A Mother's Silent Cry
Hwan turned his body to face her. She wore not a single thread. Between the loosely draped blanket, her pale skin lay bare and unashamed. Long black hair, large eyes with a faintly sharp edge, a straight nose, lips like ripe cherries, a pointed chin—the naked form of a woman at the absolute peak of beauty was so mesmerizing it was impossible to look away. Miho smiled shyly. Even that ordinary smile struck Hwan as fatally intoxicating. He could not tear his eyes from her. Ah! His heart began to thunder again. She drew a little closer. Her hot breath brushed softly against him, tickling the bridge of his nose.
"Can we really trust them?" she asked again.
Once more, Hwan could not answer. Yet... part of him wanted to believe. If there was anyone who had reached out a hand when he had lost everything, it was Father Choi alone. Could he truly trust the church or the cathedral? If asked that directly, he would find it hard to answer with certainty. But he wanted to believe in Father Choi. In those days when he had survived a cruel fate all alone, when everyone stared at him as if he were a monkey in a zoo, the only person who had extended a hand, embraced him, and grieved alongside him was Father Choi. So perhaps it was more accurate to say he wanted to believe rather than that he believed.
Had she sensed the feelings in his heart? Miho clicked her tongue, then drew even closer. Her full breasts brushed gently against his chest. Hwan's body trembled faintly. The softness of her skin, her warmth, even the steady beat of her heart—all of it flowed into him. At last she leaned in and covered his lips with her own. After the brief kiss, she spoke.
"This comes from someone with far more years than you. In this world, there is no one you can trust completely."
"Have you ever had your faith betrayed by someone?"
Miho's expression clouded for a moment. There seemed to be something she did not wish to speak of. She paused, then finally shrugged instead of answering. Hwan did not press her. If the time ever came, if the opportunity arose, if she opened her heart even a little more, she might tell him then.
She reached out once more, cupping his face in both hands and pulling him firmly against her chest. With tender strokes she patted his back. Ah... at moments like this, Hwan felt as though he rested in the arms of his mother from long ago. The warmth traveling through her soft skin, the gentle touch—it sometimes felt exactly like a mother's kind hand. Like the hand that had once comforted him when he was a small, fretful child. She said softly,
"Betrayal delivers the most agonizing pain of all..."
The ambiguous answer lingered only a moment.
She could not remember how the day had passed. As always, it had been nothing but hellish hours. Pretending to be fine took every ounce of strength, and the glances from coworkers who seemed to be watching her every move felt unbearable. Above all, not knowing where her child was right now made the very act of wasting time like this excruciating. Naturally, she could barely focus on her work. This was the busiest season, right at the turn of the year... Was she simply becoming a burden to everyone? Such thoughts kept circling. Yet if she did nothing at all, if she simply sat alone in the house with nothing to occupy her, the pain would only grow worse. It would be unbearable.
Soyeon returned from the office, opened the front door, and stepped inside. Out of habit she almost called, Mom's home! but the words caught in her throat. She froze, staring at the empty living room. Thick, pitch-black darkness had settled over everything. A cold presence lingered within it, and of course there was no sign of life. In that instant, something sharp seemed to stab straight into her chest. A stinging pain bloomed behind her ribs.
Mom! Her daughter's face flashed before her eyes—smiling even while half-asleep, running on short legs as fast as she could. But the image dissolved into the darkness as though swallowed whole. All that remained was loneliness and pain.
She kicked off her shoes and entered. In the dim living room she stood dazed for a moment, then sank onto the sofa without changing her clothes. The exhaustion was crushing. Her drained body felt as heavy as lead. She wanted to do nothing. Nothing at all. Inside that heavy, leaden silence, Soyeon sat blankly, then rummaged in her coat pocket and pulled out her smartphone. The moment the screen lit up, her daughter's bright smile filled it. Sohee. Her seven-year-old daughter beamed from the photo, yet her whereabouts remained a mystery. She had simply vanished. Truly... vanished without a trace.
Soyeon squeezed her eyes shut. Moments like this always brought back the day she had lost her daughter. That instant filled with regret and agony. The disappearance had happened in the blink of an eye. A few minutes? No, perhaps only a few seconds. Like a ghost had snatched her away, she was simply gone. The regret was crushing. In that fleeting moment she had looked away from her child. Why hadn't she kept watching until the very end? She should have kept her eyes on her daughter. No—she should have stayed right beside her, playing with her. Her own complacency had created this nightmare. In the grip of vicious regret, Soyeon tore into herself without mercy.
"Mom! Mom!!!"
She heard her daughter's voice calling. But the weary Soyeon remained seated on the park bench. It was a rare weekend outing. Work had been so demanding lately that she had hardly spent any real time with her daughter. That was why she had brought Sohee to the park today. In truth she would have preferred to drive somewhere farther away, but she was too exhausted to manage a long trip. Even now, though her daughter was calling her, she lacked the energy to respond. In the end they had come to a small park near their home, and once there Soyeon simply sat on the bench and watched.
At least Sohee seemed to like the park. Or perhaps the girl had grown up too quickly and, sensing her mother's fatigue, was only pretending to enjoy herself. Sohee had always been such a good child. She kept waving and calling for her mother in a voice like a little bird chirping. Each time, Soyeon would smile back at her daughter and wave in return, her own smile as lovely as golden osmanthus blossoms.
Sohee seemed especially fascinated by a small puppy playing nearby. Before long she had made friends with it and was running around together. Fortunately the dog's owner did not mind; they kindly allowed the child to play with their pet. Watching the girl laugh and chatter with the puppy, Soyeon found herself thinking that perhaps she should get her daughter a small dog of her own. When she went to the office and left the child home alone, a puppy might ease the loneliness. Of course caring for it would fall to her in the end, but it still seemed like a worthwhile gift.
That was when her smartphone suddenly rang. Checking the screen drew a deep sigh from her. The office. They were calling even on the weekend. At first she considered ignoring it. After all, it was supposed to be a day off—one she had not enjoyed in a long time. She did not want to answer a work call on her precious holiday. Yet the human heart is not so easily mastered. After several heavy sighs she finally picked up.
The news was bad: a problem had arisen with the project she was handling. Her head spun. Everything had been fine only yesterday. The conversation did not last long. She told them she could not come right now but would check first thing in the morning. The company pressed her to come in today if at all possible, leading to a brief argument, but she wanted at least one day of real rest. The call lasted only a few minutes. The time she had taken her eyes off her daughter could not have been more than a few seconds. Even while on the phone she had seen the girl stroking the puppy's head.
Yes, it had been only a few seconds. She ended the call irritably and looked for her daughter again. But Sohee was nowhere in sight. At first she assumed the girl had simply followed the running puppy somewhere. Not thinking much of it, she began calling Sohee's name. Yet... something was wrong. No matter where she looked, her daughter was gone.
"Sohee?"
Soyeon's voice began to tremble. She approached the puppy's owner, the same person her daughter had been playing with moments earlier, and asked if they had seen her. The owner replied that the girl had said, "I'm going to Mom," and left. At that instant, Soyeon felt her heart drop like a stone.