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# Chapter 88: The Threshold of the Convenience Store
When Haneul’s Porsche came to a stop in front of Hapjeong Station, Seah’s fingers moved of their own accord. Three times. Click, click, click. She watched her trembling hand reflected in the dark window. It wouldn’t stop shaking—not at Jeju’s seaside, not on the airplane, not on the escalator at Gangnam Station. Some kind of signal that her nerves were still caught somewhere. A taut string that hadn’t been severed.
“What are you doing? Get out.”
Haneul laughed from the driver’s seat. She was lowering the window to light a cigarette. The night air seeped into the car—Gangnam’s night air. The smell of asphalt, exhaust fumes, and expensive perfume mingled together. Completely different from the sea salt smell of Jeju.
Seah got out of the car. The moment her feet touched the asphalt, the city roared. Motorcycle engines, traffic light sounds, the rumble of the subway in the distance. There had been none of these sounds in Jeju. In Jeju, there was only the sound of waves and wind. And her mother’s breathing. The sound of her mother sleeping beside her at night. Steady, deep, reliable.
“Let’s go. To that GS25.”
Haneul spoke with a cigarette between her lips. It looked so natural on her. While Seah had been away, this was how Haneul had lived. Smoking, driving, etching something permanent onto someone else’s skin.
“You said we’d eat on the way.”
Seah spoke quietly. Her voice was still small.
“Food later. First, let’s get you back to work. Time moves faster than you think. It’s Saturday. Better to show up when the manager’s busy, doing inventory. When people are around. It helps.”
Haneul got back into the Porsche. Seah followed. When the door closed, the world shut out again.
The road toward Hapjeong Station was packed with cars. Saturday night in Seoul. People heading to Hongdae, people crossing from Gangnam to Gangbuk, people who had somewhere urgent to be. Everyone had a destination. Except Seah.
“You haven’t contacted that bastard Kangliu, right?”
Haneul asked while waiting at a red light. A long red light. One you had to wait through.
“No.”
“You didn’t turn off your phone, did you? Just in case he calls…”
“I don’t check it.”
Seah answered. It was half a lie. She hadn’t turned her phone on. Not since she’d boarded the plane from Jeju. She’d removed the battery at the airport. Removing the battery seemed safer than just turning it off. Eliminating the possibility of the screen lighting up. Blocking the chance of a voice calling out.
“Good. You know what he’s doing now? After you left.”
Haneul spoke as she exhaled smoke out the window. Into Seoul’s night.
“What is he doing?”
“He hasn’t shown up at work. Two days. They said he has a lot on his plate at JYA, but he’s been looking miserable. Someone saw him wandering around near Gangnam Station. And…”
Haneul trailed off. The light turned green. Her fingers moved. She stepped on the accelerator.
“And?”
“And someone’s been looking for you. Really frantically. He filed a missing person’s report with the police. A friend of mine works at the precinct. It came through as: 24-year-old female, suspected psychological abuse by another party under ambiguous circumstances. Something like that.”
Seah’s body went rigid.
“Who? Kangliu?”
“Officially I don’t know. But who else would it be? Anyway, that works in your favor. Because if the police are involved, he can’t do much. If he tries to approach you legally, it gets more complicated. That’s why he’s staying still for now.”
Haneul’s explanation was precise. She knew exactly how the world operated. How law and sentiment and reality worked. It was similar to getting a tattoo. Knowing where to insert the needle, where to avoid, how much pressure to apply. Everything was precise calculation.
It was 9:30 PM when they reached Hapjeong Station. Exactly one hour. From Gangnam Station to Hapjeong Station, precisely one hour. During that time, Seah only looked out the window. Watched the city lights flow past. And watched her own hand. That hand that kept trembling.
The GS25 was still in the same place. Two hundred meters to the left after exiting Hapjeong Station’s Exit 3. The convenience store where Seah had worked for three years. The window was bright. The fluorescent lights were on. It was Saturday night, so there were many customers. College students, office workers, people with faces like they’d lost something.
Seah stopped in front of the door. Haneul pushed from behind.
“What are you doing? Go in.”
“Will the manager take me back?”
“He will. Because you were a good employee. Never late, few mistakes, quiet, easy to work with.”
Haneul said this with certainty, and Seah knew it was true. She had been a good employee. Which made it harder. When a good employee suddenly disappears, the manager often takes it personally as a betrayal.
