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# Chapter 59: Within Reach
“What did you want to be?”
Kang Ri-woo’s question still hung in the air. Sae-ah wasn’t ready to answer it. But she had no choice. At 5 AM on Jeju’s shore, with the sound of waves all around them, standing next to Kang Ri-woo.
“A singer.”
The word came out of her mouth. It was old. So old. Like a stone buried in childhood. Speaking it aloud hurt.
Kang Ri-woo kept walking. Into the water until it reached their ankles. His jeans darkened with seawater. Sae-ah followed. Her jeans soaked too. It didn’t matter.
“A singer,” he repeated the word. Like someone learning a new language. Like he was weighing it.
“What are you now?”
“I don’t know.”
Her voice nearly drowned in the waves.
“You don’t know?”
Ri-woo turned to face her. His eyes met hers directly. Even in the 5 AM darkness, his gaze was sharp. As if he carried his own light. As if the world’s darkness couldn’t touch him.
“You’re still a singer. It doesn’t stop just because you signed something.”
“My name isn’t on the contract.”
The words came out with startling clarity. A year’s worth of accumulation burst into a single sentence.
“A contract?”
His face darkened. Like clouds rolling over him.
“With JYA. The copyright transfer clause. Page three, section seven.”
She continued. Once started, she couldn’t stop. Like a dam breaking.
“Three songs I wrote were released under someone else’s name. Park So-jin. I have no credit. Not as composer, not as lyricist. Nothing. Like I never wrote them at all.”
Ri-woo went still. But his hand clenched into a fist. Beneath the water, in the sand. That fist trembled. Subtly. But unmistakably.
“How long have you known?”
“Yesterday.”
“Yesterday?”
“When we were in Seoul. You—you told me.”
Sae-ah couldn’t bring herself to call him by his name directly. He was too close and too far away at once.
Ri-woo slowly unclenched his hand. Sand slipped through his fingers. Like time flowing away.
“Is that why you came here?”
“Yes.”
“Are you angry at me?”
The question was strange. Ri-woo seemed to know he was the target of her anger. As if he’d expected it.
“No.”
She answered truthfully. Anger was too small for what she felt. Anger could be expressed. What she felt was bigger. Confusion. Betrayal. Despair. Yet somehow none of those things at all.
“Then what?”
He asked again.
“I don’t know.”
She said it again. But this time it meant something different. This time she really meant it.
Ri-woo took her hand. Suddenly. Without warning. His hand was warm. Even submerged in water, it was warm. Like fire burned inside him.
“I’m sorry.”
The words were simple. But they contained multitudes. She felt it. What transmitted through his hand. Guilt. Regret. And something more. Something deeper.
“Sorry for what?”
“Everything.”
His voice was barely audible. Quieter than the waves. Like he was speaking only to himself.
Sae-ah looked at his hand. Wet with seawater. Long fingers. A pianist’s hand. But those fingers were trembling. So subtly. Imperceptibly to most. But she saw it.
“Your fingers are shaking.”
She observed it like a statement of fact.
Ri-woo looked at his own hand as if it didn’t belong to him.
“Yeah. I know.”
“Why are they shaking?”
“I don’t know.”
He answered with the same truth she had given.
“Even in Berlin?”
The question was bold. He’d never mentioned Berlin before.
Ri-woo was silent for a long time. Waves came and went several times. Sand shifted beneath their feet.
“Yeah. Since then.”
His voice sounded distant.
“What happened?”
It was an intrusion. Into his territory. A question that could wound him.
Ri-woo gripped her hand tighter. Like if he let go, he’d drift away somewhere.
“Piano competition. I placed third. My friend won first.”
He began to speak. His voice was mechanical. Like someone else was talking through him.
“What was different about him?”
“I don’t know. His hands didn’t shake as much. His music was purer. He played like he wasn’t calculating.”
He continued.
“That friend… he died later. A year after. Suicide.”
Sae-ah’s heart stopped. In that moment, she heard nothing. Not even the waves. The world seemed to pause.
