이 포스팅은 쿠팡 파트너스 활동의 일환으로, 이에 따른 일정액의 수수료를 제공받습니다.
# Chapter 243: Do-hyun’s Call, 3:47 AM
Do-hyun’s first call came at 2:14 in the morning. Sae-ah didn’t answer. Her phone sat on the small table beside her bed, its screen lighting up and fading into darkness. That cycle of brightness and shadow. Ringing and silence. Sae-ah just watched. With her eyes only. Her hand didn’t move.
The second call came at 2:37.
The third at 3:08.
The fourth at 3:47. And this time, it rang differently. Longer. As if Do-hyun had prepared himself to wait until she woke. Or no—it wasn’t about waking. It was desperation demanding an answer. When Sae-ah heard that ringing, she realized her hand was already moving. Without her consent. Her body had moved faster than her mind.
“Do-hyun?”
Her voice didn’t sound like her own. It sounded like someone else’s voice. Or a voice rising from deep water.
“Noona!”
Do-hyun’s voice cried out that single word. Everything was contained in that cry. Days of anxiety. Sleepless nights at their mother’s side. All those hours of searching for her, unable to find her. In that moment, Sae-ah understood what she’d done. Who she had abandoned.
“Mom woke up. Right now. She woke up!”
His voice was trembling. It was impossible to tell if it was joy or fear. Both frequencies vibrated at the same pitch.
“Mom opened her eyes? Really?”
Sae-ah’s question came automatically. A reflex of her body. But the moment she asked it, she realized something. Where had she been these past hours? At the hospital. At her mother’s side. Then why was Do-hyun calling her? Why was he telling her this news? If she’d been there all along.
Silence flowed through the phone line. A silence that Do-hyun understood. A silence that Sae-ah understood too.
“Noona, where are you right now?”
His voice had changed. The joy had vanished. And that was more frightening. Joy could be refused. But what came from Do-hyun’s voice couldn’t be refused. It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation.
“I’m at the hospital room.”
Sae-ah said it. A lie. She didn’t know where she actually was. The room next to the patient room. A bench in the hallway. Or somewhere outside her own body. Some observation point outside herself. From there, everything looked like a movie. Like something unreal.
“What? The hospital room? Right now?”
His voice rose. It was the voice of disbelief. Do-hyun already knew. He knew her lie. Or he knew that she didn’t even recognize her own lie.
“Mom woke up, noona. She woke up. So why aren’t you here?”
After that question fell, Sae-ah realized her breathing had stopped. As if she were underwater. That water her mother had spoken of. The deep water. Where light doesn’t reach. She was trying to rise from it, but her body felt heavy. What was pressing her down?
“Do-hyun, Mom is right now…”
Sae-ah started to speak, then stopped. What is Mom right now? Awake? Is that all it means? Does opening your eyes mean you’re awake? Or is awakening something else? Does awakening mean understanding? Accepting? Forgiving?
“What did Mom say?”
Sae-ah’s question went back and forth. To Do-hyun. Or to herself. A question she was asking herself.
Do-hyun didn’t answer. Instead, Sae-ah heard background sounds. The sounds of the hospital room. The steady beeping of the heart monitor. And beneath it, her mother’s voice. Calling Sae-ah’s name. Her mother’s voice speaking her name. It sounded like a summons confirming that she was dead.
“Mom’s calling for you. Noona.”
Do-hyun’s voice grew smaller. As if he wasn’t speaking through the phone line, but whispering directly to her.
“You need to come now.”
Sae-ah wanted to hang up. As if doing so could end all of this. Do-hyun’s voice. Her mother’s voice. The voices of all those she’d abandoned. But Sae-ah didn’t hang up. Instead, she stood. From her bed. Or not a bed—she couldn’t remember where she’d been sitting. But she became vertical. She surrendered to gravity. Her body took on weight.
“I can be there in five minutes.”
Sae-ah said it. Another lie. She had no idea what part of the hospital she was in. But lying helped. The lie created direction. The lie created purpose.
“Okay. Hurry.”
Do-hyun hung up.
Sae-ah walked down the corridor. Fluorescent lights illuminated her path. Or revealed her existence. She was material with a body. Something that occupied space. Something with weight. But despite all of that, she felt transparent. As if light passed right through her.
While waiting for the elevator, Sae-ah looked at her hands. They were trembling. The way Kang Ri-u’s hands trembled. The way her mother’s hands trembled. Was trembling genetic? Or was this an expression of fear? Or were those two things not different?
