Father's Life
The embrace of the woman, carrying the scent of blood, was warm yet damp. Pus oozed from her fingertips, and beyond the wall scarred with ugly, brutal words, red flames blazed as if eager to devour all the sorrow and pain. She stared blankly at the fire.
"Il-nam... it's time to go now. If you don't, they might catch you."
The middle-aged woman's voice was refined, but her pronunciation was so slurred it was hard to understand. The blood trickling from her mouth hinted at why.
"Mother..."
The young boy's voice trembled with fear and confusion, unable to finish. Yet his gaze on her was straight and tender enough to bring tears.
"You, Mom, and I-nam have to protect the house. Don't worry—just go. You might miss the boat."
Suddenly, the scene blurred, darkness swallowing everything.
'Ah... am I crying? No, this is...'
Before the thought could continue, the boy stood at the boat's railing, facing a cold wind. His face, frozen by the sea breeze, showed no expression.
"Did you say goodbye properly to your mother?"
A man in a suit, looking out of place among the burly fishermen, gazed at the sea beyond, as if searching for a longed-for shore.
"..."
"Your mother and little sister..."
The waves masked whether it was the boy's rage or sobs.
Ignoring the boy's voice, the suited man spoke calmly of what could be done.
"Once the surveillance eases, you can visit them."
"What about the torment they endure in the meantime?"
"Do you think staying by your mother and sister's side, suffering the same brutal torture, will improve things? Better to go abroad, endure hardship, earn money, and return when things quiet down. It'll be best for them—and for you."
"I resent you, Father."
Even as the boy voiced his resentment, the man replied indifferently, as if he had left such emotions behind on solid ground. He merely confirmed the boy's resolve.
"He sacrificed for the country."
"What about family?"
A large hand, scarred from shoulder to fingertip, rested on the boy's chilled shoulder—his grandfather's, still boyish despite the cold wind at the railing.
"Family held me back; I couldn't do anything. Worse, I fawned over them and begged. I sent kids abroad from Kyungsung, boasting, thinking it was right."
His grandfather gripped the railing tightly.
"But no matter how hard I saved or how elite the education, the 'Joseonjing' stigma remained."
"Still, I resent you, Father."
"You have the right to resent me. I'm your father. The son of the man who burned himself out to save the nation, giving everything."
"Why help our family?"
"Because you're his son. We owe a great debt."
"Nothing changes—what's the point?"
"It's already changing. A merchant rotten to the bone like me has changed. Seeing his uprising, many still nurture dreams of independence. That's the meaning."
"I just don't understand."
The large man watched silently as the boy slumped to the deck, then draped a blanket over him and walked away. As if pretending not to know the boy—now forced into manhood—would silently shed tears into adulthood.
The boy, thrust into youth, scraped by at the bottom in Japan, China, America—saving relentlessly. Whatever the start, once begun, he ran like a racehorse toward his goal, eyes fixed ahead, ignoring past and sides. Perhaps numbing himself to reality, he discarded pride and emotions, advancing step by step.
The youth became a middle-aged man, harsh lines etching his face. Then came news of liberation.
In a bustling market, an ordinary-looking man collapsed, staring endlessly at the sky where his homeland lay. Recalling days when all he could do was gaze...
"Can I... go back? I still need to earn more to pamper Mother and I-nam... but..."
The goal that had propelled him step by step against loneliness crumbled before tears of longing.
With the reins loosened, he raced home.
The hometown had changed beyond recognition—more unrecognizable than familiar. Yet his house stood out instantly.
"M-Mother!!"
His shout drew a baby's wail echoing through the house.
Barging through the gate, he scanned the meager home—torn paper windows revealing an old quilt over a figure. He flung the door open.
The quiet form amid the noise spurred impatience, but beside the crying infant lay a gaunt, unfamiliar woman, sprawled. Softening his voice, he asked cautiously,
"Excuse me... do you know an old lady and a young girl named I-nam who lived here?"
The emaciated woman struggled upright, tears streaming inexplicably, but her ruined body silenced her words.
Yet he knew. It was his sister, I-nam. Hot tears and unspoken words conveyed through her eyes.
"I... I-nam... what... what happened..."
They clung desperately—or rather, he lifted her frail form into his arms. No words formed; he just ran, sobbing incoherently.
Sunset painted the sky red, flames rising again like those before he left.
White clouds dotted the blue sky like lambs frolicking. Gentle breezes cooled hikers amid families on outings. Among them, a man—awkward new father with a swaddled infant on his back, heavy bag slung over—trudged up the mountain.
Reaching his destination, he set down the load. As if sensing it, the baby giggled.
A smile might have come naturally, but his face remained emotionless, distant. Scorched skin, cracked callused hands spoke of hard labor. Yet gazing where he stared evoked wordless tears. Even the breeze seemed to sob passing him.
Beside an empty mound with a simple stone pile and wildflower, he knelt before the unmarked grave, staring blankly skyward.
"I'm... I'm back..."
"Ugh... sob... too... too late..."
His sturdy frame crumbled; tears poured like from illness.
Hot drops scorched the wildflower atop the grave, wilting its petals.
The baby on his back whimpered at his wails, then bawled. That ended the vision—I realized I gripped my grandfather's hand, tears unknown to me flowing.
His labored breaths suggested words, but the respirator silenced him. I waited, chest tight, meeting his gaze.
His niece—my cousin, so like his sister—smiling at him replayed endlessly. The heart-wrenching longing outdid the terror of the spell's visions, leaving deeper scars.
I felt empty yet full... and utterly sad.
Struggling free of his memories and emotions, I looked at him. Wrinkled face, cracked fingertips from endless toil. Massaging split nails and stiff knuckles, I wondered,
I thought my maternal side was well-off... was it all a misunderstanding?
Creak.
The door opened. A graying doctor in white entered, startled by our presence. His gaze lingered on my face; scholarly features twisted, voice trembling.
"Are you... Yeon-mi’s son?"