Sunwoo let out a slow breath and leaned back in his chair. His eyes lingered on the signature that bore his father's name, written beside Ha-eun's. He stared at it longer than necessary, as if trying to burn it into memory or perhaps will it to change.
"It doesn't matter now," he said finally.
His tone was calm, but there was something underneath it. A quiet tremor. He didn't meet her eyes.
Ha-eun lowered her head, the guilt plain on her face. She didn't speak. She didn't need to.
Sunwoo picked up the envelope again and started spreading the papers out across the table. His movements were methodical, deliberate, trying to keep emotion at bay.
"We need to check everything," he said. "Every line, every clause. We can't make assumptions. This could be our way out, but only if it's real."
He glanced at Ha-eun, then back at the documents. "Let's not screw this up, Ajjumma."
"This could make us rich, I'm talking about millions usd"
Her fuses are out but she nodded quietly and sat beside him and starts checking out documents. For the first time in days, they were like a team. Not as broken people, not as stepson and stepmother, but as two humans hanging by a thread, holding onto something that looked like salvation.
Sunwoo opened the oldest file, yellowed at the edges. His eyes skimmed the page, murmuring parts aloud under his breath. Deed records, family tree certification, boundary descriptions. The language was old and dense, but he followed it like someone reading through the past with a map in hand.
Ha-eun flipped through another sheet. "This one says the land was untouched. Except a small construction, looks like a temple on side of the land."
Sunwoo nodded. "And this one… it's a clearance letter from the revenue department. Eighty years ago."
They worked through the papers in silence. The weight of reality pressed down around them, but somewhere within the clutter of parchment and signatures, a sliver of light had appeared.
Sunwoo held up a stamped document. "This is the official registry copy. It's clean."
He looked at her and for the first time in days, a small glint of hope showed in his eyes.
"Just a few more files," he said, his voice steadying. "We might actually be okay. If I'm not wrong... Father took out those loans using part of this land as collateral. Look at these old image in the document, maybe he thought it wasn't worth much, its only showing trees, overgrown fields... no buildings nothing like what it is now."
Haeun leaned closer, her brows furrowed as she turned a page. "He never mentioned this to me," she said quietly. "Not once. Maybe... maybe he found these files recently. When he went to visit his mother's place that last time."
Sunwoo turned over another sheet in the pile, pausing when he noticed the header — it was written in formal, almost ceremonial language, stamped with a faded crest at the top.
He frowned. "This one looks like... some sort of inheritance clause."
Ha-eun leaned in, eyes scanning alongside his. Her expression grew tense as she read.
The document was old, handwritten with elegant brushstrokes that had bled slightly into the paper with time. Still, the message was clear.
"All ancestral land tied to the Han family bloodline shall remain within it. Male heirs shall inherit by right. Widowed members cannot claim full ownership. However, women married into the Han line may hold usage rights but are barred from selling or division of said property. Such rights must only pass to the next generation male heir or back to the transferred person."
There was a pause between them, heavy and unsaid.
Sunwoo flipped the page and his eyes caught another clause at the bottom.
"Upon marriage, neither party may transfer or sell the property for two years. This term is to ensure the stability of the union. Furthermore, any recipient must hold the property for no less than one year before initiating any kind of sale."
Sunwoo fell back onto the old wooden chair, the weight of it all pressing into his spine. His hands were still clutching the paper, crinkled now at the edges. The wheels in his head were turning fast — too fast.
"That's f*cked," he muttered under his breath.
Ha-eun sat across from him, stiff as stone, her eyes still glued to the inheritance document. Her voice came out flat. "So even if this land is worth millions… we can't touch it."
Sunwoo, "You're a widow, and the land is in your name. That means..." He trailed off, eyes meeting hers. "We're not the owners anymore."
She blinked, stunned. "What?"
He pushed the paper toward her again, pointing. "Technically, under this clause, a widow can't inherit anything. These rules seems like made in 1800s, they tried their best not to have a female acquire these properties."
Ha-eun looked down, her face pale. Her fingers hovered just over the page. "Is this hopeless? Are we back to… to the loans? The notices? The struggles?"
Sunwoo didn't answer right away. Just a small nod. Then he drummed his fingers once, twice on the paper, staring at the ink like it could shift with his will. "Not unless we find a legal way around this clause…"
Her eyes snapped to him. "What do you mean?"
He didn't respond immediately. Just looked at her — really looked like he was seeing something take shape in his mind, blurry but real.
"Han family," he said finally, voice low. "It always passes to the Han's heir. Or... to their wives."
Her brows pulled together. "You're saying...?"
He leaned forward, elbows on the table now, voice steady but hushed. "Since you're a widow now, all we have to do—before anyone files a claim on the land that you are a widow, is get you married. Not just to anyone. To a Han family."
Ha-eun froze. "What…?"
"Legally," Sunwoo said, "that makes you eligible to hold the land. To use it. Even transfer it, if we make it clean."
"We'll look into the family tree," he said, already reaching for his laptop. "There's got to be someone a distant cousin, a fourth-branch son. Someone willing to sign papers. It doesn't have to be real."
She shook her head, backing away in her seat. "It's not that easy for me to marry at the moment. You know that."
He stopped. The typing halted. For a moment, he just sat there, staring at her with those eyes that had always seen too much.
Then, softly, he said, "This land is our only way out, Ha-eun."
Her chest tightened.
"This apartment's getting freezed in two weeks, we will be on road. We've got a hundred and seventy-eight thousand dollars debt hanging over our necks like a noose." His voice didn't rise, but every word was sharpened with quiet urgency. "Think."
She bit her lip, still unsure.
"It doesn't have to mean anything. Just a legal formality.
Ha-eun closed her eyes. For a second, she felt the old weight—the funerals, the creditors, the phone calls she didn't want to answer anymore. And the land… just sitting there. Waiting.
When she opened her eyes again, they were tired, but steady.
"…Okay," she whispered. "Let's look into the tree."
Sunwoo exhaled quietly, and for the first time in days, the shadows in the room shifted just a little.