❦ 𝐛𝐢𝐝𝐨❦
The train moved relentlessly through a world of white, where sea and sky blurred into one infinite expanse, "impossible to tell apart." The railway stretched straight ahead, carrying the train like a narrow lifeline across an endless void. I felt disoriented, "like I'd fallen into another world", a place outside time and hope.
She held the bag of her sister's ashes close, memories crashing over her in relentless waves:
Bidan's Voice: "Next year let's live together in a pretty house. Until then, let's both keep going."
Bidan's Dream: "I want to publish a book someday." She had encouraged I: "If I keep writing, maybe I'll manage to release at least one."
Bidan's Encouragement: "You're living alone, working, studying… you're doing fine."
Bidan's Promise: "This time I'll definitely get into college! I'm cheering for you too, so let's definitely meet again in Sohanpo."
The bitter reality hit her like icy water: "Seoul was not our heaven. We couldn't stay there." Their journey had been a return, a retrieval, not a path forward. I felt the weight of being "sent back like returned packages", crushed by the finality of it all.
"Suddenly, I realized my sister's warmth was gone." The grief she had held at bay since the funeral—numbness, hollow conversations, restrained sobs—surged forward, uncontainable, crashing over her like relentless waves.
Her eyes sought the photograph of Bidan once more. The gentle, smiling image seemed almost cruel in its serenity. The platitudes of life, "Life is long", echoed in her mind, hollow and meaningless. "Don't say things like that," she murmured through clenched teeth, anger and sorrow fused in her voice.
Siiis… she whispered again. A single tear finally escaped, tracing a slow, deliberate path down her cheek. "Finally, the tears came."
The train's silence was broken only by the rhythmic shhh of its wheels and a distant woooong. Outside, the white landscape blurred past, carrying her imagination "all the way back to the sea." The sound of waves—철썩 (cheol-sseok)—met her ears, a reflection of the tumultuous storm now raging within her. Her face crumpled, raw and unguarded, consumed by grief.
The train ride ended at last, the white blur replaced by the tangible, salty expanse of the sea. I walked to the shore, dressed in her plaid shirt, the bag of ashes heavy in her lap. Shells were scattered by the incoming tide, 철썩, 쏴아아 (cheol-sseok, sswa-ah-ah), the sounds echoing the grief that enveloped her.
"Sis, what am I supposed to do now…?" she whispered to the wind, to the silent bag beside her.
"Where do you want to stay…?" she asked, the words fragile, reaching toward the absence left by Bidan. Her hand clenched tightly around a crumpled tissue—or perhaps a note—a futile attempt to control her emotions, to anchor herself in a world that no longer made sense.
Suddenly, a memory surfaced, sharp and dissonant: Mr. Shin's business card. The word "OR…" flickered in her mind. She realized she was not entirely alone, yet the thought brought more complexity than comfort. Shin Sa-Jun, Professor, Ph.D. in Korean Literature at S University. The adult who had caused so much pain, yet now offered some fragile form of aid. The contradiction twisted in her chest, uncomfortable and unavoidable.
Later, I awoke somewhere near their temporary home, the salty sea breeze seeping into the house, stinging her face as it roused her from a restless sleep. She was back where they had once found a fleeting haven, a place that had once felt like home—a fragile, temporary heaven.
Her body was still heavy with the grief of the past days, her mind wrestling the paradox of loss and the faint, uneasy tether represented by Mr. Shin's presence in her life. She remained in silence, staring at the window, listening to the soft whisper of the sea, uncertain what to do next, yet already aware that her journey through grief was only beginning.
I stared at the phone in her trembling hand, her thumb hovering over the call button. The apartment was quiet, the only sound the muted hum of the heater and the occasional distant crash of waves against the harbor. She knew what she was about to do would not be easy. Her throat felt tight, as if the words themselves were choking her, but the resolve inside her—cold, precise—was stronger than her grief.
Finally, she pressed the number. The tone of the line was sharp, slicing through the stillness.
"Hello?" came the calm, measured voice of Shin Sa-Jun, carrying that same quiet authority he always seemed to have.
I drew a deep, shaky breath. "It's… me," she said, her voice low, clipped, trying to mask the tremor. "I'm calling about… Bidan."
There was a pause. Not of confusion, but of calculation. "I see," he said evenly. "I wanted to reach out. Are you… coping?"
I's fingers tightened around the phone. Coping? The word burned her ears like acid. "Coping?" she repeated, voice rising slightly. "Do you think I'm coping? She's gone… and it's because of you. Because you couldn't stop at a red light. Because you… ran her down."