When she pushed the door open, the smell hit first. Convenience store smell. Ramen, the vinegary smell of kimbap, and the food waste smell drifting up from downstairs. A smell Seah had breathed in night after night. It had no choice but to seep into her—into her clothes, her hair, her skin.
The manager was behind the counter. Mid-forties, male. His name was Park Inho. During her three years here, Seah had heard his name often, but had rarely spoken it herself. When the manager called her, he just said “hey” or “you.” That was their relationship.
“Oh? You?”
The manager looked up. He was surprised. His expression made that clear.
“Yes. I’m back.”
Seah spoke. Her throat hurt again. It hurt every time she spoke. Something seemed caught between her throat and head. Not Kangliu’s fingers, but something else. Guilt maybe. Regret at having left.
“You’ve been gone over a month. No contact. Found another job?”
The manager asked. His voice wasn’t cold. Rather, it was matter-of-fact. That was harder. Anger would have been easier. With anger, you could make excuses, fight back, keep distance. But matter-of-factness accepted everything. And that acceptance became a greater weight.
“No, it’s not that…”
Seah started to say, then stopped. She didn’t know how to explain. Why she’d left, why she was coming back now. To tell that story, she’d have to open up too much.
“You want to work here again? Here?”
The manager asked. It was a simple question. No complex explanation needed. Just: are you going to work here again or not. That’s all.
“Yes. I want to work again.”
Seah answered. When she said it, something seemed to loosen. Something very small. Like a single thread coming undone.
“Then start tomorrow. Night shift. 10 PM to 6 AM. I’ll raise your pay. One thousand won more. And…”
The manager paused. He seemed to be thinking about something.
“And?”
“And if anyone comes looking for you, tell them you were never here. Understand? And if anything happens, call the police right away. This is advice I’m giving you. Not work instructions. Advice.”
In the manager’s words, Seah felt a kind of shared understanding. This man also knew the world. He also knew what kinds of things young women got caught up in. And he knew how to prevent it. Silence and non-involvement. Not speaking and pretending not to know.
“Thank you.”
Seah said it. It was the first time. The first genuine words she’d spoken to this manager.
The manager nodded. Then went back to work. He was organizing something with a selfie stick. The manager was always busy. The convenience store always demanded something. People came in all night long, wanted things, and the manager had to provide.
When Seah left the convenience store with Haneul, it was 10:10 PM. From this exact moment, Seah’s new night would begin. A different night. A night without Kangliu.
“Good thing you got your job back.”
Haneul spoke while smoking. Inside the Porsche. While driving.
“Now I need to save money.”
Seah said, looking out the window.
“For what? A music studio?”
“Yes.”
“How much do you need to save?”
Seah didn’t answer. It was a number that couldn’t be calculated. With 12,000 won per hour. Eight hours a night. 288,000 won a month. 3,456,000 won a year. A music studio cost 30,000 to 50,000 won per hour. So finishing one song would take a minimum of twenty hours. Minimum 600,000 won. Two months. Six songs a year. Eighteen songs in three years.
It was too long. But there was no other way. Not with Kangliu’s money. With money she earned herself. With money her own body earned.
The car was heading toward the Han River. Haneul’s choice. A new route. The longest way from Gangnam to Hongdae. The way that crossed the Han River.
“But are you really okay? Body and mind?”
Haneul asked while smoking. Steering with one hand.
“Yes.”
Seah lied.
“That’s a lie. Look at your hand. It’s still shaking.”
Haneul pointed it out. It wasn’t kindness. It was fact. And facts were sometimes larger than kindness.
Seah looked at her own hand. Still trembling. Click, click, click. An uncontrollable vibration. A signal that her nerves were still caught somewhere. A signal that the taut string was still tense.
“It will take time.”
Seah said.
“Yeah. It takes time. But you have to go. To yourself. Not to Kangliu, not to your mom, not to me. To yourself.”
Haneul was right. Seah knew it. But knowing something and being able to do it are different things. There are many things you can’t do even if you know them. That’s how the world is. The more you know, the heavier it becomes. The deeper it gets.
A car on the Han River. 10:45 PM. Black water flowing below. Black water reflecting the city lights. A different color from Jeju’s sea. Deeper, darker, colder.
“Why do you think Kangliu filed a missing person’s report?”
Seah suddenly asked.
“He probably thought it was the only way to find you. Through the law. Officially.”
Haneul answered.
“But I’m not there. He can’t find me.”
