The phone rang at 6:47 a.m.
A shrill ringtone that tore through the silence of the apartment still plunged in darkness, that made Nari jolt awake, that twisted her stomach before she even answered.
She picked up without thinking.
— Hello… this is Seoul Hospital. Are you the daughter of Mrs. Han?
A deep voice, too calm, too composed to be reassuring, a doctor's voice that has been announcing catastrophes for thirty years and already knows what is going to happen in the next seconds.
— Yes. I… I'm her.
The silence that followed was short, but enough to freeze all the blood in her body.
— Your mother was admitted last night. You should come as soon as possible.
At that exact moment, something tightened inside her stomach, an invisible, ancient muscle that only existed for this: sensing tragedy before it takes shape.
She didn't answer anymore.
She had no breath left.
In a few seconds, she pulled on jeans, a sweatshirt, grabbed her bag, her keys, slammed the door. The hallway air was cold, damp, and the trembling neon light gave the walls the look of a morgue, as if everything was already written, already sealed, already dead.
Outside, the rain fell in thin needles, a grey curtain that swallowed the entire city.
She ran.
She couldn't feel her legs anymore.
At the hospital, the white hallways swallowed her immediately — a frozen tunnel filled with the smell of disinfectant, of blood washed too quickly, and of lives hanging on machines. Nari's footsteps echoed, too fast, too frantic, as if she was trying to reach something that moved farther away every second.
A nurse approached, file pressed against her chest.
— Are you really Mrs. Han's daughter?
Nari nodded, her lips already trembling.
— Yes… what happened? Is she… is she okay?
The nurse inhaled slowly, as if she wanted to take a piece of the world's weight onto her own shoulders.
— Your mother was hit by a car last night. She was on the road, drunk. Witnesses say she was shouting: "I want to leave this shitty life… Lord, take me out of here."
Every word hit Nari like a fist in the ribcage, breaking something vital, fragile, too human inside her.
Then softly, almost in a whisper:
— We did everything we could. She didn't survive.
The world collapsed in a dull crash.
There was no scream.
Not right away.
Just a breath stopped short, a respiration refusing to continue, a heart skipping one beat, two, three, as if it hesitated to keep performing its function.
Nari swayed.
The room shifted around her — the blurred silhouettes of doctors, the white lines on the floor, the harsh light — everything dissolved in an opaque fog.
She didn't cry.
Not yet.
Her body was too frozen to feel anything besides the explosion.
— I want to see her, she whispered, her voice broken, torn.
The steps to the mortuary felt like kilometers.
Each second lengthened the pain.
When the door opened, an icy cold slapped her.
And under the white sheet, she saw a face she had always known but no longer recognized.
Her mother.
Pale skin.
Frozen features.
Eyes closed forever.
A strand of brown hair slipped out from the sheet, still damp, as if she had just come out of the rain.
That small detail shattered Nari.
She stepped forward slowly.
Her fingers trembled so much they vibrated.
She touched the sheet.
Then the cold hand.
Frozen.
Dead.
— Mom… I'm sorry…
The sentence died in a broken sob.
A sob that did not belong to an adult.
But to a child abandoned too soon.
The memory of their last conversation hit her brutally, violently:
the insults, the threats, the blackmail, the anger, and that final click — that fucking click — when she hung up.
And now, this silence — the silence of a body without breath, without voice, without hate, without love.
The cruelest silence of all.
Her boyfriend arrived running, caught her as if she might collapse, as if her body stood upright only because someone else held it up.
— Cry, sweetheart… I'm here… he whispered.
I'm here…
But Nari stayed straight, rigid, her arms hanging.
Her eyes were dry.
Too dry.
As if her tears had decided they would never be used again.
— Thank you… but I need to be alone.
He nodded, helpless.
She walked out.
Moved forward.
Aimlessly.
Under the rain beating against her coat down to the bone.
The city blurred in front of her eyes.
Sidewalks, cars, passersby — everything became a long grey tunnel echoing distorted memories:
Each memory surged up, one by one, like shards of glass cutting through her heart.
Her mother, drunk, hair in her face, screaming at three in the morning:
"I want to die, Nari! I want to fucking die! You hear me?!"
Her small child's hand gripping hers, begging:
"Mom stop… stay with me…"
The men laughing in the living room.
Hands touching where they should never touch.
Her mother closing her eyes.
Pretending not to see.
Choosing banknotes over her daughter.
The rare times she whispered "you're my little star", before falling back into alcohol.
And despite everything… despite everything…
she loved her.
She loved her with a force beyond logic, beyond reason, beyond pain.
She loved her even when it hurt.
Even when it destroyed.
Even when it bled.
Loving a broken mother was this:
waiting.
Saving.
Losing.
Again and again.
But this time…
There would be no return.
No more screaming.
No more forgiveness.
No more "I'll try, my daughter."
Just a void.
A silence.
An end.
An end she wasn't ready to accept.
The rain kept falling as Nari stepped out of the hospital, but this time it wasn't just water coming from the sky — it was as if the entire city cried for her, as if Seoul had decided to spill the tears she couldn't shed, the tears stuck somewhere between her chest and her throat, burning, suffocating, tearing without managing to fall.
She walked without feeling her legs, without feeling the cold, without feeling the rain sticking her hair to her neck; she felt nothing anymore, as if her body had been left there, empty, open, unable to produce the slightest reaction.
Mom threw herself under a car to escape this life.
Mom died alone.
Mom screamed that she wanted it to end.
The neon signs passed by as blurred stains, cars honked into nothing, passersby avoided her without even turning their heads, and she kept moving like that, like a fragile shadow in a world that kept going, indifferent, obscene.
Each step seemed to pass through her.
As if walking hurt.
As if breathing hurt.
As if existing, simply existing, hurt.
Her phone vibrated.
Once.
Twice.
She didn't even look.
She already knew it was her boyfriend, wanting to know if she was okay — but how can someone be "okay" when they've just left their mother's body on a cold table, when the last memory they have of her is a scream, an insult, blackmail, a lie, an accusation that will never disappear?
She sped up, almost running, as if fleeing could keep the pain from catching up to her, as if the rain could wash away what was printed too deeply inside her heart.
But the truth stood there, brutal:
there was nothing to wash away.
Nothing to save.
Nothing to repair.
Her mother died with all the words they never said, all the forgiveness they never gave, all the hugs they never shared.
And the guilt…
The guilt was a blade in her stomach.
The memory of last night hit her full force:
— "Send me 5000 euros or I'll throw myself off a bridge."
That sentence spun in her head like a toxic spiral, squeezing her throat, crushing her breath, suffocating her soul.
She remembered the harsh CLICK when she hung up.
The anger.
The habit.
And now…
There would never be a second chance.
So she walked.
Walked again.
Without end.
Her fingers trembled.
Her stomach tightened as if something wanted to come out — a pain, a scream, a sob, anything —
but nothing came out.
Nothing escaped.
Nothing freed itself.
The neon lights of Gangnam reflected in the puddles, blurring the colors, turning reality into something too bright, too painful, too alive for a girl dead on the inside.
Then suddenly, something, someone, a presence, a hand grabbed her wrist with controlled strength, almost authoritarian.