The elevator doors opened. It was empty. Sae-ah stepped inside. Mirror-like walls. A space where her reflection repeated infinitely. In that infinite repetition, Sae-ah began to wonder: which of these many Sae-ahs was real? Which of these reflections was the original? Or were they all reflections, and the original didn’t exist?
The elevator descended. The floor numbers displayed numerically. 5. 4. 3. 2. 1. With each number, Sae-ah imagined how far she was descending. Toward ground level. Or below it. What lay beneath? Sae-ah remembered. After Kang Ri-u left the hospital room, what her mother had said. What Sae-ah hadn’t heard but Do-hyun might have. The words her mother had left behind. Asking her to find herself. Or asking her to let herself go. Asking her to forgive or be forgiven.
The elevator reached the first floor. The doors opened. Sae-ah stepped out.
The path to the hospital room was familiar. She’d walked it hours ago. Or days ago. Time had become distorted. Sae-ah had lost her sense of temporal direction. She didn’t know if she was walking forward or backward. But she walked. Her body remembered the way. Her body was intelligent. Her body knew the path.
The door to the hospital room appeared. Room 312, Fourth Floor. Sae-ah remembered that number. The number of the room where her mother lay. The number of the room her half-brother had left. The number of the room where she’d chosen not to speak.
Sae-ah didn’t knock. She simply went inside.
Do-hyun sat beside the bed. His face looked older than any she’d seen before. Not the face of a seventeen-year-old, but the face of someone who had lived seventeen years. All the weight. All the anxiety. All the responsibility. It was etched into his face.
Her mother looked at Sae-ah from the bed. Her eyes had focus. Clear focus. As if, awakening from days of confusion, she was seeing something clearly for the first time.
“Sae-ah.”
Her mother spoke. This name. Again this name. As if she thought she could balance her guilt by calling this name.
“Where were you?”
It wasn’t a rebuke. It was pure curiosity. Or something deeper. A verification. Confirming that her daughter actually existed.
Sae-ah didn’t answer. Instead, she went to the bedside. She took the place where Do-hyun had been sitting. Or no—she didn’t push him away. They sat together. On either side of their mother. Holding both her hands. Sae-ah with the left. Do-hyun with the right.
Her mother’s hand was cold. Still cold. As if that coldness were a permanent state. Or as if it were her essential nature.
“I told you. That you were abandoned. That you were erased.”
Her mother spoke. Her voice was still hoarse. But now it sounded different. Not hoarse, but deep. A voice with depth.
“That’s the truth. But it’s not the whole truth.”
Sae-ah looked at her mother’s face. That face was the original of Sae-ah’s face. As if she were seeing her mother’s future self. Or as if her mother were seeing her own past.
“I abandoned you. But you survived. And that’s greater evidence than my abandonment. You existed. You lived. That itself was a refusal. A refusal of my abandonment.”
Tears flowed from her mother’s eyes. This time they truly flowed. Unceasing tears. As if they were separating from her body. Or being released from it.
Do-hyun gripped their mother’s hand more tightly. As if, without his grip, she might drift away somewhere. Sae-ah felt the same sensation. A sense that their mother was slipping. That she was separating from this world.
“Mom, breathe.”
Do-hyun said it. The same words Sae-ah had spoken hours before. But this time it wasn’t a command. It was a plea. A plea for their mother to live. A plea for her to stay.
Their mother’s chest rose. Fell. It was automatic. An irrefusable instinct of the body. Proof of life. And that was the most terrifying thing. Being alive. The weight of being alive. The weight of remembering what you’ve done while you’re alive.
“Where’s Kang Ri-u?”
Their mother asked. It was a question directed at Sae-ah, but Do-hyun heard it too. Do-hyun’s eyes found their mother’s. As if he knew something. Or rather, he did know. Do-hyun knew who Kang Ri-u was. He knew who their mother was searching for.
“Kang Ri-u left here.”
Sae-ah said. It was an answer, but it wasn’t. It was evasion. Or protection. Protecting Do-hyun. Protecting their mother. Or protecting Kang Ri-u.
“He had to leave.”
Sae-ah continued. She didn’t understand why she was saying these things. But she did. She was listening to her own words coming out of her mouth. As if someone else were speaking.
“He had to leave. And we… we had to stay.”