“Right. So he’ll go insane. Because he can’t find you. Not with his power, not with the law. This is the first time he’s facing this. A situation where he can’t get what he wants.”
Haneul’s analysis was precise. Kangliu had probably always gotten what he wanted. Because he was a conglomerate heir. His life had been about wanting and getting. But he couldn’t get Seah. No matter how much he had. No matter how much he gave. Seah wasn’t there.
“So what will Kangliu do?”
Seah asked, anxious.
“I don’t know. But eventually he’ll give up. People give up when they can’t get what they want. Either they find something else, or they die. That’s life.”
Haneul’s words were cold. But they were true. People give up when they can’t get what they want. And that surrender is sometimes extreme. Like that night when Seah had to stop Kangliu.
The car crossed the Han River. It wasn’t Gangnam anymore. Hongdae side. Gangbuk. Seah’s convenience store side. Increasingly familiar streets.
“But you’re going to make music, right? Music for yourself?”
Haneul asked.
“Yes. My music. Not for someone else.”
Seah said. It was like a promise. A promise to herself.
“Good. Then I’ll find you a studio. A good one. Not expensive.”
Haneul said. It wasn’t a suggestion. It seemed already decided. Haneul seemed to already know. What Seah would do, where she needed to go.
“Thank you.”
Seah said. That word again. It seemed to be the only one she had.
When the Porsche stopped near Hapjeong Station again, it was 11:30 PM. Thirty minutes before Seah’s first night shift would start.
Seah got out of the car. As she closed the door, Haneul rolled down the window.
“Hey, I’ll come back tomorrow. With studio information. And food. What do you actually eat?”
Haneul said.
“Anything’s fine.”
Seah said.
“That’s what you always say. Anything’s fine. You need to choose too. What you want to eat. Not for someone else. For you.”
When Haneul’s words ended, the Porsche disappeared into the night streets. Only the taillights remained, glowing for a while before vanishing too.
Seah stood in front of the convenience store. When she pushed the door open, the manager saw her. He nodded. No words. That was enough.
Seah put on an apron. A blue GS25 apron. She’d put on the same apron hundreds of times. But this time felt different. Like a new outfit. Like a new life.
Midnight. The convenience store was quiet. Few customers. Seah stood behind the counter. And looked at her own hand. Still trembling. But now that trembling wasn’t just fear. It was also the trembling of a beginning. The trembling when something new starts.
Seah breathed deeply. She inhaled the convenience store smell. Ramen, the vinegary smell of kimbap, and the food waste smell drifting up from downstairs. This smell was hers. This night was hers. Not for someone else. For herself.
Her phone’s battery was still out. She had no intention of putting it back. At least not tonight. She didn’t want anything to ring. Didn’t want anything to shake. Just wanted this night to be shaken only by her own choices.
Time passed. 1 AM. 2 AM. 3 AM. Customers came and went. Students, office workers, people with faces like they’d lost something. Everyone wanted something. Ramen, triangular kimbap, coffee, cigarettes, lottery tickets. Seah handed them over. Without speaking. Though her throat hurt, without speaking.
4 AM. The quietest hour of the convenience store. Neither night nor day. Some gap in time. The time Seah loved most. The time she used to write songs. In that gap between dying night and approaching day. She used to write her own music.
Seah put the phone battery back in. 4:30 AM. And waited. For something to ring. For something to vibrate. But nothing rang. Nothing vibrated. No voice from Kangliu. No touch from Kangliu. No presence from Kangliu.
And no messages. No one was looking for Seah. Seah was alone. Truly.
In that solitude, for the first time, Seah could breathe freely. And in that breath, melody came alive. Not sung yet. Not spoken yet. But inside her body, something began to burn.
Not like a matchstick, but like a whole flame. Like fire that lit herself without consuming herself.
The night continued. And Seah was there.
# A Choice
In the alley in front of the convenience store. Late night, 11:50 PM.
The Porsche’s headlights were illuminating the street. Below the red traffic light, the car came to a slow stop. Haneul’s fingers drummed on the steering wheel. Tap, tap, tap. A rhythmic movement, but impatience lay beneath it.
“What do you actually eat?”
Haneul asked again. The third time? No, maybe the fourth. Seah couldn’t remember exactly when Haneul’s questioning had started. From when they began the drive? Or after the movie ended?
