❦ 𝐛𝐢𝐝𝐨❦
The pen scratched softly against the coarse paper, each stroke a trembling echo in the silent, sterile room. Outside, the bruised-purple sky leaned heavy on the horizon, mirroring the ache in her chest that refused to ease. She had wrestled with this decision for days, weeks, maybe even months—agonizing over each thought, each feeling—but now, holding the pen, the certainty was cold, absolute.
"It feels like my mind is falling apart."
The thought was a raw whisper, unsaid but screaming across the dark canvas of her memory.
She wrote again, black ink pooling like shadows across the page. "THE MORE I LOVE HIM, THE MORE MR. SHIN DRIVES ME INSANE." Love, once a sanctuary, had become poison—a slow, insidious madness that consumed her piece by piece.
The pen dipped once more, tracing the question that had become her final, desperate plea: If I leave, will he finally shed tears?
"WILL HE BE ABLE TO LAUGH WHEN I DIE FOR HIM?"
It was a contradiction, a twisted desire for acknowledgment, for some sign that her suffering had mattered, even if it came through pain.
She saw herself in the reflection of the window—a small, hunched figure at the desk, trapped in a cage of her own making.
"I SAY GOODBYE."
The words were simple but heavy, weighted with everything she had endured. Not just a farewell to him, but to her miserable life.
Her mind raced: His gaze toward me, my feelings for him… our love… no, my one-sided love…
She had tried. Truly tried. The crumpled drafts scattered around her desk were mute witnesses. "HE DID HIS BEST TO LOVE ME." That tiny truth had been her anchor, fragile but steadfast. "AND I AM TRYING TO DO MY BEST IN MY OWN WAY."
Her way was a terrible, misunderstood love, a final act of devotion. To step aside, to remove the burden she had become.
"BEFORE IT FALLS INTO AN EVEN DEEPER SIN."
The thought of all she would leave behind—the warmth of his embrace, the softness of his voice, the fleeting tenderness of a hand held—stung like fire. Each memory a knife, each sensation a reminder of the life she could never claim.
Pressing the paper to her eye, she saw herself clearly: wide, desperate eyes framed by tangled hair and dark circles. "THAT WAS ALL I EVER WANTED."
Just his love. Just his acceptance.
"WHY IS EVEN THAT NOT ALLOWED FOR ME?"
Her life had been one of endurance, sacrifice, invisibility—a brief existence that had grown accustomed to being thrown away.
A single tear traced a path through the shadows beneath her eyes, magnified by her glasses.
"MY LIFE WAS HOPELESS ANYWAY."
The letter was the last piece of herself she would ever give. Her final words carved into the paper, raw and honest:
Goodbye, goodbye, Sajun.
I'm sorry, Insyead.
Goodbye.
In that act, the room felt simultaneously empty and suffocating, a tomb for all the love she had carried, all the pain she could no longer bear.
The funeral hall was a hushed, chilling space, its stillness broken only by the faint shuffle of the few mourners present. The sign in Korean—Jang-Rye-Shik-Jang—marked the place as a threshold between the living and the departed. The wheelchair by the entrance sat unused, a silent witness to absence.
Seated before the altar, the narrator—clad in black—kneeling, stared at the framed photograph of their sister. Her gentle smile, her glasses catching the soft glow of the ceremonial lights, seemed almost serene, almost untouchable.
"ALL I COULD DO WAS FACE MY SISTER'S DEATH, AS IF I WERE ACCEPTING A FALLEN STAR."
In their hand, the pale envelope trembled. The word "Departing" etched faintly on its surface, a fragile vessel of grief and finality. Inside, the sister's words were an echo of her last thoughts, scrawled in black ink:
"Goodbye, goodbye, Sajun. I'm sorry, Insyead. Goodbye."
The narrator's heart ached at the weight of the note. Emotions tangled—grief, confusion, anger, helplessness—but above all, an unbearable understanding. She had suffered quietly, profoundly, before slipping away.
Memories flickered unbidden—moments of intimacy, of fleeting laughter, of shared glances—yet all shadowed by the suffering that led to this end. The sister who had been vibrant, who had loved deeply, now existed only in fragments: a smile, a whisper, a word that lingered like smoke.
The envelope pressed against the narrator's chest, and the silence of the hall seemed heavier still. The final truth was undeniable: she was gone. And the living were left to wrestle with the void she had left behind.
The funeral parlor, marked "Jang-Rye-Shik-Jang 1F," seemed to breathe silence, as though it itself mourned the absence of life. Only the soft shuffle of her own movements punctuated the oppressive stillness. "THE FUNERAL HAD ALMOST NO VISITORS," the narrator thought, kneeling before the white-flowered memorial. Her eyes remained locked on the framed photograph of her sister—smiling gently, serene, almost impossibly peaceful. "ALL I COULD DO WAS FACE MY SISTER'S DEATH, AS IF I WERE ACCEPTING A FALLEN STAR."
