Her phone's ringtone stabbed through Jihye's dream at exactly 5:30 a.m.
Frowning, she shifted on the bed and groaned, turning her back to the sound, but that didn't stop it from continuing to ring.
"Agh," Jihye grumbled as her frown deepened, and she turned her head back to the sound of her phone, which stopped ringing but started again not even a second later. She fumbled around for it, patting the side of her pillow for the phone, and once she had it in her hand, she opened her eyes an inch and closed them back at the harsh light that assaulted her senses.
"Ahh, fuck!" she cursed, placing her hand on her temple as she peeked at her phone screen and saw the name of her younger sister.
Yura-ah.
Her little sister.
Seventy percent of her sleep vanished instantly. She sat up, swiped the screen, and pressed the phone to her ear. "Yura? What happened? Why are you calling this early?"
"Unnie? Unnie, are you there?!" Yura's voice came out in a rush, already on the verge of tears.
Jihye nodded quickly, then she spoke—realizing that Yura couldn't see her nod. "I'm here, I'm here. Tell me. What's wrong?"
"Unnie! Mom–"
The fog in her brain burned away. Her pulse slammed in her throat. "Mom? What about Mom?!" Her panic sharpened as she swung her legs off the bed.
"Calm down! Just—listen!" Yura's breath shook. "I called her last night but she didn't pick up, so I thought she was asleep. This morning, she finally answered… but she was moaning in pain. I asked if she took her meds and—"
'Not again.' Jihye froze, already tugging yesterday's jeans up her leg.
"—she said they ran out. Two days ago."
"What?" Jihye snapped, nearly dropping the phone as she fumbled with the zipper. "I asked her about it yesterday evening! She said she was fine!"
"I know! She never tells us when she's running low. Then the phone slipped, and I couldn't hear her anymore. I tried calling back twice, but now she won't answer! And I'm stuck on this stupid school trip—" Yura's voice broke.
Jihye was already tugging a T-shirt over her head, the phone clenched between her shoulder and ear. "Alright. Stop biting your fingers and listen—"
"I'm not—"
"You are. I can hear it in your voice." She flicked on the light, squinting as she dug through her wardrobe. "I'll go. I'll get the meds. Just focus on your trip, okay?"
Her fingers closed around a familiar canvas pouch at the very bottom: the mom-bag. Prescription slips, old pill bottles with labels, insurance card, her mother's ID—everything she needed.
"I'm going now," she said, shoving her sneakers on, hair loose and wild, the hoodie worn over her T-shirt to keep the cold off half-zipped. She slung the pouch across her shoulder. "I'll call once I reach her."
"Unnie—"
But Jihye had already ended the call and hurried out of her apartment, locking it behind her.
She ran through the hallway and darted down the narrow stairwell of the shabby villa. The fluorescent light above flickered once before going dark, leaving her to leap the last three steps in darkness.
The street outside was still blue with dawn and freezing, not yet awake save for a few old men pushing delivery carts. No taxis in sight.
"Shit."
She ran harder, breaths clouding in the cold and sneakers slapping the pavement, weaving through the back alley until she burst onto the wider road.
Stopping by the side of the road, she looked around, and when she caught sight of a car, she stepped to the edge, waving her hands.
Thankfully, it was a cab, and it slowed at her frantic wave, headlights washing her in white. She yanked the back door open and threw herself inside.
"Mapo General Hospital. Fast, please!"
The driver grunted acknowledgment and pulled into traffic.
Her hands trembled as she pulled out her phone. The screen lit her pale face while the cab jerked forward. She typed with unsteady fingers: 24시 약국 near Mapo General into Naver Maps.
A map pin popped up—green. Open.
Relief hit her hard, just for a second. She remembered the last time, months ago, when she'd had to sprint the same streets in the middle of the night for her mother's meds. But then, it hadn't been this bad. Not this urgent.
Her reflection stared back at her in the cab window—dark circles, messy hair, jaw set like stone.
She looked down, her phone screen flashing on: Tuesday, September 2. 5:55 a.m.
She leaned her head back, closing her eyes, lips pressed tight as neon signs slid past in blurs of pink and silver. The driver hummed along to trot music, blissfully unaware that every red light was another second her mother might not have.
"Hold on, Mom," she whispered.
Twenty minutes later, the hospital pharmacy was nearly empty, fluorescent-lit and echoing. Jihye slammed the pouch onto the counter, sliding out the folded prescription and empty pill bottle. "My mother's meds ran out. Can I get an urgent refill?"
The pharmacist glanced up, voice calm, almost too calm for her frayed nerves. "Do you have the prescription?"
Jihye thrust the slip forward with trembling hands.
The pharmacist studied it, cross-checking the date and her mother's name. Jihye's eyes darted to the clock on the wall—6:25. Her stomach churned with each passing tick.
Finally, the pharmacist nodded, typing something into the system before disappearing into the back shelves.
Minutes crawled.
When he returned with a small white pharmacy bag, Jihye's breath caught.
He slid it across, stapled with her mother's name and dosage printed clearly. "Take this once daily after meals."
She bowed quickly. "Thank you." She turned and walked to the cashier's station to pay, tapping on her phone to transfer it. Once the confirmation beeped, she snatched the bag and clutched it against her chest like treasure.
"Thank you," she muttered, already half-running for the exit.
Outside, the sky was bleeding pale gold over the city.
She flagged down another cab, throwing herself inside. The ride blurred past in headlights and red lights. By the time the driver stopped on the narrow street, her palms were slick with sweat around the pharmacy bag.
