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# Chapter 244: How to Let Go
Sae-ah stood outside the hospital room. More precisely, in front of the door. Her hand gripped the doorknob, but she couldn’t push it open. As if whatever lay beyond that door might not be real. Or as if she didn’t want to acknowledge that it was.
The fluorescent lights in the corridor flickered overhead. Was it the summer air conditioning, or was the electricity itself unstable? Sae-ah watched that instability. Every time the light wavered, her shadow wavered too. On the wall. As if it weren’t her own. Someone else’s shadow. Or as if she herself were someone else’s shadow.
Do-hyun’s voice still echoed in her ears. “Mom is calling. She’s looking for you.” The simplicity of that sentence crushed Sae-ah. The shorter the sentence, the heavier it was. As if weight was inversely proportional to length. Long sentences dilute. But short ones concentrate. Like diamonds. Like blades.
Sae-ah pushed the door open. Slowly. As if by controlling her speed, she could slow down time itself.
The room had changed. And it hadn’t. Her mother still lay in the bed. But now her eyes were open. Halfway. As if she weren’t fully awake, but rather suspended in that border between waking and sleep.
Do-hyun stood beside the bed, one hand holding their mother’s. His face was pale. As if those past days had drained him of blood. Not the face of a seventeen-year-old. The face of someone much older. Sae-ah knew that suffering aged people, but witnessing her own brother transformed like this was something else entirely.
“Noona.”
Do-hyun uttered the word. It wasn’t a greeting. It was an accusation. Or a distress signal.
Sae-ah didn’t move. She remained in the doorway. As if she knew she couldn’t fully enter this space. Or as if entering would mean something would end.
“Did Mom wake up?”
Sae-ah asked. It sounded like an accusation too. Unintentionally. As if Sae-ah herself were responsible for waking her mother. Or as if she were questioning Do-hyun’s responsibility for it.
“About thirty minutes ago. She opened her eyes and started calling out names. Your name.”
There was no anger in Do-hyun’s voice. That made it heavier. Anger at least carries energy. But Do-hyun’s voice had no energy. Just exhaustion. Deep exhaustion. And beneath that exhaustion, something else. Not resignation—something deeper. A state of knowing there’s nothing left to resign from.
Sae-ah walked toward the bed. Slowly. To the opposite side from where Do-hyun stood. A position where she could face her mother’s face. But she didn’t look at it. Instead, Sae-ah looked at her mother’s hand. That hand on the bed. It held Sae-ah’s. Or rather, it didn’t hold it. It was simply near. Close enough to touch.
“Mom.”
Sae-ah spoke. Just that one word. Nothing at all. But the moment it left her lips, her mother’s hand moved. Very slowly. Searching for Sae-ah’s hand. Fingers traced fingers. As if confirming something. Or trying to read it. Like Braille.
“Sae-ah.”
Her mother called her name again. This time more clearly. As if confirming Sae-ah’s existence. As if checking whether Sae-ah was really there. Sae-ah met her mother’s eyes. Those half-open eyes. What was in them? Awareness? Memory? Or just the reflection of light?
“Yes, Mom. I’m here.”
Sae-ah spoke. And she knew it was a lie. She wasn’t here. For the past hours, she’d been somewhere else. Following Kang Ri-u’s footsteps. Following his despair. Following that warm hand. Abandoning her mother and brother.
Do-hyun sank into the chair beside the bed. Almost collapsed. Sae-ah could see how exhausted her brother was. It wasn’t physical exhaustion. It was spiritual fatigue. The kind where the soul wants to abandon the body.
“Mom, would you like some water?”
Do-hyun asked. It was automatic too. A reflex in crisis. Water. Food. Calling the medical staff. Obligatory actions to sustain life. Do-hyun had probably repeated these countless times in the past days. And it had reduced him to this state. Duty. Responsibility. Love. When these accumulate continuously, they become not salvation but chains.
Their mother didn’t answer. Instead, she gripped Sae-ah’s hand more tightly. Sae-ah felt the pressure. A slight pressure. As if her mother were trying to bury her in the earth. Or pull her back into her own body.
“Ri-u?”