Clutched tightly in her hands was the pale envelope, stark against her black attire. "Departing." The word alone was a hammer to the chest. Her sister's final, frantic handwriting echoed like a cruel mantra:
"Goodbye, goodbye, Sajun. I'm sorry, Insyead. Goodbye."
Memories crashed through her mind, unbidden and sharp. The tender intimacy of her sister's gaze toward Professor Shin Sajun—the man named in the letter—flashed vividly. His dark eyes had looked down at her sister with a passion that was both warmth and torment, a duality that no one at this wake would ever fully grasp.
She was trapped between grief and confusion, grappling "WITH EMOTIONS I COULD NOT UNDERSTAND...". "MY SISTER SUFFERED AND THEN LEFT," she whispered internally, the words a jagged shard cutting through her chest.
A tall, somber figure appeared near the entrance, his black suit immaculate, posture stiff but contained. Professor Shin Sajun. The man of her sister's obsession, of her own conflicted entanglement. He glanced briefly around the room, unaware of the full gravity of the envelope in the narrator's hands, then turned slightly, as if unsure where to stand.
Another woman, tearful and clutching a handkerchief, approached cautiously, offering soft condolences. "She was such a kind and diligent girl… to leave like this." Her voice trembled with concern as she revealed pieces of the sister's hidden struggle: "I heard from Bidan before… that she had no parents…" and, worry lacing her tone, "I worried about how a student could handle this alone…"
The narrator listened, expression unreadable, as the woman gestured toward the Professor. "But thankfully, Professor Shin seems to be looking after you."
Praise followed in whispers and polite nods. "Oh, Professor Shin came too." "He has a very good reputation." "May look cold at first, but he's a delicate and kind person once you know him." Even small kindnesses—how he treated library staff or students—were repeated with admiration.
Yet the narrator remained unmoved. Her gaze, sharp and piercing against her pale skin, fixed on him—the man praised, the man loved, the man named in her sister's final, devastating words. In her mind, the image of him was no longer the genteel professor described by strangers; he was entangled with the secrets of her sister's demise. "We kissed," she thought bitterly, the memory curling in her chest like a dark flame.
Her lips curved into a cold, contemptuous half-smile. "THEY WEREN'T EVEN ANYTHING SPECIAL, SO WHY…" Her bitterness was fed by the oblivious adult chatter: "The adults will take care of the rest. So stay strong." The simplicity of their advice felt like an insult. "Acting like they know everything just because they're older. They know nothing. Nothing of what really happened. MY SISTER IS THE ONE WHO DIED."
Her eyes tracked Professor Shin's movements, a dark silhouette of propriety in the otherwise serene hall. Beneath the polite ceremony, beneath the muted floral arrangements, she felt the weight of unspoken truths pressing down. The final word in her sister's note—Insyead—hung in the air, a key to a relationship left unexplained, a tragedy encoded in silence.
The narrator knew, in that moment, that the real reckoning had not yet begun. The sorrow, the guilt, and the secret she carried would cast a longer shadow than any funeral ever could. Professor Shin stood there, kind and oblivious in appearance, yet intertwined in a narrative that only she fully understood. And in that tension, the silence of the wake was not peace—it was the quiet before the storm.
The air hung heavy, thick with sorrow, over the funeral parlor. Four black wreaths loomed against the far wall, stark and unyielding, a somber testament to what had been lost.
"So, I, it's very hard now, but…" The older woman stepped closer, her short brown hair falling in soft waves over a face lined with sorrow and forced composure. Tears glimmered in her eyes as she reached for I's hands. Her voice trembled, trying to carry cheerfulness that did not belong: "The adults will take care of the rest. So stay strong."
I's gaze remained steady, dark and unreadable, meeting the older woman with a silence that felt like a deep, bottomless well. The woman's forced smile faltered. "Time will heal things eventually," she said softly, but the words fell flat, hollow echoes in I's chest.
"Acting like they know everything just because they're older." The thought struck sharp and bitter, a quiet dagger contrasting the ache in her chest. Her eyes flicked to the framed photograph of her sister, a gentle smile frozen beneath glasses, surrounded by delicate white flowers.
I turned her gaze away from the platitudes, from the condolences, from the ignorant well-meaning of adults. "They knew nothing about us." Her eyes narrowed, shadows of resentment burning beneath the heavy fringe of her bangs.
A man's voice, distant and detached, offered another empty sentiment. "A good man?" The words, stripped of context, were a cruel echo.
I's eyes returned to the photograph. "Sis," she whispered, the syllable choked with grief and a simmering, almost molten rage. Her face tightened, a stark contrast to the sister's serene smile captured in the frame.
Moments later, she found herself outside, pressed against the cold wall of the funeral grounds. Arms wrapped around her knees, hair falling into her face, she trembled, trying to contain the storm raging inside.
The older woman's voice, gentler now, pierced through the veil of her grief. "Aren't you hungry?"
I looked up, eyes wide, expression a mask of hardened despair. The earlier words, intended as comfort, circled relentlessly in her mind. "Do you still think that way?"