After those words fell, the hospital room fell completely silent. Only the beeping of the heart monitor could be heard. Regular beeping. The rhythm of life. And beneath that rhythm, Sae-ah heard what she couldn’t hear. Kang Ri-u’s footsteps. In the corridor. On the stairs. Or inside herself. There, Kang Ri-u continued to leave. Continued to. Forever. As if it were his fate.
Their mother gripped Sae-ah’s hand more tightly. As if afraid Sae-ah might leave like Kang Ri-u. Sae-ah felt that fear. In that hand. At the tips of those fingers. In a language that spoke without speaking.
“I’m sorry.”
Her mother said.
“I’m truly sorry.”
Who was this directed toward? Sae-ah? Do-hyun? Kang Ri-u? Or herself? Her own past self? Everyone she’d abandoned?
Sae-ah didn’t answer. Instead, she felt her mother’s hand. The weight it transmitted. That weight was passed through Sae-ah’s own hand. To Do-hyun. And so these hands became connected. Past and present. Abandonment and being left behind. In the unclear boundary between guilt and forgiveness.
By 4 AM, Sae-ah was still holding her mother’s hand. Do-hyun was too. They didn’t move. Sitting beside the bed. Holding hands. Speaking everything without saying a word.
And in that moment, Sae-ah understood. What she had burned for. What flame she had tended so fiercely. It wasn’t a fire meant to illuminate someone else. It was a fire meant to prove her own existence. And the moment that fire burned brightest was when she was no one. When she wanted nothing. When she said nothing. Simply here. Holding this hand. In this darkness. In this silence.
The dawn fluorescent lights illuminated them. Three bodies. One bed. Infinite hands. And at the center of all of it, Do-hyun’s voice whispered.
“Noona? You’re here, right?”
Sae-ah answered.
“Yes. I’m here.”
And that was the truest thing she’d ever said.
# Who She Was Looking For
The hospital room’s fluorescent lights cast a pale glow. 3:47 AM. The second hand of the clock ticked steadily. Sae-ah sat in such profound silence she could count each tick. The chair was made of rigid plastic, and her lower back ached. But she didn’t move. Moving felt like it might shatter something.
This moment felt like it might shatter.
“I knew who you were looking for.”
Words that someone might have spoken echoed in Sae-ah’s mind. Had she thought them, or had someone spoken them? It didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was that they were true. That they had pierced through the center of her chest and lodged there.
The hospital room door made a small sound. Someone seemed to be entering. Sae-ah didn’t raise her head. If she did, it would become real. If she did, this moment would become irreversible.
“Kang Ri-u left here.”
Sae-ah spoke. It took several seconds before she realized she was speaking. Her own voice felt unfamiliar. As if she were borrowing someone else’s voice. Husky, low, emotionless. It was a defense mechanism. If her true voice came out, everything would collapse.
There was movement on the bed. Her mother. Her mother’s hand gripped the hospital sheet. Sae-ah sensed the trembling in that hand. The trembling transmitted through the air. Not through sight, but through sensation. A sensation that felt everything.
“He had to leave.”
Sae-ah continued. She couldn’t understand why she was saying these things. Her mouth was moving independently. Separate from her brain. Perhaps from somewhere deeper, words that had needed to be spoken long ago were finally emerging now.
“He… had to leave. And we…”
Sae-ah paused. She was afraid to complete the sentence. Because the moment she finished it, everything would be decided. Kang Ri-u’s departure. Their staying behind. It would stop being a choice and become fate.
Her mother’s hand became firmer. It found Sae-ah’s hand beside the bed. That hand wrapped around hers. Warm, damp, trembling.
“We… had to stay.”
The sentence was complete. Sae-ah heard it. Even as she was speaking, it felt like she was hearing someone else speak. The words spread into the air. Throughout the hospital room. Into the heart monitor. Into the ceiling light.
In that moment, complete silence descended.
Only the heart monitor’s beeping could be heard. Regular beeping. Beep, beep, beep. It was the rhythm of life. Proof that someone’s heart continued beating. In this hospital room, on this bed, someone’s heart kept pulsing. It was what could be called the “medical rhythm.” Automated, mechanical, but undeniable proof of life.
And beneath that rhythm, Sae-ah heard something.
It was footsteps. Kang Ri-u’s footsteps. They had already passed, but the sound remained. In the corridor. On the stairs. Inside the elevator. Or inside herself. There, Kang Ri-u continued to leave. Continued to. Forever. Without stopping.
Sae-ah closed her eyes. That way the sound was clearer. The acoustic texture of footsteps. The sound of shoes striking the floor. That distance until the sound finally faded. The gap growing wider and wider.