“Why?”
She barely managed to ask.
“I don’t know. That’s the hardest part. Not knowing why he had to do it.”
Ri-woo’s hand trembled more now. Visibly.
“And I keep thinking. What if I’d won first? What if I’d seen him better? What if I—”
He stopped mid-sentence. But his lips kept moving as if compelled to speak.
Sae-ah didn’t release his hand. She gripped it harder. Like she was anchoring him to this moment.
“It’s not your fault.”
She said it. And it was true. But it was also a lie. Because we all feel responsible for what we didn’t do. We all feel responsible for what we did.
“When I first saw you, he came to mind.”
Ri-woo said.
“Why?”
“Because you were trembling too. Different way. Different reason. But you were trembling. Like you were disappearing.”
Sae-ah accepted that. It was true. She had been trembling. She had been disappearing. Slowly. So slowly no one would notice.
“That’s why I brought you here. To this ocean. To your Jeju.”
Ri-woo continued.
“Because I couldn’t save him, I wanted to save you.”
That confession was too honest. Too devastating.
Sae-ah looked at him. His profile. In the 5:30 AM darkness, his face looked like a sculpture. Perfect. Cold. Fragile.
“What now?”
She asked.
“I don’t know.”
He answered. His words matched hers. The same ignorance. The same confusion.
“I came to Jeju because of you. Because you brought me. But I’m not the person you need me to be. I’m not your friend. And I’m not your salvation.”
She said it. It came out almost as a cry.
“I know.”
“Then what are you doing? Why are you doing this?”
Her voice rose. The waves swallowed it, but Ri-woo heard.
He turned to face her slowly. His eyes were deep. Like the ocean. Like something infinite lived in them.
“I like you.”
The words were simple. The simplest and heaviest words.
Sae-ah stopped breathing.
“This isn’t atonement. It’s just—I like you.”
He continued.
“But you can’t believe that right now. I know. So it’s okay. If you need time, I’ll wait.”
His hand trembled more. But now it was a different kind of tremor. The tremor of fear.
“I—”
She started. But couldn’t finish.
“Yeah. I know. Don’t say anything. Not now.”
Ri-woo said.
They returned to silence. But this silence was different. The earlier silence had been empty. This one was full. Of unspoken things. Of felt things. Of things not yet defined.
The sun was rising. Still invisible, but the sky was changing color. Black becoming blue. Dawn was ending.
“What will you tell Do-hyun?”
Sae-ah suddenly asked.
“What?”
“Why you brought me.”
“I’ll tell him the truth.”
Ri-woo answered.
“What’s the truth?”
“You’re someone I care about, and I want to protect you. That’s all.”
Sae-ah believed him. And simultaneously didn’t. Because that’s how everything is. Every truth is also a lie. Every lie is also truth.
“I want my songs back.”
Sae-ah suddenly said.
Ri-woo seemed surprised.
“How?”
“I don’t know. But I want my name back. I want to sing as Sae-ah. Not as Park So-jin’s songs.”
Her voice was quiet. But it was solid.
Ri-woo thought for a long time. Waves came and went several times. The sky continued brightening.
“Okay. I’ll help you.”
The words were simple. But they were a promise. Promises are dangerous.
Sae-ah still held his hand. Now it trembled less. Or perhaps she’d simply learned to bear the trembling better.
Dawn was ending. Jeju’s dawn was ending. But a different dawn was beginning.
When Sae-ah was small, her mother would cry out whenever she surfaced from the water: “Sumbisori.” The cry of being alive. The cry of return. This moment, Sae-ah understood that cry. It wasn’t just a sound. It was a decision. A choice to keep living. A vow to keep rising.
“Thank you.”
Sae-ah said.
“For what?”
“For telling me everything.”
Ri-woo looked at her. And the faintest smile touched his lips. A sad smile. But a smile nonetheless.
“I’ll wait until you’re ready to tell me.”
He said.
And they returned to silence. But this silence was healing. Not complete, but full of possibility.
The sun was rising. Morning was coming to Jeju.