Her mother asked. That name. Kang Ri-u. When Sae-ah heard that name from her mother’s lips again, she felt how her body reacted. Her chest tightened. Her breathing stopped. As if that name were something binding her.
“Where is Ri-u?”
Her mother asked again. This time more desperately. As if that question were what kept her alive. Or what was killing her. Both were possible.
“Mr. Kang went out for a moment.”
Sae-ah said. That was also a lie. She didn’t know when Kang Ri-u would return. Or if he would return. What was his last expression? Despair? Anger? Or was it an indescribable mixture?
“He can’t leave. That boy can’t leave.”
Her mother spoke. It was a command. Or a plea. The distinction was unclear. Her mother’s voice was too weak.
Sae-ah looked at her mother’s face. How it was changing on the bed. As consciousness returned, so did pain. As if waking and suffering were the same thing. Or as if waking opened the door to pain.
“Should I call the medical staff, Mom?”
Do-hyun asked again. That automatic question. Again. And again. He must have repeated this sentence dozens of times in the past days.
“No. Bring Ri-u.”
Her mother spoke. It wasn’t medical care she needed. It was her son. Sae-ah understood. Physiological needs and psychological needs are different. Medical staff can care for the body, but when the body is asking for the soul—how does one care for that?
“I have to go find him.”
Sae-ah spoke. Not to Do-hyun. To herself. Trying to convince herself. To move her body. To pull her feet away from her mother’s bed.
But her mother’s hand gripped Sae-ah’s more tightly. As if trying to physically prevent her from leaving.
“Don’t go. Please.”
Her mother whispered. The words were barely audible. But Sae-ah heard them. With her entire body. They resonated through her bones. As if those words were etched into her DNA.
Sae-ah sat down. On the edge of the bed. Beside her mother. Opposite Do-hyun. They formed a triangle. A triangle centered on their mother. And within that triangle, no words were needed. Just existing. Being together. That was enough.
But it wasn’t enough. Because Kang Ri-u wasn’t there.
Time passed. How much, Sae-ah didn’t know. Minutes or hours. In the hospital room, time moved differently. More slowly. Or faster. As if time’s speed wasn’t constant. As if gravity had changed. Or as if they were on a different planet.
“Sae-ah.”
Her mother spoke again. This time it wasn’t her name. Just syllables. A string of syllables. Sae-ah needed to understand what it meant. What those syllables conveyed. Something beyond words.
“Yes, Mom.”
Sae-ah answered.
“Do you know Ri-u is my child?”
Her mother asked. It wasn’t a question. It was confirmation. Or proof. Her mother acknowledging her son.
“Yes. I know.”
Sae-ah said.
“And you?”
Her mother asked. It was clear. It was serious. The question their mother was asking Sae-ah was simple. What do you think? Can you accept him? Can you call him your brother?
Sae-ah didn’t answer. Instead, she gripped her mother’s hand more tightly. She placed that hand on her own chest. Over her heart. As if telling her mother that hand needed to feel her heartbeat. As if that pulse could be the answer.
Do-hyun moved. He took his mother’s other hand. Now they formed a complete circle centered on their mother. A circle of connected hands. An unbreakable circle. Or an already broken one.
“Bring Kang Ri-u to me.”
Her mother spoke again. This time it was a clear command.
Sae-ah got up from the bed. This time, her mother released her hand. As if permitting her to leave. Or knowing she had to go.
The corridor still flickered under the fluorescent lights. Sae-ah walked along it. Slowly. Quickly. Without any sense of time. She didn’t know where she was going. She was just searching for Kang Ri-u. Following his footsteps. Following his despair.
Stairs. Elevator. Lobby. Outside the hospital.
Seoul at night was silent. Or crying very loudly. Sae-ah couldn’t tell. Her ears weren’t working properly. As if she were underwater. In deep water. That water her mother had spoken of.
“Kang Ri-u!”
Sae-ah shouted into the night. Not knowing where it would go. Not knowing who would hear it. She simply called out.
No one answered. The night was silent. Or perhaps the night itself was the answer? Was the night’s silence itself the reply?
Sae-ah kept walking. Searching for Ri-u. Searching for herself. Searching for her soul, which had stopped somewhere.
