woo, but at Sae-ah.
“You do exist. Right now. Here.”
Her mother spoke. Her voice became slightly clearer. As if to make what she needed to say more distinct.
“When I left Kang Min-jun, you were already there. Inside me. Three weeks. Or more precisely, three weeks and two days. I didn’t know. Or I didn’t want to know. I wanted to confirm that my relationship with that man was ending.”
Sae-ah sat down in the chair beside the bed. Rather than sitting, it seemed her legs could no longer support her.
“A few weeks passed after that. And I found out I was pregnant. You had already taken form, and I had to make a choice. Whether to tell Kang Min-jun. Whether to leave with only Ri-woo, or whether to take you with me.”
Her mother swallowed again. This time it seemed harder. As if the act of speaking itself was physical pain.
“I told Kang Min-jun. About you. And do you know what that man said?”
Sae-ah didn’t speak. She shook her head.
“That man said you shouldn’t exist. That you shouldn’t be born. That you were a danger. That you would destroy his empire. So the proposal he made was…”
Her mother stopped. For a long time. A very long time.
“He said if I didn’t give birth to you, he wouldn’t take Ri-woo away. He wouldn’t fight me for custody. He wouldn’t come looking for me again. And he would give me enough money. Enough to live. Enough to raise Ri-woo healthily.”
Sae-ah’s breathing stopped. She could feel it herself. Her lungs refusing to draw in air anymore. As if during those twenty-four years when she had chosen not to exist, even her breath had done the same.
“But I gave birth to you.”
Her mother continued.
“You were my choice. Regardless of Kang Min-jun’s conditions. I couldn’t let you go. That music-like movement I felt inside my body. That was more important to me than Ri-woo. So I gave birth to you. And in exchange…”
Tears welled up in her mother’s eyes. Different from before. Deeper tears.
“In exchange, I couldn’t give you to anyone. I couldn’t raise you alone. Not where Kang Min-jun could find you. So I…”
“You entrusted me.”
Sae-ah spoke. As if she were saying what she needed to say before her mother could.
“To someone else.”
Her mother closed her eyes.
“Yes. To my friend. To someone Kang Min-jun could never trace. Someone living in the deep mountains of Jeju. And I said five years. That after five years, I would come get you back. But…”
“Five years didn’t pass.”
Sae-ah spoke.
“I came looking for you.”
Ri-woo moved. He looked at Sae-ah. His expression asking a question. But her mother spoke first.
“When?”
“When I was nine.”
Sae-ah answered.
“I skipped school. I took a bus. To Jeju. Without anyone knowing.”
Her mother’s face went pale.
“You… alone?”
“Yes. I was alone. And I found my grandmother. The grandmother who had raised me. She cried when she saw me. For three hours. And she told me. That my mother wanted to come see me. Always. Every day. But couldn’t. Because it was dangerous.”
Sae-ah paused. She looked at the fluorescent light of the hospital room. She wondered how that light could create so many shadows. How such bright illumination could be accompanied by such deep darkness.
“My grandmother told me. That my mother loved me. But that love doesn’t always mean being together. Sometimes being apart is love. Sometimes silence is protection.”
Ri-woo sat down in a chair. The opposite side from where Sae-ah was sitting. As if he too could no longer stand.
“And then?”
Her mother asked.
“After that?”
“I lived with my grandmother. And she waited until I was thirteen. And when I turned thirteen, she told me. That now I could choose. That I could look for my mother. Or I could stay here.”
“And then?”
Her mother asked again.
“I went looking. To Seoul. And I found my mother working at a convenience store. From ten at night to six in the morning. On that schedule.”
Sae-ah spoke. Her voice sounded strange to her. As if she were describing someone else’s life.
“When I saw my mother, what I felt was… that my mother had seen me too. Before that. Several times. She had come to the convenience store where I worked. During my shifts. And every time, she didn’t buy anything. She just looked at me and left. As if trying to confirm that what she had given birth to really existed. Or trying to confirm that it hadn’t disappeared.”
Her mother’s hand trembled on the bed.
