The Night Before the Departure

The line of mourners begins to form once again.

Yoon Serin stands beside me, greeting the mourners in unison.

Naturally, as if she belongs in the role of the girlfriend.

That, too, is a calculated move.

She knows exactly how she looks standing here.

A girlfriend standing beside the family appears dependable, like someone who can be trusted.

In the meantime, her eyes sweep over the ribbons of the funeral wreaths lining the altar.

Corporate names.

Seolim Pharmaceutical, its affiliates, and its clients.

Her eyes scan those names.

She is sizing up what kind of man the deceased was.

A woman reading the ribbons on the funeral wreaths at her boyfriend's father's funeral.

I make a mental note of it.

A moment later, the line of mourners trickles to a halt again.

"I'll be right back. Just going to the restroom," Serin whispers before slipping away.

I nod.

Feeling her presence recede behind me, I turn my gaze forward.

A short distance away from the chief mourner's spot, a woman dressed in black stands quietly.

Lee Jiwon.

My wife.

She bows her head to a visitor.

She is holding her ground.

In the position of a chief mourner.

In the same place as me.

She, too, is a chief mourner.

The muscles ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of this body react once more.

Our eyes meet.

Half a second.

A sensation stirs behind my forehead.

The brackets open.

Text attempts to rise to the surface.

But.

The space remains empty.

It is a blank.

Nothing appears.

Three seconds.

Four seconds.

Silence.

I see her eyes.

Red and swollen.

The traces of tears still linger there.

Faint, dried streaks of tears remain.

Those eyes look at me.

She looks at her stepson.

At me, inside this body.

The interface has appeared, but it is empty.

Blank. Blank. Blank.

The lines are filled with nothing but dashes.

The inside is hollow.

For the first time, I realize the limitations of this interface.

What the son does not know or remember cannot be filled in.

What the son did not see, what he did not observe, what he did not commit to memory.

Those remain a blank even within my consciousness.

Does the son have no information about Jiwon?

No, that cannot be.

There has to be.

They lived in the same house.

Yet, the lines are filled only with dashes.

To my son, that woman does not exist.

A person who exists physically but is not recorded as information in his memory.

I do not yet understand what that means.

Lee Jiwon.

She was my wife when I was alive.

My second wife.

She averts her eyes.

She bows to the next mourner.

I look at her hands.

Her right hand, gripping the edge of the chief mourner's table.

Her ring.

The metal glints against her black attire.

Her fingers slowly toy with the ring.

She isn't taking it off and putting it back on; she is simply touching it.

As if confirming.

As if to make sure it is still there.

Her wedding band.

I watch it.

And I check the blank space behind my forehead once more.

It remains unfilled.

Every single line is a dash.

The scent of incense drifts into my nose again.

The incense of the funeral hall.

A smell that only exists where a life has ended.

I am still standing in the chief mourner's spot.

Inside this unfamiliar body, staring at my own funeral portrait, I commit both the floral perfume of my son's girlfriend and the ring of my son's stepmother to memory.

This is the first time the interface has returned a blank.

The blank space signifies something.

That the son did not look.

That the son chose not to remember.

Or perhaps, something the son did not want to show.

I do not yet know which one it is.

Jiwon playing with her ring keeps catching the edge of my vision.

Even as I try not to look, I keep watching.

Even if my consciousness tries to block it, my eyes drift back.

Even if the interface remains blank.

This body already knows that woman.

The line of mourners forms again.

I turn back to the chief mourner's spot.

The line of mourners grows sparse.

I cannot tell if the scent of incense has grown fainter or if I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠have simply grown accustomed to it.

As the night deepens, the hallway outside the altar room gradually empties.

The last of the late-night mourners bow one final time and slip out the entrance, leaving only the long, cold glow of the hallway's fluorescent lights.

I do not need to look at a clock to know.

It is close to dawn.

Serin is leaning against a pillar in the hallway.

That woman has not left.

She has been here all along.

Clutching her phone in her hand, her eyes aren't even on the screen.

She is waiting.

And it isn't the kind of wait that lasts just an hour or two.

The heavy fatigue of someone staying up all night weighs down her shoulders.

She notices me stepping away from the chief mourner's spot to get some water.

"Taeyoon."

Serin calls out as I step into the hallway with a cup of water.

"Serin."

Returning her name is the first step.

When I call her name first, her tension eases slightly.

This is not something I learned.

It is the instinct of fifty years of life.

People lower their guard when they hear their own name.

Serin slips her phone into her bag.

"You seem a bit different today, Taeyoon."

"How so?"

"I don't know. Just... because."

She leaves her sentence unfinished.

I do not yet know if leaving things unsaid is a calculation or a habit.

That woman has a habit of cutting her words short to make you anticipate what comes next.

