chapter 16

The next day.

Someone gently moved Bo Mi’s sleeping body.

Her eyes blinked open, still drowsy—until she saw her mother’s face.

Shivering. Pale. Eyes wide with panic.

Something was wrong.

“Bo Mi… Grandma—”

Bo Mi shot up.

“What happened to her?”

Her mother hesitated. Breath trembling.

“She—”

“What??” Her voice cracked.

Bo Mi rushed out of her room, her heart racing, each step heavier than the last.

She reached her grandmother’s room.

There she was—lying peacefully.

Too peacefully.

Bo Mi stepped closer.

“Grandma,” she called softly, almost a whisper. A desperate prayer for it not to be true.

But her grandmother didn’t move.

Her lips… pale. Her chest… still.

Bo Mi stood frozen.

Her mother came in behind her and pulled her into a hug.

Tight.

Too tight.

Bo Mi didn’t hug back. She couldn’t move.

“What happened…” she whispered.

Her mother’s voice was small.

“She’s… no more.”

The room fell into silence.

Not a word. Not a breath.

Just the sound of grief settling in.

The funeral was quiet, the scent of incense heavy in the air. White flowers framed the portrait of Bo Mi’s grandmother—smiling gently in the photograph, just as she always had.

Relatives. Neighbors. Family friends.One by one, they came.

They bowed, gave their condolences, murmured their regrets.Then turned to Bo Mi.

"Are you alright?"

She smiled. Softly. Almost like a habit now.

“Yeah.”

She bowed her head slightly, accepting their words. Her voice calm, her posture composed.Graceful in grief.

She greeted everyone with the same kind smile. The kind her grandmother always wore.

Someone whispered behind her.

“Wasn’t she the closest to her?”

“She raised her alone, right?”

“I thought she'd be a mess…”

But Bo Mi didn’t react.

Instead, she quietly served tea to the guests, made sure the offerings were perfect, and stood beside the altar like it was her duty.

And in a way—it was.

Later, more people came.

An old classmate from middle school.They hugged her briefly and whispered, “I heard. I’m so sorry.”

Then came Ms. So.

She placed a comforting hand on Bo Mi’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time,” she said quietly.

Bo Mi smiled again.

“I’m okay.”

But no one noticed her hands—hidden inside her sleeves, clenched so tightly her nails dug into her palms.

The warmth in her grandmother’s room was gone.But the smile remained—on Bo Mi’s face, like a porcelain mask.

And then came the dark.

The sky above the city was veiled in quiet mourning—dusky blue blending into night.Yet people still arrived—offering white chrysanthemums, soft words, awkward silence.And still, she smiled.

Even when her lips trembled.Even when her eyes stung.

She whispered to herself beneath her breath, a mantra she didn’t believe in anymore:“It is fine.”

She stepped out of the funeral hall, the air crisp and damp with dew, her heels crunching softly on the gravel path.The thin black dress she wore clung to her arms—bare, cold—and the scent of incense still lingered in her hair.

She walked alone into the silence, needing air, space—When she saw him.

A silhouette beneath the dim lanterns.Walking toward her.

Slow. Steady.

Sugang.

The one person she had hoped to see—But never dared to expect.

He wasn’t in uniform.He wasn’t pretending to be tough.Just simple black clothes, sleeves rolled, a quiet look in his eyes.Soft and broken for her.

"I didn’t know you would come," she whispered, her voice barely holding together.

Before she could say anything more—His arms wrapped around her.

Warm. Firm. Desperate.

Not just a hug.

It was an anchor.A shelter.A silent promise that she didn’t have to carry this alone.

And then—

“You don’t have to be this strong this time,” he whispered against her hair, his voice raw.

That was all it took.

The dam shattered.

Her fingers curled into the back of his shirt.

And then it came.

The sobs.Ugly, gasping, gut-wrenching sobs she had kept caged all day.

“Ahhh—”She cried out,clutching him like he was the only solid thing in the world.

People inside were still murmuring prayers, sipping warm tea—but outside, beneath the quiet moonlight,Bo Mi was finally grieving.

And Sugang held her like he never planned to let go.

She sobbed against his chest, the world around her blurring.

Between her gasps, she whispered, voice cracking like porcelain,"I knew this day would come… but not this early."

Her words were soaked in ache—like a child lost in the dark.

"Sugang… I want to be strong. Strong enough to handle this. But I’m tired… tired of smiling, of acting like I’m fine. I—"

She broke again, hiccuping through her tears.

"I miss her already. We were just laughing yesterday… She was just here. Just here—"

She clutched tighter to his shirt, her knuckles pale.

His arms didn’t move. They only held firmer.He let her spill.

"This is unfair… First Appa… now Grandma."