“I understood that. Because I looked at my grandmother the same way. Every day. Do you know what my grandmother told me? That my mother wanted me. Always. Every day. But that wanting alone wasn’t enough. That sometimes being apart is the only way. That you can love someone even while being apart.”
Sae-ah stood up. From the chair. And she walked to her mother’s bed. Past Ri-woo. She sat beside her mother.
“So I decided not to look for my mother. Instead, I waited for my mother to find me. Until she was ready.”
“Sae-ah…”
Her mother took Sae-ah’s hand again.
“I’m sorry. I really am. I…”
“I know.”
Sae-ah spoke.
“My grandmother told me that my mother loved me. And my grandmother was right. Because my mother suffered. Every day. That was proof for me.”
The hospital room became quiet. Only the humming of the fluorescent light could be heard. And her mother’s breathing. Weak, but present.
Ri-woo moved. Very slowly. He stood up from the chair. And walked to the door of the room. Through the open door, the corridor was visible. There, Do-hyun was standing with his back against the wall. Shoulders still trembling.
“Do-hyun.”
Ri-woo whispered.
“Did you hear?”
Do-hyun looked up. His eyes were red. Eyes that had cried. Or were still crying.
“I heard.”
Do-hyun spoke.
“And… I know what I have to do.”
“What?”
Ri-woo asked.
“There’s a place we have to return to. To my sister. To my mother. And to my grandmother too. To everyone. And I know that we have to remain silent until we get there.”
Do-hyun spoke. With a seventeen-year-old’s voice. But it was more than just a seventeen-year-old’s voice. It carried something much older. The weight of family. The weight of love. And the weight of choice.
Ri-woo simply looked at Do-hyun. Without speaking. As if recognizing that someone else had taken his place.
In the hospital room, Sae-ah still held her mother’s hand. Feeling how thin those fingers had become. And how warm they still were. She felt it. As if for the first time. Or truly for the first time.
“What was mother afraid of?”
Sae-ah asked.
“Besides father. What was mother really afraid of?”
Her mother’s eyes closed. Again. But this time it wasn’t from weakness. It was because it was necessary.
“You just looked at me.”
Her mother whispered.
“Even separated for five years. Even when you came looking for me at thirteen. You always just looked at me. As if you thought I might disappear. And that was my greatest pain. You loved me, but that love was expressed as fear. In those sad eyes. And I couldn’t bear that fear.”
Sae-ah didn’t move.
“So I remained silent. For five years. For thirteen years. For twenty-four years. I kept silent. Because if I spoke, it would become real. And if it became real, you would no longer be the child of my imagination, but the child I had hurt. So I remained silent. And while remaining silent, I died.”
Her mother opened her eyes. And looked at Sae-ah. In those eyes was everything. Guilt, love, fear, and finally, understanding.
“I’m sorry. I really am. But now… now you have a place you need to return to.”
“Where?”
Sae-ah asked.
“To Jeju. To your grandmother and grandfather. And wait there. Until I get better. Until I’m well enough. And when I am…”
Her mother’s voice broke. As if it couldn’t start again.
“When I am well, I will come find you. This time, to stay forever.”
The fluorescent light of the hospital room illuminated that promise. And Sae-ah understood. In this light. In this cold hospital light. The meaning of what her mother had said. Returning. Waiting. And finally, being together. That this was the only way love could be.
Sae-ah didn’t let go of her mother’s hand. For a long time. A very long time. As if letting go of this moment meant she could never have it again. And her mother didn’t let go of Sae-ah’s hand either. As if twenty-four years of silence could be recovered in this single moment of touch.
In the corridor, Do-hyun and Ri-woo were silent. A silence of things that cannot be spoken. And in that silence, something broke. Or was being remade. Something called family. It is not made of blood alone. It is made of choice. Day after day. Continuous. Endless choice.
Sae-ah finally let go of her mother’s hand and stood up. She left the hospital room. Into the corridor. To where Do-hyun and Ri-woo were standing. And past them. To the stairs. To the way out of the hospital.
There was no one on that path. Only the fluorescent light and the shadows it created. And Sae-ah’s footsteps. Footsteps moving toward a direction that was finally clear.
To Jeju. To her grandmother. To wait there until her mother recovered.
And knowing that this waiting was love.