What way? I thought, the tears finally stinging. That time heals everything? That the adults truly know anything at all? She felt utterly, devastatingly alone. The adults had their routines, their platitudes—but they didn't know the truth. They didn't know the cost.
The next day brought the inevitable. Her sister, Lee Bidan, was placed in the coffin, Mr. Shin accompanying the solemn procession, and sent into the blazing flames. The sign—"CREMATION IN PROGRESS"—burned itself into I's memory, a high-pitched, wailing sound lingering in her ears as if the world itself were mourning.
When the cremation ended, the physical remnants of her sister had vanished entirely. I stood before the container, face a mask of emptiness, the finality of loss pressing down like lead.
Later, she returned outside, alone, huddled in black. Her grief was a tangible weight, heavy and unyielding.
A figure approached. Mr. Shin, in his tailored suit, moved with quiet purpose.
"…Don't you work? Why do you keep coming here?" His voice was low, pointed, yet cautious.
I looked up, eyes wide, sleepless and raw. "Are you sleeping well?" she asked, a thin veneer of civility masking her inner turmoil.
He lowered himself cross-legged beside her, creating a small space of shared existence amidst the cold reality of the day.
"I know I'm making things uncomfortable for you. But…" He adjusted his glasses, expression serious, eyes avoiding hers for a moment before meeting them again. "Losing someone you love is something no one can endure alone," he said quietly, gently, a recognition of the pain she bore.
I pulled her hair forward instinctively, a shield and a tether. "…What does that have to do with you? I'll handle it myself," she insisted, voice tight with pride and sorrow. "I'm an adult too…"
Mr. Shin sighed, a soft acknowledgment of her stubbornness. "But just because you get older doesn't mean everything becomes easier or familiar," he replied, calm, his words carrying the weight of understanding without intrusion.
He remained there, simply present, silent enough to let her exist within her grief. No force, no platitudes, only the quiet acknowledgment of shared loss, a fragile tether against the storm of her despair.
Here's an expanded, self-contained elaboration of your passage, deepening I's internal state, her grief, and the symbolism of the train journey, without continuing the story forward:
The internal accusation toward Mr. Shin twisted in I's chest, unspoken, forbidden. She could not voice the sharp edge of blame, yet it throbbed beneath her ribs, a constant, gnawing weight. "Overwhelmed… everything was hazy," she admitted to herself, the shock of grief wrapping her senses in a fog that refused to lift. Despite his attempts at comfort, she realized, bitterly, "I still wasn't used to my sister's death."
The cruel irony of her situation was unbearable: "And the only adult who could help me, ironically, was the very cause of all this." Her hands tightened around the container holding Bidan's ashes as they left the hotel the next morning, their solemn procession carrying them to Seoul Station. "I didn't want to leave my sister alone in Seoul, so we decided to return home together," she thought, the words a fragile lifeline to the only companion she had left.
Standing on the platform, waiting for the train, old memories surfaced unbidden. Trains had once been a source of wonder, of possibility, of freedom. "They always made me excited… like they could take us anywhere." She recalled the days she and Bidan had wandered the world like abandoned puppies, restless and searching, until they had stumbled upon a place that felt like a heaven where they could stay.
But that heaven was gone. Seoul was not it. The city had offered no sanctuary, only the bitter reminder that life could be stolen even from those closest to you. Around her, other passengers moved with purpose and joy: a laughing couple with children, a man engrossed in a newspaper. Their happiness was a cruel contrast to the desolate weight in her chest.
On the train, I settled into her seat, holding the bag of ashes close as if the container itself could absorb some of the unbearable emptiness. A soft, muffled sound reached her ears—"까르르", a chuckle, distant and unconnected to her sorrow. Her long hair fell around her shoulders, shielding her from the world.
The train began to move, the scenery outside dissolving into pure white. Snow, fog, or emptiness—she could not tell. "Everything beyond the window was pure white," a mirror to the numbness inside her. The line of the railway stretched straight and unyielding, bisecting the whiteness, as if guiding her through a landscape of grief she could not escape.
Memories of Bidan surfaced in sharp, painful fragments. Her sister's cheerful promises echoed in her mind: "Next year, let's live together in a pretty house. Until then, let's both keep going." And encouragement: "Okay. This time I'll definitely get into college! I'm cheering for you too, so let's definitely meet again in Sohanpo."
The full, raw weight of the loss crashed into I at once. The warmth, the laughter, the gentle persistence of her sister—gone. Her grief, long suppressed, finally broke through, waves of it battering her from all sides. "I realized my sister's warmth was gone."
Her lips moved in a whisper, more to herself than to anyone else: "Don't say things like that." The words were aimed at the ghosts of the past, at the empty promises of the living, at the relentless ache of her present. She pressed the bag of ashes closer, a fragile anchor in a world rendered cold, white, and unfeeling.
In that moment, the train was no longer a vehicle of freedom, nor a symbol of adventure. It was a vessel carrying her through the pure, unyielding landscape of grief—a journey with no destination, only the echo of a sister's absence and the unbearable weight of survival.
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.
𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐔𝐄𝐃 ....