A broken wail ripped out of her chest.

"Whyyyyyyyyy..."

She screamed—not loud, not angry—but helpless.The kind of scream you make when the weight inside finally rips through.

Sugang didn’t speak.He let her tear through the silence, his hand slowly stroking her hair.

He whispered only when her sobs had quieted into soft shivers.

"I know," he said gently."It’s unfair. You didn’t deserve this much pain."

She didn't look up. Her face buried in his shoulder.But her breathing calmed with every passing second in his warmth.

The night was still around them.

And in that stillness, with Sugang holding her like a shield from the world,Bo Mi didn’t have to pretend to be strong anymore.

She could just… fall apart.

And be caught.

The night stretched on.

Most of the guests had left, murmuring their last condolences with hands on her shoulder and fleeting glances. The house stood quieter now, except for the low rustle of the wind brushing the windows and the faint scent of incense still clinging to the air.

Bo Mi sat on the floor of the small living room, back against the wall, dressed in her black mourning dress. Her eyes were hollow—not from emptiness, but from exhaustion. Her tears had dried, but her soul still wept in silence.

Sugang returned from the kitchen, holding a mug of warm tea.

He crouched beside her.

“You should drink something,” he said softly.

She blinked. Looked up. And for the first time that evening, nodded without a word.

He handed it to her carefully, like he was handing her a fragile piece of herself.

She sipped it slowly. The warmth wasn’t enough to ease her pain, but it reminded her she was still alive. Still breathing.

They sat in silence after that.No words were needed.The silence between them wasn’t heavy—it was gentle, like a blanket laid over wounds too fresh to speak of.

“I keep thinking she’s going to come out of her room and scold me for not eating,” she finally said, voice quiet, almost smiling at the memory.

Sugang looked at her, his eyes soft. “She probably would.”

Bo Mi chuckled, just once, then covered her mouth.As if even that little happiness felt wrong.

“She was the last person who remembered Appa the way I did. The only one who called me by my baby name when no one else did…”

Her lips quivered.

“I feel like I’ve lost two people all over again.”

Sugang leaned his head back against the wall beside her.

“Then let me be someone who remembers them with you.”

Bo Mi turned to him, eyes red, lips parted in disbelief.

He didn’t look at her when he said it.But his voice was steady.And that steadiness felt like the only stable thing in her cracked world.

“I didn’t know what to do when I saw you tonight. You were smiling like everything was fine, and all I could think was, ‘She’s going to break if someone doesn’t hold her.’”He looked at her now.

“And I want to be that someone. Not just tonight.”

Bo Mi stared at him.

And instead of answering, she leaned her head against his shoulder.

And for a while, that was enough.

The clock ticked. The world slept.

And in the center of that quiet home, two broken hearts sat side by side.

Not healed, not whole—But not alone anymore.

The Next Day

Sunlight crept into the room timidly, as though it knew it wasn’t welcome yet. The air was heavy with the scent of incense and memories.

Bo Mi woke up on the futon laid out near the living room. Her head ached slightly, and her eyes felt swollen. The black dress she wore had loosened from sleep, creased and wrinkled, but she didn’t care.

She sat up.

The silence was different today.

It wasn’t empty. It was final.

She stood, barefoot, and made her way to the altar. The photo of her grandmother looked back at her, still smiling, unchanged. Everything else had changed.

She poured a glass of water and placed it beside the offerings. Then, she lit a fresh stick of incense with shaky hands.

“Good morning, Halmeoni,” she whispered.

A tear escaped before she could stop it, tracing down her cheek. But she didn’t break this time. She bowed gently. Twice. Then sat beside the photo, arms wrapped around her knees, chin resting on them.

A faint knock at the door stirred her.

She blinked.

Was someone here already?

She walked to the door and opened it slowly.

It was Ms. So.

Wearing a simple beige coat, holding a paper bag. Her expression softened the moment she saw Bo Mi.

“I didn’t want to come too early,” she said gently, “but I brought some rice porridge. I know it’s hard to eat, but you should.”

Bo Mi hesitated. Then nodded slowly and stepped aside.

Ms. So entered quietly, placing the bag on the small table. She looked around, the room still dim, the weight of mourning still thick in the air.

“You don’t have to say much,” Ms. So said. “I just wanted to check on you.”

“I’m… okay,” Bo Mi whispered.

Ms. So gave her a look that said You don’t have to be.

“I’ll leave this here,” she smiled warmly. “You can eat later.”

Bo Mi nodded again. “Thank you… teacher.”

Ms. So gently touched her shoulder before turning to leave.

As she closed the door behind her, Bo Mi stood still, her hands clenched at her sides.

Then she walked to the small table, sat down, and opened the porridge container.