“I’m sorry.”
Her mother’s voice. Sae-ah opened her eyes. Her mother’s face was visible. Half-submerged in the fluorescent light. Eyes closed. Lips trembling.
“I’m truly sorry.”
Who was that directed toward? Sae-ah? Do-hyun? Kang Ri-u? Or herself?
Sae-ah didn’t voice that question. Instead, she felt her mother’s hand. The weight it carried. That weight transferred through Sae-ah’s own hand. And then to Do-hyun’s small hand on the bed.
And so these hands became connected. Past and present. Abandonment and being left behind. In the uncertain boundary between guilt and forgiveness.
“Noona?”
Do-hyun’s voice. Very small. Almost a whisper.
“Yeah?”
Sae-ah answered.
“Will Ri-u hyung really not come back?”
That question cut through the air. The most innocent, the sharpest question. A child’s question. A question that pierced through all evasion and qualification.
Sae-ah didn’t answer. She had no words. She couldn’t lie to a child, and she couldn’t tell the truth. So she was silent. Thinking silence was the most honest answer.
Her mother’s hand became firmer. It pressed Sae-ah’s hand slightly harder. It was also a kind of answer. An answer without words.
4 AM arrived. The clock quietly crossed into the new hour.
Sae-ah was still holding her mother’s hand. Do-hyun was still awake. Sitting beside the bed. Holding hands. Speaking everything without moving.
The hospital room’s fluorescent lights continued casting their pale glow. Beneath that light, Sae-ah looked at her own hands. The point where her mother’s hand and hers intersected. Where fingers met fingers. There, body warmth was being transmitted. The language of body heat. The oldest and most honest language.
And in that moment, Sae-ah realized.
What she had burned for. What flame she had tended so fiercely. It wasn’t a fire meant to illuminate someone else. It was a fire meant to prove her own existence.
She had always burned something. Her own time. Her own youth. Her own possibilities. When that fire burned, she felt it. She was real. She existed.
But when was that fire brightest?
It wasn’t when she wanted something. It wasn’t when she spoke about something. It wasn’t when she tried to affect someone.
It was when she was no one. When she wanted nothing. When she said nothing. Simply here. Holding this hand. In this darkness. In this silence.
So then, what had she been searching for?
Kang Ri-u? No.
Her own justification? No.
It was… simple.
To exist. That was all. To be needed by someone. To warm someone’s hand. To feel her own heartbeat beside someone else’s heartbeat.
The dawn fluorescent lights illuminated them. Three bodies. One bed. Infinite hands. Connected hands. Unbreakable hands.
“Noona?”
Do-hyun’s voice came again. Quieter now. Almost like a voice from a dream.
Sae-ah answered.
“Yeah. I’m here.”
In that moment, Sae-ah felt it. This was the truest thing she’d ever said. The most important thing.
She was here. Beside this bed. Holding this hand. In this darkness. And that alone was enough. That alone was sufficient.
Kang Ri-u had left. That was true. But it wasn’t the end. It wasn’t the end, but the beginning. The beginning of something new. Something quieter, deeper, more honest.
Her mother’s hand continued to hold Sae-ah’s. Do-hyun’s hand held her other hand. And so they were connected. Past and present. Abandonment and being left behind. Guilt and forgiveness. It was all there, in these hands.
As 5 AM approached, a nurse’s footsteps could be heard beyond the hospital room. The sound of a medication cart. The outside world was waking.
But on this bed, time had stopped. Beneath the pale fluorescent light. Beneath the heart monitor’s steady beeping. Beneath the quiet symphony created by three bodies and infinite hands.
Sae-ah closed her eyes. And she understood.
Who she had been searching for.
It wasn’t Kang Ri-u. It wasn’t her own justification. It wasn’t proof of herself.
It was something simple. But the most difficult thing.
To be here.
That was all.
—
The clock in the hospital room read 5:15. The fluorescent lights still cast their pale glow. Do-hyun had fallen asleep. His breathing had become regular. Their mother had closed her eyes. Sae-ah was awake.
But being awake felt different now.
It wasn’t waiting. It was presence.
It wasn’t a question. It was an answer.
It wasn’t a flame. It was a light.
Warm, quiet, enduring light.
Sae-ah felt her mother’s hand. And Do-hyun’s hand. And her own hand.
And so everything was here.
Here.
This moment.
This hand.
This light.
This silence.
The end.