Seah was looking at the night scenery outside the car window. Seoul’s night was always the same. Neon signs flickered, and people wandered the streets without purpose. Everyone wanted something, but no one seemed to know exactly what.
“Anything’s fine.”
Seah spoke. Her voice was small. Almost a mumble. Haneul had probably heard this answer many times. Always the same answer. Always the same voice.
The Porsche moved again. Haneul’s foot pressed the accelerator. The engine roared. Expensive cars make expensive sounds. That’s what Seah thought.
“That’s what you always say.”
Haneul said, her tone shifting. It wasn’t a simple question anymore. There was an edge to it now. Like a teacher instructing a student.
“Anything’s fine. You need to choose too. What you want to eat. Not for someone else. For you.”
Haneul’s voice grew louder. In the narrow space of the car, it echoed. Seah still looked out the window. But she could see her own reflection in the glass. Pale. Expressionless.
“But… choosing means you have to know what you want, doesn’t it?”
Seah said quietly. Haneul didn’t answer. Instead, she turned the wheel. The car rotated. A hard acceleration. Seah was pushed against the seat. She could only see Haneul’s profile. A confident face. Always a face full of certainty.
“What do you want?”
Haneul asked again.
“Me?”
Seah echoed the question.
“Who else? You. Seah. What do you want?”
Seah opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. But no words came out. What did she want? That question sounded like a foreign language. Understandable, but impossible to answer.
The Porsche raced through the streets. The traffic light changed from blue to red and back to blue again. The car didn’t stop. Haneul ignored the signals. Or maybe she didn’t even see them. She was focused entirely on driving.
“I want you to be happy. Really. But you… you’re not living your own life. You just keep following someone.”
Haneul said, her tone softer now. Not angry, but genuinely concerned. That kind of voice hurt more.
Seah leaned her hand against the window. The glass was cold and smooth. As if her hand was seeking its own reflection, Seah moved her fingers following her reflection in the glass. The Seah reflected in the window and the Seah inside the car could never meet. They never could. The reflected Seah and the real Seah were always separate.
“For yourself, not for someone else… who ever says things like that…”
Seah murmured.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just…”
Seah closed her mouth. She couldn’t continue this conversation. Haneul wasn’t wrong. But she wasn’t right either. Had Seah ever chosen something for herself? She searched her memory. When she was young? No. Her mother had decided everything. During her teens? Someone else had decided then. And now? Now someone else decided.
Kangliu. His name came to mind. The person who occupied a place in Seah’s heart. No—the person who occupied it.
The car continued. City lights streamed past. Everything moved at the same speed. The cars, the buildings, the traffic lights. Like frames in a movie. Still images passing by rapidly.
“Can you drop me off here?”
Seah suddenly said.
“What? Here?”
Haneul said in surprise. The car was already on a crosswalk. The light was red.
“Here.”
Seah said again. She opened the door.
“Seah! What are you doing!”
Haneul shouted, but Seah was already getting out. The car’s wheels came to a stop. Next to the wheels was a white line of the crosswalk. Seah was standing on that line.
“What are you doing? Get back in.”
Haneul rolled down the window. Wind rushed in. Seoul’s night wind. Cold and desolate.
“I’m just… getting off here.”
“Are you insane? It’s past midnight.”
“I know.”
Seah said. And she looked at the Porsche. The red body. Expensive leather. Haneul’s face inside, looking worried.
“I’m sorry. And… thank you.”
Seah said.
“What are you sorry for? What—”
Haneul said, but Seah had already turned away.
The Porsche’s headlights illuminated Seah’s back. A long shadow appeared on the road. That shadow moved. Grew smaller. And disappeared.
The Porsche moved again. Leaving only red taillights behind. Those red lights glowed for a while on the night street, then finally vanished somewhere.
Seah stood alone on the street. On a crosswalk. The light was still red. Dozens of cars flowed past. All heading toward their own destinations.
Seah crossed the street without waiting for the light to change. No one had anything to say about it. Now no one was watching Seah. No one was judging her choices.
A convenience store came into view. GS25. Blue sign. A 24-hour convenience store. Always open. A place Seah had visited many times, but today for a different reason.
When she pushed the door open, the manager saw her. A short, middle-aged man. Always sitting in the same spot. He recognized Seah. He’d seen her several times. And he nodded.
“Coming to work?”
The manager asked.
“Yes.”
Seah answered.
“The apron’s over there.”
The manager pointed. The shelf behind the counter. Folded aprons sat there. Blue GS25 aprons.