She could hear him inhale softly, perhaps a moment of guilt—or practiced composure. "I… I know how difficult this is," he said cautiously. "I've tried to ensure that everything—funeral, arrangements, compensation—was handled. I wanted to take responsibility…"
"Responsibility?" she spat, her anger cracking the calm she tried to maintain. "You mean, you handled it like a task. A box to check. You decide where she's buried, what flowers she gets, what hotel we stay at… and that somehow makes it right?"
The line was silent for a heartbeat longer than comfortable. Then his voice returned, steadier, quieter, almost conciliatory. "I understand your anger. I know nothing I can say will bring her back. But I am here to make sure that… that you are supported, as much as I can provide."
I's chest heaved. Her vision blurred, but she forced the words out. "Support? You think giving me a bag of food, a hotel room, and a check can make this better? You took her from me, and now you want to act like the only adult who can fix it?"
A faint sigh came from the other end. "I never wanted this to happen. I never imagined…"
"You didn't imagine?" she interrupted sharply. "You ran a red light. You imagined being late, maybe being scolded. But you didn't imagine the life you'd destroy?" Her voice trembled but sharpened into steel. "I don't want your apologies. I don't want your condolences. I want… I want you to do what's right, legally, morally… pay what she was owed, make amends in ways you should have already!"
She could hear him swallow. Then, in a tone stripped of pretense, he said, "I understand. I will… ensure everything is provided exactly as it should be."
I closed her eyes, feeling the weight of the words, the bitter mixture of necessity and hatred settling like stones in her stomach. She had made the call—not for comfort, not for closure, but as a tactical step in surviving the chaos left behind by the man responsible for her sister's death.
When she finally hung up, the apartment was silent again. But the silence now carried a different weight—not of grief alone, but of resolve. She was no longer paralyzed. The ashes of Bidan's dreams still lay around her, but I had taken the first step toward making sure they burned for a reason: toward justice, toward accountability, and toward the grim survival of herself in a world that had offered no softness.
This passage captures I's mixture of rage, grief, and tactical resolve, highlighting the psychological tension of speaking to the person responsible for her sister's death. It ends with a sense of emotional closure for the moment, without moving forward into the next plot events.
The grip on my arm was firm, unyielding, and terrifying in its suddenness. For a heartbeat, I couldn't tell whether I was being pulled to safety or dragged deeper into the sea. My legs flailed instinctively, cold water biting at my skin, but his hold did not loosen.
When my blurred eyes finally focused, I saw him—Lee Bido—standing waist-deep in the angry waves, drenched from head to toe. His usually calm, controlled expression was gone, replaced with something I had never seen before: raw, unfiltered panic. His dark eyes, wide and wild behind his glasses, locked onto mine as if he were trying to pull me not just from the water, but from the despair that had consumed me.
"LEE BIDO!" I screamed, my voice cracking, choked by the salt and tears streaming down my face. Disbelief, shame, and a sudden, fierce gratitude collided inside me. How could he—why him—be the one here, in the middle of the sea, fighting to keep me alive?
Water sloshed around us, icy and relentless, but he anchored us both. Every movement was precise, deliberate, as if he had trained for this moment without knowing it. He didn't shout, didn't scold. He only held me tighter, his hands strong and unrelenting, and his eyes never left mine.
The current tugged at us, trying to reclaim me, but he met every pull with equal force. I could feel the tremor in his arms, the way his teeth were clenched against the cold, but he didn't waver. He became a lifeline in the chaos, the only certainty in a world that had just tried to swallow me whole.
His voice finally broke the roar of the waves, rough and urgent, but steady in its command:
"LET'S GET OUT OF HERE."
And in that instant, something inside me shifted. The fear, the despair, the shame—they all twisted together and loosened their grip. For the first time in what felt like forever, I let go of the water's pull. I let myself trust him, let my body be guided by his strength rather than my own collapsing will.
I clung to him, desperate but fragile, as if the act of holding on might stitch together the pieces of myself I had thought lost. Around us, the sea roared, indifferent and cold, but in the circle of his arms, I felt something impossible to define—a fleeting, fragile tether to life.
The waves crashed, spraying salt and darkness over us, but I didn't struggle. I didn't fight. I only held on, letting his strength and sheer, stubborn determination pull me back from the edge of everything I had almost left behind.
For a few eternal seconds, the world narrowed to just us: the sea, the storm, and the unspoken, undeniable truth that I was not alone.
𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐔𝐄𝐃 ..