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# Chapter 235: What the Fingers Say
Kang Riu gazed out at Seoul’s nightscape through the hospital window. His fingers traced the glass, moving as if playing piano. Or rather, as if trying to play piano. Those fingers were trembling—an involuntary tremor, a nervous system rejecting itself. Se-ah watched those fingers. Then she looked at her own. They were trembling too.
“Kang Min-jun left me.”
Their mother spoke. Her voice sounded different now—not fragile like a confession, but clinical. Like testimony in a courtroom. Rooted in fact.
“A year after I gave up Kang Riu, he told me he’d met someone else. A younger woman. A better woman. And he asked me if I could be happy without Kang Riu.”
Do-hyun turned away on the bed, his back now completely to their mother. His shoulders rose and fell. Breathing seemed difficult. Se-ah wanted to hold him, but her body wouldn’t obey. It was as if she might shatter if she absorbed all the world’s emotions at once.
“I couldn’t.”
Their mother continued.
“I couldn’t be happy without him. Without that child, I was nothing. My abandoned son was the only meaning in my life. Yet I abandoned him anyway. And that meaning disappeared too.”
A buzzing sound filled Se-ah’s ears—whether from the fluorescent lights or her own body, she couldn’t tell. The distinction didn’t matter. It was as if she’d become part of the light itself. Or perhaps the room itself.
“So I looked for him. Kang Riu. Fifteen years after Min-jun left me.”
Kang Riu turned from the window. His face had gone completely pale, as though all the blood had drained from it.
“Where?”
Se-ah asked. It wasn’t really a question. It was verification. Confirmation that she still existed in reality. That she could still think. That she could still speak.
“Through an adoption agency. Their records showed Kang Riu was adopted into a Seoul family when he was two. And…”
Their mother paused. The silence stretched, as if she herself wasn’t ready for what came next.
“The father of that family was Min-jun’s friend. He wanted to give Kang Riu to someone close. Not far away—where he could always see him.”
Se-ah’s fingers trembled more violently now. Uncontrollable shaking. Kang Riu pressed harder against the window frame, as if he might shatter otherwise.
“Kang Riu thought he was adopted. He believed that family was his real one. But Min-jun visited sometimes. Not introduced as his father—just as a friend. And Kang Riu saw him. Every time. Eventually, he realized something was wrong with how that man looked at him.”
Do-hyun began to cry silently on the bed, his shoulders shaking. It was weeping without sound. The deepest kind of despair’s cry.
“Min-jun told Kang Riu the truth. That he was his son. His abandoned son. That he had to live the way Min-jun wanted. Kang Riu was eighteen. In that moment, he learned his entire life was a lie. His name was a lie. His family was a lie. His identity was a lie.”
Kang Riu left the room abruptly. He opened the door and walked out. No one stopped him. They couldn’t. It was as if they were all already dead, unable to hold onto anything.
Se-ah looked at their mother. Their mother looked back. Their eyes met. The mother’s eyes were shattered—crumbled from within. Eyes that fully understood what she had done.
“I went to find Kang Riu.”
Their mother continued, her voice now barely a whisper.
“And that child couldn’t see me. Couldn’t see his mother. So I told him—I’m your mother. I’m the person who abandoned you. And I’m sorry.”
Do-hyun’s cry finally found its voice. Uncontrollable now. Filling the room. It didn’t sound like Do-hyun’s cry anymore. It sounded as if the room itself was weeping. As if time itself was weeping.
Se-ah held Do-hyun without thinking. His body felt smaller than she remembered. As if he’d shrunk in the past few hours.
“He didn’t see me. He just saw stone. Or air. As if denying my presence. He asked me—who are you? And I couldn’t tell him the truth. So I lied.”
Se-ah tried to move toward their mother, but Do-hyun wouldn’t let go. As if afraid that if he released her, she’d forgive their mother.
“I told him I was your father’s friend. And I gave him money. Money that Min-jun had left behind. I told him—live a good life with this. And forget me. I’m not your mother.”
Silence fell over the room again. But this time it was complete. A silence with an ending. The final silence. The silence of someone with nothing left to say.
The heart monitor’s beeping slowed. As if their mother’s heart had decided it no longer needed to beat after this confession.
Se-ah slowly released Do-hyun. She moved toward their mother. One step at a time. As if crossing a minefield. Perhaps that was accurate. This room was a minefield. Every word was a mine.
Se-ah took her mother’s hand. It felt cold and dry. As if her mother was already dead. Or wanted to be.
“Why… why did you tell me?”
Se-ah asked. Her voice sounded broken. She felt broken.
Their mother’s eyes moved, as if trying to see Se-ah. But the gaze had lost focus.
“Because you need to know. You deserve to know. And…”
Their mother stopped. The pause was long.
“Because you love Kang Riu. I saw it. Through your eyes. The way you look at him. It was love. Or fate. I don’t know. But you need to understand who he is. And why he’s so broken.”
Se-ah released her mother’s hand. Slowly. As if it were hot.
“Then… what are we?”
Se-ah asked. The sentence was incomplete, but the incompleteness itself was the question.
Their mother closed her eyes. Whether they’d open again was uncertain. Or perhaps it was certain, but Se-ah refused to know it.
“You’re my daughter. That part isn’t a lie. And Kang Riu is my son. That’s not a lie either. But…”
Their mother didn’t finish. But that “but” said everything. Confusion. Betrayal. Impossible circumstances. One mother had two children. They had different fathers. She’d abandoned one and deceived the other. And now those two were meeting. Without knowing each other. Or in that very moment of beginning to know.
Do-hyun sat beside the bed. As if wanting to lose consciousness. But unable to.
Se-ah left the room. Without a word. Without looking back at Do-hyun. Without looking back at their mother. She simply left.
In the corridor, Se-ah found him. Kang Riu stood before a window, gazing at Seoul’s nightscape. His fingers moved along the glass again. As if playing piano.
“Kang Riu.”
Se-ah spoke.
He turned. His face was completely devastated. As if he knew everything was over.
“I’m… I’m your older sister.”
Se-ah said.
The words hung in the air. They were true. Or false. Or both. Se-ah couldn’t tell. But it didn’t matter anymore. Now the question wasn’t about truth. It was about how to live. Above this truth. Above this lie. Above this impossibility.
Kang Riu didn’t move. As if he was already dead.
“Our mother…”
Se-ah began but didn’t know how to finish. She just stopped. And in the silence, two people stood. Not knowing each other, but now connected by the same thing. The same betrayal. The same wound. Burning with the same flame.
Time passed. Minutes or hours—impossible to say. The fluorescent light buzzed above them. As if it too didn’t know what to do. It simply continued to shine. Meaninglessly. Purposelessly. Just shining.
And that was all Se-ah and Kang Riu could do. Simply exist. Simply stand. Simply endure this truth.
Kang Riu raised his hand. Toward Se-ah’s. It was an offer. Or a plea for salvation. Or simply a need to confirm that someone else was there.
Se-ah extended her hand. Slowly. As if moving through glass.
Their hands met. It was hot. Or cold. Or both. Se-ah couldn’t tell. But the contact was real. And it was the only truth.
They stood like that. Hands clasped. Beneath the fluorescent light. Facing Seoul’s nightscape. And in that moment, Se-ah understood. Why she burned. Why she consumed herself. Not for others. Not as she’d first thought. But to destroy something within herself. A deep, deep wound. And that wound had always been there. With her mother. With her brother Kang Riu. And perhaps it would never heal.
But she still stood. Still holding his hand. Still burning. And now, she knew she wasn’t alone.