Seah picked one up. She put it on. She tightened the strap around her neck. The strap around her waist too. As if wrapping herself. As if becoming a new person.
The blue apron. She’d worn it a hundred times. Every shift at this convenience store. But today felt different. The apron she wore today felt different. Like she was wearing it for the first time. Like she was beginning a new life.
Seah went behind the counter. She stood next to the register. Her assigned place. Always the same spot. But this place felt different too.
“Thanks for the night shift.”
The manager said.
“Yes.”
Seah answered.
It was past midnight. The convenience store was quiet. At this hour, it was almost like a library. Few customers. People who came in occasionally. Most came alone. They looked like people waiting for someone. Or people running from someone.
Seah stood behind the counter. And looked at her own hand. Still trembling. The fingertips were white with tension.
But that trembling wasn’t just fear. Seah knew that now. At first she couldn’t tell the difference, but now she could. Mixed in with that trembling was another emotion. Anticipation? No. That wasn’t it either.
Newness. That was it. The trembling when something new is about to begin. Like the morning of New Year’s Day. Or the night before your first performance.
Seah breathed deeply. The convenience store smell entered her lungs. The smell of ramen. That was what she felt first. The aroma of steaming ramen. The scents of egg, green onion, and broth all mixed together.
Next came the smell of kimbap. The tanginess of vinegar. The blandness of rice. And the scents of egg, spinach, and imitation crab inside it.
Below, the smell of food waste drifted up from downstairs. The smell of decay. The smell of already-used things. But it wasn’t entirely bad. Everything cycled. Food became people, people became food again.
These smells. They were Seah’s. This convenience store. This night. A night not for someone else. A night for herself.
Her phone sat on the table. The battery was out. Seah had removed it. To avoid any possible calls from Kangliu. Or to prevent herself from calling him.
This night had to be entirely hers. Without anyone’s expectations. Without anyone’s demands. Purely for Seah herself.
Time passed.
1 AM. A student came in. Looked like a college student. Wearing thin clothes. Carrying two books. It must have been exam season.
“One ramen, please.”
The student said.
“What kind?”
Seah asked.
“Anything… no, spicy ramen.”
The student said.
Seah took out the spicy ramen. Poured hot water. Added an egg too. That was on the house. The student took the ramen without saying thanks and sat at a table.
2 AM. An office worker came in. Loosening his tie. A face sharp with exhaustion. Something hidden in that fatigue. Anger? Despair? Or both?
“You have beer?”
The office worker asked.
“Yes. What would you like?”
“Doesn’t matter. Anything.”
The office worker answered.
Seah grabbed a triangular kimbap. Put a can of beer next to it. The office worker took them and went to a corner. His own space.
2:30 AM. An older woman came in. Several rings on her fingers. But those rings didn’t shine with confidence. As if she wanted to remove them but couldn’t.
“Warm coffee, please.”
The woman said.
“Americano?”
“Yes.”
Seah made the coffee. Poured it into a paper cup. A warm cup with a handle. The woman took it and left. Without words. Without greeting.
Customers came and went. Everyone wanted something. Their desires or necessities. Ramen, kimbap, coffee, cigarettes, lottery tickets, energy drinks, medicine.
Seah handed them over. Calmly. Silently. Though her throat hurt, silently. No one talked to Seah. Seah didn’t talk to anyone. Just handed over what was needed, calculated the total, gave change.
It was a repetition of that process. But it wasn’t bad. Repetition was stability. Repetition was predictability. And sometimes predictability was comforting.
3 AM. The convenience store got a little busier. People finishing night shifts, heading home. People who’d been wandering all night, finally finding a place to stop. People who had nowhere else to go.
Seah watched them all. And for the first time, she didn’t feel the need to disappear. For the first time, she could be present here. Not as someone’s lover, not as someone’s daughter, not as someone’s employee.
Just as Seah.
Just as herself.
The night deepened. 4 AM. The quiet hour. The hour between night and day. Seah put the phone battery back in. And waited. No messages came. No calls came. The silence was complete.
And in that silence, something was being born inside her. Not words. Not yet. But something musical. Something that moved like melody, like rhythm, like song.
She didn’t sing it. She didn’t speak it. But her body knew. Something inside was burning now. Not consuming her, but illuminating her.
A flame that burned without destroying.
A fire that lit the way.
The night continued. And Seah was there, burning brightly, not burning out.