She got off where the apartment block hunched against the dawn like an old man with bad knees. She strode into the building; the concrete was mottled with mildew, balconies cluttered with rusted bikes and dangling laundry that never fully dried in the sticky air.
Jihye took the stairs two at a time, clutching the white pharmacy bag tightly. The fourth floor smelled faintly of frying oil from the gimbap place below.
Stepping onto her mother's floor, she hurried to the second door on her right, fumbling with the keypad, punching in the code with trembling fingers.
From inside came one of the sounds Jihye hated most: her mother's low, muffled groans—the kind that meant she hadn't slept, that the pain had crawled into her bones during the night and refused to leave.
"Eomma?" Jihye called softly, kicking off her shoes before darting into the one-room flat.
Her mother was curled on the thin mattress under the window, face damp with sweat, hair plastered to her forehead. The cheap electric heater buzzed in the corner, but it did nothing for the way her fingers—knotted and swollen—clutched the blanket like a lifeline.
"Eomma! It's okay, I'm here." Jihye whispered, kneeling at her mother's side. "I got the medicine." She pulled the blister pack from the pharmacy bag and stood up. "Wait, let me get you water."
The apartment was small, almost a box: one main room doubling as bedroom and living space, a sliding door opening to a kitchenette barely big enough for one person. Jihye darted into it, yanked open the cupboard above the sink, and grabbed a chipped mug. She filled it with tap water, the pipes rattling, then hurried back.
Kneeling again, she placed the cup by her mother's side. "Here, Mom. Come on."
Her mother, Jun Hyejin, cracked open her eyes, red-rimmed and clouded with exhaustion. "You shouldn't… spend so much, Jihye."
The words stabbed deeper than the morning chill. Her bank app balance the last time she checked had barely been a few thousand won.
"Don't start," Jihye said, forcing steadiness into her voice even as her throat tightened. "I'm not only working because of myself but because of you and Yura. Since Yura's been living off scholarships and part-time jobs, I don't spend on her anymore. And for you—the only thing I do is buy medicine. Nothing more." She slid an arm under her mother's shoulders, lifting her gently so she could swallow the pills with water. The cup rattled against her own hand.
Her mom opened her mouth, letting her pour in water, followed by the pills, then drank a little more.
"Lie down, come on. You need to rest. The pharmacist said to take them after meals, but—" Jihye bit her lip, guilt tightening her chest. "The situation was urgent. I'll make you something now, okay?"
"Jihye-ah, my baby… I'm sorry. Mom didn't want to worry you—"
"It's alright, eomma. I know. Just rest, you need it. You're still in pain. I'll prepare something quickly." Jihye packed the medicines back into the bag and slid it into the small cupboard by the bed. "Your medication is here."
The pills would take time to kick in, but her mother's face had relaxed just enough to ease the knot in her chest.
"Okay… but I have nothing fresh at home."
Jihye scanned the tiny kitchenette in her mind. Instant ramyeon, probably. Maybe leftover rice in the cooker, and a few sheets of gim in the drawer. That would do.
"Ramyeon will be fine. I'll add an egg."
She stood and went to the kitchenette, tearing open a ramyeon packet. She dumped the noodles into the small pot with water, cracked in an egg, and sprinkled in the soup powder. The smell of seasoning filled the space.
When the noodles started bubbling, she left them to cook and came back to her mother's side, kneeling again. She gently massaged her mother's swollen joints.
Hyejin blinked her eyes open at the touch and gave a faint smile. "Thank you."
Jihye smiled back and continued.
A few minutes later, she checked on the ramyeon, stirred it, then brought the steaming bowl to the mattress.
"Should I feed you, or will you eat yourself?"
"Don't worry. I can eat it myself." Hyejin took the bowl, blankets still pulled around her legs. She held the chopsticks and ate slowly.
Jihye sat by her side on the floor, occasionally passing her water.
"I'm full," Hyejin said after a few bites.
"But Mom… you didn't finish it. You need to eat better—"
Hyejin leaned her head back against the wall with a sigh. "Jihye-ah, I'm really full." Her eyes drifted to the clock, frowning.
Jihye noticed and frowned too. "What is it?"
"Don't you have work today, honey?"
The words hit Jihye like a slap. She snatched her phone.
8:15 a.m.
"Fuck!" She was going to be so late.
She whipped her head to her mother and scrambled to her feet, nearly falling back on her knees.
"Mom, I need to go or I'll be terribly late." She helped her mother lie back down, tucked another blanket around her, and pressed her lips to her damp forehead before bolting to the door. "I'll be back tonight. Don't open the door for anyone but me, okay?"
Her mother murmured something—half warning, half blessing—but Jihye was already shoving on her shoes and tearing down the stairwell.
The air outside was sharp with morning chill, honking horns layering over the chatter of students heading for the bus stop. Jihye broke into a run, clutching her bag as she dodged a delivery scooter zipping past.
…
By the time she skidded through the gates of the villa she rented—cheap, narrow, nothing like the glossy apartments she dreamed of—her lungs were burning. She tore up the steps, unlocked the door, and flung herself inside. Her ponytail had already come loose.
Breathing heavily, she bent over, hands on knees, when her phone's KakaoTalk notification dinged.
She pulled it out and read Yura's reply to the message she sent earlier about their mom.
{Yura: Alright, I'll call her later. Take care of yourself, okay? I love you!}
Jihye sighed, tapped a heart emoji back, and collapsed on the bed. She tugged off her hoodie, sweat cooling on her skin.
And just then—
An angry voice echoed inside her mind. "Ya! Jihye-ah! What the hell did you do so early that I feel like I just ran a marathon?"
Her stomach clenched. She knew that voice. The angry one.