Basement level B2 of the hospital parking garage. Darkness. And within that darkness, a car’s headlights. One car. Black. When Sae-ah saw it, she knew what she’d been looking for.
Kang Ri-u sat in the car. Gripping the steering wheel. But not moving. As if he weren’t the driver but the car’s dream. Or as if the dream were driving the car.
Sae-ah tapped the window. Lightly. Very lightly. As if she knew she had no right to wake Ri-u. Or as if she wanted this moment to be not waking but deeper sleep.
Ri-u’s eyes saw Sae-ah. But it was unclear if those eyes were really seeing her. As if he were seeing her ghost. Or his own.
Sae-ah opened the car door. Ri-u hadn’t locked it. As if permitting anyone to enter. Or as if he’d already left, so there was no reason to lock it.
“Mom woke up.”
Sae-ah said. It should have been good news. But it didn’t sound like it. It sounded like a curse. As if the mother’s waking would curse them all. Or perhaps everyone’s curse had awakened the mother.
“And she’s looking for you. For her son.”
Sae-ah continued.
Kang Ri-u didn’t answer. Instead, his hand moved. Away from the steering wheel. Toward Sae-ah’s hand. But it couldn’t reach. As if his fingers knew they couldn’t cross that distance.
“You have to come back.”
Sae-ah said.
“I can’t.”
Kang Ri-u spoke for the first time. His voice rang like a broken string.
“Why?”
Sae-ah asked. But she already knew. The reason. It was always the same reason. Impossibility. Shame. The belief that he had no right to exist.
“I’m not their son. I’m a mistake. Evidence. A secret.”
Kang Ri-u said. It was true. But truth wasn’t everything.
“You’re someone’s brother.”
Sae-ah said. Her voice was calm. As if she’d known this for a long time.
Kang Ri-u looked at Sae-ah. This time, really looked. Not at a ghost, but at a person.
“We all have to go back. Together.”
Sae-ah said.
And they left. In the black car. Across the night of Seoul. Toward the hospital. Toward where their mother was. Toward family.
Kang Ri-u’s hand was still trembling. But Sae-ah’s no longer was. Strangely. As if her trembling had transferred to him. Or as if she’d taken his trembling onto herself. That’s how people share pain. When hand touches hand. When body draws close to body.
When they returned to the room, Do-hyun was still standing beside the bed. Holding their mother’s hand. And their mother’s eyes were open. Halfway. As if waiting for Sae-ah and Kang Ri-u to return. As if she’d stayed awake only for that.
When Kang Ri-u approached the bed, their mother’s eyes opened fully. As if his very presence were light. As if it awakened her.
“Ri-u.”
Their mother called that name. It was acknowledgment. Acceptance. Or surrender. Surrender to all the things she couldn’t do.
And Kang Ri-u sat beside the bed. As Sae-ah had. As Do-hyun was bent forward watching. They formed a triangle again. This time with four people. A circle. An unbreakable circle. Or now, a circle they couldn’t break.
Their mother’s hand found Kang Ri-u’s. It was slow. Weak. But certain. As if their mother were confirming her son. With her own flesh and blood.
“I’m sorry.”
Their mother whispered.
“Yes.”
Kang Ri-u answered. It was forgiveness. Or understanding. Or both.
Time passed. Again. But this time, differently. As if time itself were healing. Or as if the wound were deepening. Sae-ah couldn’t tell the difference between deepening and healing.
Dawn pressed against the hospital room windows. Gray light. Cold light. It revealed everything. Their mother’s pale face. Do-hyun’s exhaustion. Kang Ri-u’s trembling hands. And Sae-ah herself. It revealed all of it.
Medical staff entered. Around 6 a.m. They took temperature, measured blood pressure, checked the medical machines. They saw the four of them sitting around the bed, but said nothing. As if they’d seen many such scenes. Or as if they couldn’t see them.
“The patient has regained consciousness. That’s fortunate.”
The medical staff said. It was congratulation. Or diagnosis. Or just professional utterance.
After they left, Sae-ah and Kang Ri-u and Do-hyun gathered around the bed again. Holding their mother’s hand. And their mother closed her eyes. Deep, genuine sleep. After feeling their hands one last time.
