The police station smelled of damp paper and cigarette smoke. Hana had never been inside one before. The walls were stained yellow from years of smoke, the ceiling lights flickering like tired eyes that refused to close.
Her small hand clutched the sleeve of Mrs. Park, their neighbor, who had brought her here out of pity. Hana's father had been taken the night before. Hana had not slept, not eaten, not even moved from the couch where he had last held her.
Now, she shuffled along the cold hallway, teddy bear pressed against her chest. Its fur was damp with her tears.
"Stay close," Mrs. Park whispered. Her voice trembled. She wasn't supposed to be here either, but Hana's wide, pleading eyes had been too much for her to ignore.
At the end of the hallway was a thick glass window. Behind it, Hana saw him.
Her father.
He sat in a metal chair, hunched forward, his large hands twisting in his lap. He looked small, smaller than Hana had ever seen him. His hair stuck to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his lips trembled as if he were a boy about to be scolded.
Across from him sat two policemen. Their uniforms were neat, their eyes sharp, their mouths curled into something cruel.
"Tell us again," one of them barked. "Why was the knife in your kitchen?"
"I… I don't know," her father stammered. His voice was high-pitched, almost childlike. "I cook with knife. I make ramen. Knife always in kitchen. I no… I no hurt nobody."
The officer slammed his fist on the table, making Hana flinch. "Liar! The victim's blood was on it. Stop pretending you don't understand!"
Her father's eyes darted around the room, panicked. He shook his head wildly, like a child caught in a lie he didn't even understand. "No! No bad! I good man! Ask Hana—she know! She know Daddy good!"
The second officer sneered. "Your daughter? The mute one? Don't make me laugh. She can't say a damn word."
Hana's small hands balled into fists. She wanted to scream, to pound on the glass, to tell them that she had seen the real man that night. But her throat was locked. No sound came. Only silence. Always silence.
Her father looked around the room again, eyes wide and wet. "I… I don't understand. Why you angry? I didn't… I didn't do bad thing. I… I promise."
The officers exchanged a glance, then leaned forward, their voices dripping with venom.
"Listen here, you idiot. A woman is dead. Her blood is in your house. And you—" the man jabbed a finger in her father's chest, "—you're too stupid to even lie properly."
Her father whimpered. He covered his ears like a child, rocking back and forth. "Stop yelling… please stop…"
Hana pressed her hands against the glass, tears spilling down her cheeks. Please stop, she begged silently. He didn't do it. He didn't.
The second officer leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. "He's useless. We'll write the confession ourselves. Nobody's going to believe him anyway."
Hana's breath caught. A confession? No!
Her father sniffled, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. His eyes wandered until they landed on the glass. For a moment, he froze. Then his lips curved into a shaky smile.
"Hana," he whispered, as if he could see her through the one-way glass. "Don't cry. Daddy strong. Daddy come back soon. Promise."
Her knees buckled. Mrs. Park caught her before she fell. Hana buried her face in the teddy bear, her shoulders shaking with sobs.
The men inside kept talking, their voices muffled by the glass. Hana couldn't hear the words, but she saw the way they leaned in close, their mouths spitting cruelty. Her father nodded dumbly, like a cornered animal that didn't know how to fight back.
Her nails dug into her teddy bear's fur. She couldn't speak. She couldn't shout. But she would not stay silent forever.
If her father's voice was too weak, then she would be his voice.
No matter how long it took