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# Chapter 44: The Silence That Hand Creates
Sea-ah met Ri-woo’s eyes. Everything that lived in them—the Berlin piano, a dead friend’s stage, trembling fingers, and a desperate need to save her—collapsed in a single instant. Ri-woo wanted her, but it wasn’t love. It was atonement. A desperate desire to move another’s hands now that his own could no longer make music.
The convenience store’s fluorescent lights continued their monotonous hum. The sound resembled someone crying. 2:30 AM. Almost no one came at this hour. The convenience store existed only for the few who stayed awake all night—the working, the fleeing, those who wanted to be alone. Sea-ah recalled the conversations she’d had with Ri-woo in this store over the past few hours. Park So-jin’s video. Her own song. The reality of her voice becoming someone else’s.
And Ri-woo’s hand. Still trembling.
“I have something to ask you.”
Sea-ah spoke. Her voice was quieter than usual. After hearing his story, she couldn’t speak loudly.
“What?”
Ri-woo asked. His face remained pale, but his eyes were gradually losing focus, as if gazing at something distant.
“Park So-jin. You said you’d protect her. Then… is she like you?”
Sea-ah’s question went unfinished, but it was enough. Ri-woo understood.
“I met So-jin earlier than you.”
Ri-woo spoke. His voice was now almost expressionless. The voice of a body emptied of emotion. “So-jin’s father was in construction. He had money. So he made So-jin learn music. Classical piano. Singing. Dance. Everything. But So-jin never wanted any of it. It was just what her father wanted. Then he lost everything in business. Ran out of money. So he started selling So-jin. ‘Why hide a daughter with such talent?’ He introduced her to JYA. And JYA took her. For five million won.”
Ri-woo leaned against the register, as if unable to bear his own weight any longer. Sea-ah saw it then—how heavy the things were that the man she’d thought was a wealthy Gangnam heir actually carried.
“And So-jin found out what happens here. What JYA is. Who Kang Min-jun is. Who I am. And… whose hand writes her songs. Like you. Your songs are released under So-jin’s name.”
Sea-ah’s face drained of color. She’d known it already, but hearing it directly from his mouth was different. Reality grew heavier. More solid. The nightmare that had felt like a dream became a wall.
“So… did So-jin do something?”
Sea-ah asked.
“No. She couldn’t do anything. She signed the contract. Like you. And her father told her, ‘From now on, you belong to this company. In exchange, I’ll give you money and fame, so do well.’ And So-jin did. Until now. Smiling. Perfectly.”
Something lived in Ri-woo’s voice. Anger, perhaps. Sadness. Self-recrimination. All of it mixed together.
“So what did you do?”
Sea-ah asked. It wasn’t pure curiosity—it was a kind of accusation. Why did you reach out to me but not to her?
Ri-woo laughed. It wasn’t laughter. It was the sound of despair wearing laughter’s shape.
“When I met So-jin, she was already dead. Or dying. Slowly. Every day. And I couldn’t do anything while watching it. Because my father wanted it that way. My father likes children like that. Children who don’t fall when they hit walls. Children who don’t break. My father collects such children and makes money from them. And I’m his son. A son who can’t refuse. Because…”
Ri-woo raised his hand again. The trembling hand. He showed it to Sea-ah.
“…because these hands can’t make music. Because I can’t say with confidence, ‘This is wrong. You need help.’ Because I have to save myself first, and I can’t even do that.”
Sea-ah looked at that hand. It overlapped with her own. Her hand trembled too. She wanted to make music with it, but that music was no longer hers. The only difference was that Ri-woo had fallen into this situation after giving up music, while she was already trapped here before she ever could.
“Then why me?”
Sea-ah asked. That question contained many meanings. Why did you reach for me. Why did you try to protect me. Why did you try to save me. Was it really for me, or for yourself?
Ri-woo didn’t answer. Instead, he turned from the register. And faced her. This time, not looking away. There was something in his eyes. Fear. Desperation. And something more. Sea-ah couldn’t name it.
“When I saw you…”
Ri-woo spoke. Slowly. As if each word wounded him.
“…when I saw you, I thought that maybe you could do what I couldn’t. You’re still burning, aren’t you? That fire I lost. Looking at it, I thought—if I could protect you. If I could keep from extinguishing your flame. Then maybe my friend’s death would mean something. Maybe my abandoned piano would mean something. Maybe my trembling fingers would mean something. That’s what I thought.”
Ri-woo’s voice cracked. Sea-ah heard it. The sound of a voice breaking. That particular timbre when a man reveals his deepest self.
“But you’re destroying yourself. Lighting lighters. Bringing your fingers close to flames. Giving your songs to others. Abandoning your voice. In doing that, you’re showing me that you’re not someone I can save. Because you won’t save yourself. And I can’t save you. I couldn’t even save myself.”
Sea-ah looked at Ri-woo. And she understood. He didn’t love her. He was trying to heal his own despair through her. That wasn’t love—it was parasitism. Beautiful parasitism. Warm parasitism. But parasitism nonetheless.
The convenience store’s fluorescent lights suddenly flickered. In that moment, Sea-ah couldn’t see Ri-woo’s face. Darkness. Then the lights came back. Ri-woo still stood before her, but something had changed.
His hand was no longer trembling.
“What did you do?”
Sea-ah asked. When she looked at Ri-woo’s hand, it was now perfectly still. No tremor. That terrified her more. When there was trembling, at least there was feeling. But now that hand was fixed like stone.
“We’re done.”
Ri-woo said it. Without emotion. As if someone else were speaking.
“What?”