“What do we do now?”
Do-hyun asked. It was unclear who he was asking. Perhaps everyone. Or perhaps himself.
Sae-ah didn’t answer. Kang Ri-u didn’t either.
They simply sat beside the bed. Connected hand to hand. Within that unbreakable circle. That was all. Nothing more was needed.
The hospital room’s fluorescent light flickered overhead. Still. Continuing. As if the world itself were wavering. Or as if the world had always wavered, and they were only now realizing it.
# Dawn’s Touch
4:37 a.m. The hospital room’s fluorescent light still hadn’t stopped its frustrating hum. As if the world’s pain had been transformed into sound. Sae-ah was listening to it. When she bent forward trying to hear her mother’s breathing, the light’s cry became an obstacle.
Their mother on the bed still hadn’t completely closed her eyes. Her half-open pupils moved slowly. As if waiting for the end of the black night. Sae-ah wanted to know what that gaze meant. Whether it was pain, waiting, or just a body’s reflex.
“Mom, can you hear me?”
Sae-ah whispered. Her voice was almost just breathing.
Her mother didn’t answer. But Sae-ah could feel it. That gaze had changed. As if her mother were reaching up from a deep well.
Sae-ah took her mother’s hand. Warmth passed through the spaces between her fingers. Evidence of life. Sae-ah couldn’t let go of that hand. Letting go felt like leaving her mother in darkness—a guilt she couldn’t bear.
“I’ll stay right here. I’m here.”
Sae-ah repeated.
Were those words for her mother, or for herself? Sae-ah couldn’t tell.
Do-hyun sat in the chair beside her. His face was pale, dark circles under his eyes as if drawn with charcoal. He’d barely moved for hours. Just watching their mother. Sae-ah looked at him and wondered. Was he feeling the same guilt? Why did he come so late? Why didn’t he come sooner?
“Get some rest, hyung.”
Sae-ah said.
Do-hyun didn’t nod. As if even moving his head required energy.
Time passed slowly. Or perhaps it wasn’t passing at all. The hospital room’s wall clock ticking was Sae-ah’s only evidence. Tick. Tick. Tick. The sound was like their mother’s heartbeat.
“Ri-u said he was coming. Where did he go?”
Do-hyun said suddenly.
“Where is he?”
Sae-ah checked the time. 5 a.m. Ri-u had left thirty minutes ago to get coffee. But he hadn’t returned yet.
“The line at the coffee shop is probably long.”
Sae-ah said. But even she wasn’t sure.
Do-hyun fell back into silence. As did Sae-ah. The siblings were thinking the same thing without speaking. What if Ri-u doesn’t come back? What if he misses the moment Mom opens her eyes?
Then came the sound of footsteps in the hallway. Fast and irregular. As if someone were running.
The hospital room door opened.
Kang Ri-u entered. His face was full of urgency. Paper cups in both hands, steam rising from one. He quickly scanned Sae-ah and Do-hyun, then looked at their mother on the bed.
“Mom…”
Ri-u started to speak.
“She’s still sleeping,”
Sae-ah said.
“But I think she’s waking. Her eyes are half-open.”
Kang Ri-u set the coffee cups on the nearby table. His hands were trembling slightly. Sae-ah noticed. And she felt that trembling transfer to her own body.
“Were you outside?”
Do-hyun asked.
“Yeah. The coffee shop line was long.”
Kang Ri-u answered.
“And…”
And what. Kang Ri-u’s words didn’t finish. Instead, his eyes turned toward their mother.
“Ri-u.”
Their mother’s voice came.
Sae-ah was startled by that voice. As if a light suddenly switched on in darkness. Their mother was awake. And she was looking at Ri-u.
Kang Ri-u’s steps quickened. As if their mother’s voice were pulling him toward her. He sat beside the bed. As Sae-ah had. As Do-hyun was watching in a bent posture.
“Mom.”
Kang Ri-u spoke. It was a greeting. Or confirmation. Confirming that his mother was really there.
Their mother’s eyes opened fully. As if Kang Ri-u’s voice were light itself. As if that light awakened her.
“Ri-u.”
Their mother spoke again.