Whether it is conscious or not does not matter right now.

"I'll take you home."

"Do you have a car?"

"Yeah. I drove here."

I set down my cup of water.

I pretend to think for a moment.

In reality, there is nothing to think about.

I instantly calculate when such an opportunity might arise again.

"Thanks."

Serin's eyes shift for a fraction of a second.

It is the look of someone who did not expect me to agree so readily.

Normally, Taeyoon would have said he was fine.

That he could go back on his own.

The eyes that knew his patterns have just experienced a slight misalignment.

Misalignment is where it begins.

Serin's car is a compact SUV.

As I sit in the passenger seat, the scent of floral perfume clings to the interior.

It isn't an air freshener.

It is the lingering trace of someone who has spent a long time inside.

I look at her hands gripping the steering wheel.

Her nails aren't clipped short; they are grown to a moderate length.

It means she grooms them meticulously.

Her bag is tossed onto the back seat.

I can see the grain of the leather.

It is a material I recognize at a glance.

There is no logo.

There is no need for one.

It is meant to be recognized only by those in the know.

"Today must have been really hard on you, Taeyoon."

"I'm fine."

"Liar."

"I'm not lying."

Serin glances at me briefly.

We are waiting at a red light.

The silence is characteristic of empty roads at dawn.

I stare out the window.

Darkened storefronts and closed convenience store signs pass by.

The stretches between streetlights are long.

This is the neighborhood where my son's body lived.

Unfamiliar, yet familiar.

All at once.

"If you're fine, then there's nothing I can do."

"What were you planning to do?"

"Comfort you."

"No need."

Serin purses her lips slightly.

She isn't sulking.

She is thinking.

When rejected, that woman searches for another route.

She is not the type to give up.

Knowing this, I keep my eyes on the window.

The silence stretches.

Silence inside a car is a sealed silence.

It has a scent.

It has a sound.

The hum of the engine.

Serin's breathing.

The turn signal clicks once.

We are turning a corner.

"We're here."

Serin doesn't turn off the ignition.

I wait.

"Can I come in for a bit too?"

Serin asks.

"Sure, come on in."

Four words.

That is enough.

We are at the entryway.

Serin unzips her boots.

Standing up, one foot at a time.

Her right foot first.

But she stops halfway through unzipping her left boot.

I stand beside the shoe rack.

Serin looks up at me.

Her eyes waver slightly.

"Is it really okay for me to come in?"

"Yeah."

"Taeyoon. You're acting really strange today."

Serin slips off her other boot.

She places them neatly in the entryway.

Serin steps onto the wooden floor.

Her floral scent drifts into the entryway.

The interface activates.

I close the interface.

Taeyoon's emotional memory is accurate.

That woman knows this house.

She enters with the familiarity of someone who has been here before.

A first-time visitor would look around the interior.

Serin does not look around.

She walks with a pathing that shows she knows exactly where everything is.

She knows where Taeyoon's room is.

She heads straight for it.

I follow her.

Taeyoon's room.

Serin sits on the edge of the bed.

I stand by the desk.

"Are you just going to stand there?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Just because."

Serin twists her lips.

It is somewhere between a smirk and a pout.

"Taeyoon, you're really strange today."

"How many times is that now?"

"What?"

"Saying I'm strange."

Serin pauses for a moment.

"Two times?"

"Three times."

"That's how strange you're being."

I walk toward Serin.

Three steps from the desk to the bed.

Slowly.

I do not rush.

I stand directly in front of Serin as she sits on the edge of the bed.

Serin lifts her head.

"What is it?"

"Nothing."

Serin reaches out.

She grabs my wrist.

She doesn't pull.

She simply holds it.

I do not pull away.

Nor do I let myself be dragged.

Serin stands up.

She releases my wrist.

Instead, she places both hands on my shoulders.

"Taeyoon."

"Yeah."

"Hold me."

I raise my arms and place them around the middle of Serin's back.

Slowly.

Not her waist.

Her back.

Serin rests her head against my shoulder.

The floral scent invades my nose.

It is potent.

This body reacts instantly.

"Why are you taking things so slow today?"

"I'm always like this."

"No, you're not."

Serin lifts her head.

She is close.

That woman did not cry at the funeral hall.

I knew that too.

"Am I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠different from Taeyoon?"

Serin freezes.

"Why are you referring to yourself by name?"

"Just curious."

"...Yeah, you're different."

"How?"

"I don't know. Everything is different."

Serin keeps staring into my eyes.

I do not look away.

Serin's breathing quickens.

Her hands slide down from my shoulders to my chest.

Her palms press flat against my shirt.

Then, they move to the buttons of her own blouse.

I watch.

Serin places her hand on the first button.

She stops.

She looks into my eyes.

I do not react.

I simply watch.

Serin undoes the button.