Sea-ah asked. But she already knew. She didn’t want to know, but she understood what those words meant.
“You and me. My promise to protect you. My plan to save you. All of it’s over. From now on, you’re just a JYA contractor. Nothing else. And I’m… I decided to forget you. Like your fingers. Like your songs. I’m forgetting it all. Because trying to save something that can’t save me is just zombieism.”
Ri-woo moved toward the convenience store’s exit. Sea-ah wanted to stop him, but she had no words. The automatic doors opened. Cold dawn air rushed in. Seoul at dawn. April, but the night was still cold. Ri-woo walked into that coldness.
And stopped.
“Park So-jin.”
He turned and spoke.
“You’ll use that girl too. The way she was used by you. That’s how the world is. We’re all someone’s consumables, someone’s parasites, someone’s lighter flame. Until that flame goes out. And you’re already half-extinguished.”
Ri-woo went back outside. This time, he didn’t return.
The automatic doors closed.
Only the fluorescent hum remained.
Sea-ah stood leaning against the register. She looked at her hands. Still trembling. Different from Ri-woo’s. His trembled because he’d given up. Hers trembled because they still wanted to do something. She couldn’t tell which was worse or better.
Her phone rang. A text from Hae-ul.
“Hey Sea-ah, you still at the convenience store? You’re not sleeping at this hour?”
Sea-ah checked the screen. 2:45 AM. Hae-ul always texted at strange hours. As if sensing when Sea-ah was struggling. Sea-ah couldn’t tell Hae-ul everything about her conversation with Ri-woo. She didn’t know where to start.
“Yeah. Still here.”
Sea-ah typed.
“Leave now. Go home. I’ll make ramen. When was the last time you made yourself ramen?”
Sea-ah looked at the screen. Hae-ul’s words were always simple. Go. Sleep. Sleep. Eat. Stop. Sleep. Sleep. That simplicity, that repetition, was keeping Sea-ah alive. More powerfully than Ri-woo’s warm hands. More than promises. More than salvation.
“Okay. I’m going.”
Sea-ah stepped back from the register. She looked at her hands again. Still trembling. But now she decided not to notice. She could make ramen with trembling hands. She could sing with trembling hands. She could hold someone with trembling hands. There was no need to wait for the trembling to stop. She just had to live inside it.
She turned off the convenience store lights.
The automatic doors opened.
Cold dawn air came in.
Sea-ah walked out into that wind. In a different direction than Ri-woo had gone. Toward her alley. Her semi-basement. Her room. Where her cat, Jangpan, was waiting.
The dawn streets were still empty. The convenience store’s fluorescent lights shone behind her. Waiting for someone else.
Sea-ah didn’t think she’d go back.
8:00 AM. Hae-ul’s semi-basement tattoo shop.
“You’re seriously crazy. You heard everything that guy said at the convenience store? And you just left?”
Hae-ul spoke. She was making ramen in front of Sea-ah. Water boiled in the pot. Steam rose. Hae-ul’s face blurred behind it.
“Yeah.”
Sea-ah said. She sat on Hae-ul’s worn sofa, arms wrapped around herself protectively.
“And that guy said ‘we’re done’? Really?”
Hae-ul asked again.
“Yeah.”
“Damn it. Men are all the same. When they’re giving you something, they say ‘love me,’ but when they can’t get what they want, ‘we’re done.’ Bastards. But you—how are you?”
When Sea-ah received that question, she had to assess her own emotional state. Sad? No. Angry? No. Regretful? That either. What remained was strangely lightness. That feeling after setting down something heavy. Good or bad—she still didn’t know.
“Yeah. I’m okay.”
Sea-ah said. And it wasn’t a lie.
Hae-ul poured the ramen into bowls. Noodles, broth, egg, seaweed. Simple ramen. But ramen eaten at dawn shone like stars. Sea-ah took the bowl. Warmth transferred to her hands. That heat—so much warmer than Ri-woo’s hands.
“Eat.”
Hae-ul said.
“And what are you going to do? The JYA contract?”
Sea-ah thought as she ate. JYA contract. Park So-jin. The reality of her songs circulating under another name. A man named Kang Min-jun. All of it was her reality now. Ri-woo had left, but the contract remained. And she was still inside it.
“I don’t know. For now, I guess I’m just living. Day by day.”
“Not living—surviving. You’re surviving right now. And that’s enough for now. You know that, right?”
Sea-ah didn’t answer. Instead, she ate more ramen. The broth went down her throat. It was warm. That warmth, that simplicity—it was everything to Sea-ah right now.
“Have you ever seen that Ri-woo guy?”
Sea-ah suddenly asked.
“What? No. Why?”
Hae-ul asked.
“Just… I wanted to ask something.”
“What?”
Sea-ah thought for a long time. Then she opened her mouth.
“That guy was warm to me. But his warmth was different from yours. You make ramen when I’m struggling, but he tried to change me. Which one is real love?”
Hae-ul looked at Sea-ah’s face. And smiled.
“Neither is love.”
Hae-ul said.
“Ramen is just ramen. Warmth is just warmth. Love isn’t like that. Love is letting you stay as you are. And staying beside you even after that. He didn’t let you be yourself. I did. That’s why you’re next to me.”
Sea-ah heard those words. And ate more ramen. The broth was warm. Warmth filled her stomach. Her heart was still cold, but at least her stomach was warm. That was enough. For now.
The ramen’s aroma filled the entire semi-basement shop. In that smell, Sea-ah began to breathe differently. The kind of breath you take when Ri-woo’s hand no longer needs to hold yours.
Dawn was slowly turning into morning.