She took a spoonful.

Warm. Soft. Comforting.

And suddenly, she remembered her grandmother feeding her porridge the last time she was sick. The way she blew on the spoon. The way she said, “Aigo, you eat like a baby.”

Tears came again—but this time, not from pain.

From missing.

And love.

And knowing… this was the beginning of learning how to live with the empty space her grandmother left behind.

Her mother stood behind the closed door, her voice finally breaking the silence.

“Bo Mi-ya… I’m trying. Trust me, I’m trying too. It’s hard for me as well… but I can’t fall apart.”

Her voice cracked at the end, trembling under the weight of words that had been buried too long.

“I miss your appa too… I miss my husband.”A pause, as if she were gathering the strength to admit the next part.“But the truth is… I regret not loving the sweet man he was. I regret not being there for him… and for you. I regret everything.”

On the other side of the door, Bo Mi stood frozen, her back pressed against the cold wood. Her breath was shallow. It was the first time she had heard her mother sound so… human. So sorrowful.

Her mother continued, voice softer now. Vulnerable.

“But you know, no amount of overthinking will ever change the past.”

Bo Mi closed her eyes.

Her mother’s footsteps shifted—slow, heavy steps moving away.

Then silence.

Bo Mi stayed there, still and quiet, letting the ache settle in her chest. For the first time, she wasn’t angry. She wasn’t yelling. She was just… listening.

Because beneath all the pain, she finally understood something:

Her mother was grieving too.

Not just for her husband…But for the years they both lost trying to hold everything together in silence.

Bo Mi stood frozen behind the door. Her mother’s voice still lingered in the air—fragile, cracked, full of the grief she had buried for years. Words like “I regret,” “I miss him,” and “I’m trying” swirled inside her like smoke in a sealed room.

And yet… she couldn’t breathe.

She wanted to open the door. Wanted to throw her arms around her mother and say, “I’m sorry too.”She wanted to cry with her for all the years they lost.She wanted to hear the chapters that were never told—the unheard pieces of her mother’s heart.

But her body wouldn’t move.The pain, too deep.The guilt, too fresh.

Her fingers curled into fists as her chest tightened.

She bit her lip hard, holding back the storm in her throat.

Her mother’s footsteps slowly faded down the hallway.

The silence that followed didn’t feel peaceful—it was screaming.

And that’s when Bo Mi moved.

Quietly, almost like a shadow, she opened her bedroom door.She walked past the hallway, past the kitchen, where faint memories still clung to the smell of her grandmother’s morning tea.She didn’t stop to look at her mother curled on the living room couch, eyes closed, hugging herself like she had no one else.

Bo Mi opened the front door.

She stepped out of the apartment—into the cold air of the early morning.

She didn’t know where she was going.But right now, she only knew one thing:

She couldn’t be in that house.Not with all the things she wished she could say, but couldn’t.Not with the love she still carried, but didn’t know how to show.

So she walked.

Into the quiet, into the ache, into the world outside—

Leaving behind the words that stayed locked inside her heart.

The sun was barely rising—hazy streaks of gold filtering through the quiet sky. The city had not fully woken yet. Everything felt slower, softer. And in that stillness, Bo Mi walked.

She didn’t know how far her feet had taken her—only that when she stopped walking, Sugang was standing there.

Like he had been waiting.

He stood quietly under the pale morning light, the edges of his silhouette glowing with dawn.

“Bo Mi…” he began, voice laced with concern, “What—”

But she cut him off gently, her voice low and trembling.

“Take me somewhere… please.”

Her eyes were glistening, and he didn’t ask anything more. Just nodded.

They walked through silent streets and quiet corners of the city still sleeping. The world hadn’t caught up yet—and maybe that’s why it felt okay to fall apart.

He led her to a small park hidden behind rows of buildings. Morning mist clung to the air. The sky was soft peach and lavender, the kind of sky that made you think anything could start again.

Bo Mi sat on a dew-dusted bench, her fingers curled in her sleeves.

Sugang sat beside her.

And slowly, she began to speak.

She told him everything.

About the funeral.Her grandmother’s stillness.The silence that followed.The guilt.The way her mother spoke behind the door.And the aching wish to forgive her, to hug her, to make up for everything… but not being able to move.

Her words came slow, but each one cut deeper than the last.

Sugang stayed quiet, his head tilted toward her—not to solve, not to judge, just to listen.

When she could no longer speak, when her voice was nothing but breath and emotion, he finally looked at her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice raw, trembling.

He didn’t say anything right away.

He finally spoke looking at the ground.

“No matter how much you cry, you'll sleep when you're tried. You will still get hungry and before you realise, life will be back to normal laughing as if nothing happened.”