That name held so much within it. Sae-ah could feel it. It was acknowledgment. Recognizing the son she’d denied for so long. It was acceptance. Putting down her stubbornness and pride. Or it was surrender. Surrender to all the things she couldn’t do, couldn’t apologize for, couldn’t forgive.
Kang Ri-u’s hand found their mother’s. Sae-ah witnessed that moment. Their mother’s fingers entering the spaces between his. Like a dance step practiced over many years.
“I’m sorry.”
Their mother whispered. Her voice was barely audible. But Sae-ah heard it clearly.
Kang Ri-u’s face contorted. As if the weight of that apology were pressing down on him.
“Yes.”
Kang Ri-u answered.
It was forgiveness. Sae-ah could sense it. The weight of that single word. How long he’d waited to hear it.
Sae-ah stood and sat beside Kang Ri-u. Do-hyun moved to the other side of the bed. They were forming a circle again. Not a triangle, but a square. Or a circle. A circle without beginning or end.
Time passed. How much mattered less. The darkness of dawn was gradually brightening. Gray light was slowly seeping through the hospital room windows. Cold, indifferent light. But also the light announcing a new day.
Beyond the windows, the city was waking. Lights turning on in one or two windows, cars beginning to pass through the streets. But inside the hospital room, time felt suspended. As if only this space existed in a special time.
Their mother’s eyes began to close again. Fatigue pressing down on her body.
“Rest, Mom. We’re here.”
Sae-ah said.
Their mother gave a slight nod. And closed her eyes again. But this was a different kind of sleep. Deep sleep. Restful sleep.
Do-hyun checked the clock.
“It’s 6 a.m.”
The moment those words were spoken, the hospital room door opened. Medical staff entered. A nurse and doctor. They checked their mother’s vital signs, took her temperature, measured her blood pressure. Their movements were professional and efficient. As if this were the thousandth, the ten-thousandth time.
“Consciousness has returned. That’s fortunate.”
The doctor said.
It was congratulation. Or diagnosis. Or simply a routine work report. Sae-ah couldn’t tell.
After the medical staff left, silence returned. But it was different from before. If the previous silence had been full of anxiety, this silence was filled with relief.
“What do we do now?”
Do-hyun asked.
It was unclear who he was asking. Perhaps everyone. Or perhaps a question about his own helplessness. Or a question about the future.
Sae-ah didn’t answer. Neither did Kang Ri-u. Instead, they sat beside the bed. Connected hand to hand. Their mother’s hand included in that circle.
“We just need to be here,”
Sae-ah finally said.
That was all. Nothing more was needed.
The hospital room’s fluorescent light continued to flicker. Its humming continued. But now that sound didn’t feel suffocating. It sounded like the world’s pulse. Evidence of being alive.
7 a.m. Sunlight began entering more strongly through the window. Last night was finally passing. And a new day was beginning.
Sae-ah checked her mother’s hand again. Still warm. Still alive. That was everything. That was enough.
From outside came the sounds of morning. Birds chirping, morning music, car horns. But inside the hospital room, only one sound mattered. Their mother’s breathing. As long as that continued, everything would be all right.
Do-hyun looked out the window. Exhaustion still marked his face, but the despair from before had vanished.
“Let’s get some rest,”
Kang Ri-u said.
Do-hyun nodded. Slowly, he pushed his chair back. Sae-ah stood and moved to the sofa on the opposite side of the bed. They would have to stay in this space for many more days. But it felt bearable now.
Kang Ri-u still held their mother’s hand. His eyes were closed, but his hand didn’t let go.
“Thank you. For coming back.”
Sae-ah murmured quietly.
Kang Ri-u answered without opening his eyes.
“I had to come back.”
That statement contained a long, long story. Why Ri-u had left, why he couldn’t return, and finally, why he had returned. But now there was no need to share that story. This moment was enough.
The hospital room’s fluorescent light continued to flicker. But now Sae-ah didn’t hate that sound. It was proof the world kept moving. That it didn’t stop.
Dawn was brightening. Darkness was retreating, light was entering. And the four people in this hospital room stood at that boundary. Between darkness and light. Between death and life.
But now it was certain. They were moving toward the light. Slowly, but certainly.
It was the beginning of a new day.