The street was quiet at that hour — that particular quiet of working-class neighbourhoods in the late evening, when the last shops pull down their shutters and the pavements take back their breath.
Tae-Hee was walking slowly. Not by choice; his legs had simply decided, unilaterally, that they would not go any faster.
He passed Max's grocery without any real intention of stopping, but Max spotted him through the window and waved with the patient insistence of someone who knows you'll eventually give in. Tae-Hee pushed open the door.
Max was already behind the counter, holding out a plastic bag without preamble.
— It's been a while, he said simply.
Tae-Hee looked inside the bag. Tins, fruit, a few packets. Enough to eat for several days.
— Mr. Max, I can't-
— You can and you will.
Max cut him off with a wave of his hand.
— I doubt there's anything in your fridge, Tei. And don't thank me with that face, you'll break my heart.
Tae-Hee bowed anyway, a reflex stronger than he was.
— I'll drop this off and come back to keep you company, he said.
— No, no. Not tonight.
Max came around the counter and steered him gently toward the door with the affectionate firmness of a man who has raised children and knows how to recognise exhaustion.
— Go and rest. My nonsense will keep for next time.
Tae-Hee gave a small wave from the pavement. Max replied with a nod and disappeared behind his shelves.
The flat smelled stale.
Tae-Hee set Max's bag on the kitchen counter, looked at the bed, and decided that everything else could wait. The shower. The cleaning. Eating. All of it.
He undressed, lay down, and closed his eyes.
The last coherent thought to cross his mind before he went under was of Dave — of tomorrow, of that wide and slightly foolish smile he would have when he saw him walk in — and something in his chest loosened, just slightly.
He fell asleep almost at once.
Haneul wi-ui dal eomma,
(Maman Lune in the sky,)
There was yellow light everywhere.
Tae-Hee — small, too small, with knees sticking out of his shorts — was sitting on the kitchen floor, rolling a red plastic truck against the leg of the table. The table was tall. Everything was tall. His mother moved back and forth behind him, and he could hear the sound of her footsteps, a precise and familiar sound, the only sound in the world that meant everything is fine.
He could no longer remember her face. He never could.
But he knew she was beautiful. He knew it the way you know important things without being able to explain it, without needing to.
Banjjak banjjak kkulbit gata.
(Shining, shining like honey.)
The door opened.
His father was home from work, and Tae-Hee dropped the truck and ran — that way children run, the whole body pitching forward, no calculation, no restraint. His father's arms caught him and lifted him into the air, and the whole world spun beneath his laughter, beneath his mother's laughter somewhere behind them.
They were happy.
It was as simple as that.
Bami aju eoduuwodo,
(Even when the night is very dark,)
Then there was a night — one night among others that had decided not to resemble the others.
Tae-Hee had gotten up to drink some water. The hallway was dark, and at the end of the hallway there was light beneath the living room door, and behind that door there were voices — his parents' voices — but changed, hardened, unrecognisable.
He had crept closer without making a sound.
He didn't understand the words. He understood the tone.
His mother noticed him first. Her expression shifted instantly — as though she had drawn a curtain over something — and she came and took him in her arms and led him back to his room without a word of explanation, singing softly against his ear.
Byeoreul balkhyeo gireul bichwo.
(She lights the stars and illuminates the path.)
The fear dissolved before he had even finished feeling it.
That was his mother's power. She transformed things.
Achim doemyeon hae appaga,
(When morning comes, Papa Sun,)
The next day, everything was back to normal. His father smiled at him. His mother hummed to herself as she made breakfast. The sun came through the kitchen window exactly as before.
It was nothing, something in his child's mind told him. Grown-ups argue sometimes. And then it gets better.
His mother had told him everything would be fine.
His mother always told the truth.
Ttaseuhage soneul gamssa.
(Warms my hands gently.)
But the dream did not stop there.
It never stopped there.
Dal eommaga jami deulmyeon,
(When Maman Lune falls asleep,)
Another day. School had just let out.
Tae-Hee pushed open the building door and heard the voices before he had even reached the landing — louder this time, less concealed. He stopped on the stairs. His schoolbag was heavy on his back.
His mother opened the door before he knocked. She saw him. Something moved very quickly across her face.
She slipped some won into his hand, told him to go buy sweets, smiled at him — that smile he knew by heart, the smile that meant don't worry, I've got this.
He moved to set down his schoolbag.
She insisted he keep it on.
Hae appaga gyeoteul jikyeo.
(Papa Sun watches over me.)
At the corner shop, the woman behind the counter asked him to help move some crates. He helped. He chose his sweets. He counted his change.
And then he looked up.
There was smoke at the end of the street.
Jal jaryeom, naui bomura,
(Sleep, sleep, my little treasure,)
In the dream he was running — he was always running in this part — his legs too short on the pavement that stretched too long, the bag of sweets falling somewhere without him noticing. The smoke grew. The air changed.
He recognised the facade of the building.
He searched for their faces in the crowd. He searched everywhere, between coats and backs and people staring upward, people weeping for no apparent reason.
They were not there.
A hand grabbed him by the shoulder — large, unknown — and held him back. He struggled. He cried out.
Bicheun ajik yeogi itdanda.
(The light is still here.)
— Maman-
Jeo neolbeun haneure sumeodo,
(Even hidden in the vast sky,)
There was only the sound of the flames to answer him.
★★★
Naneun ne jameul jikyeo jundanda.
(I watch over your sleep.)
★★★
Tae-Hee surfaced from sleep the way you come up from water that is too deep, slowly, reluctantly, short of breath, the sheets stuck to his skin. He lay still for a moment, eyes open on the dark ceiling, waiting for the boundary between the dream and the room to become clear again.
It did. It always took a little time.
He had sworn not to think about it anymore. His unconscious, evidently, had not countersigned that agreement.
He did not fall back asleep.
He lay there in the dark, his eyes dry — the tears had come and gone during the dream, there were none left — listening to the silence of the flat and the distant sounds of the street. At some point he thought of Max's bag on the kitchen counter. He hadn't eaten. He wasn't hungry anymore, either.
He vaguely hoped no enterprising insect had made any decisions in the meantime.
Dawn arrived without him having really waited for it.
★★★
The unknown blonde saw him coming from the reception corridor.
She had the file in hand — she was going to hand it over regardless, it was already planned — but she paused for a moment before calling out to him.
Chief had told him to rest. He had clearly slept, in the strict and minimal sense of the word. But what she read on his face now was not only tiredness. It was something else — something older, more interior — that had nothing to do with hospital schedules.
He had been crying. The traces were discreet, but she knew how to recognise them.
Chief chose not to mention it.
— Tae-Hee.
He looked up.
— You've been transferred again.
She handed him the file. He took it, looked at it without really reading it, nodded with the reflex of someone registering without processing.
She went on talking — the practical details, the floor, the hours — but something in his eyes told her he was half elsewhere. She didn't press the details. She got to the point.
— Tae-Hee.
He startled slightly.
— You are now part of Dr. Ashton's surgical department. He organised a staff briefing a few minutes ago. You should probably get there.
The information travelled slowly. She watched it cross his face in stages — reception, processing, comprehension — before his eyes came back to settle on her with an expression that looked like pure disbelief.
— What?