The Warmth of This Unease (1) — A Night When the Fever Won't Break
The evening soup had cooled a little.
Ria stirred the broth once with her spoon. No steam rose again. It had been warm earlier, she was sure, yet she could not quite remember when it had gone cold. The soup that touched the tip of her spoon was already lukewarm.
A textbook lay open on one side of the table. The problem concerned outing restrictions and accompaniment records for settler candidates. Ria had been reading that sentence only a moment ago. Or so she thought—her eyes kept catching on the same line.
When a settler candidate is on an authorized accompanied outing…
She read that far, then returned to the beginning.
Across from her came the soft sound of chopsticks being set down.
"Ria."
She lifted her head.
"Yes?"
The answer came first. Her head followed a beat later.
The Hero looked at her face, then at her bowl, then back at the textbook.
"Your rice isn't going down."
"Ah."
Ria looked into her own bowl.
Half the rice remained untouched. She had been holding the spoon, so she had believed she was still eating. Yet her hand had simply stopped above the table.
A little embarrassed, she smiled.
"That's strange. I was sure I was eating."
"The soup's cold."
"So it is."
Ria picked up the spoon again.
The familiar weight of metal settled against her fingertips. It was the same spoon as always. Yet strength reached her fingers a fraction late, and the tip of the spoon struck the rim of the bowl with a small clink.
Click.
The sound was louder than she expected.
Ria blinked.
The Hero's gaze lingered briefly on the tip of the spoon.
She set it down more carefully. Her fingertips left the rim of the bowl a moment late.
"Why did I set it down so hard just now…"
Her eyes drifted slowly to the tip of the spoon.
The Hero reached toward the open textbook.
Ria's fingertips stopped at the corner of the page.
His hand went not to the cover but to the bookmark.
He slipped the bookmark into the line where she had stopped. He laid the pencil neatly beside the notebook and brushed away the eraser dust with a light flick of his fingertip.
Ria looked at the line marked by the bookmark.
It was the very line her eyes had returned to again and again.
"I'm not finished yet."
"I know."
The Hero answered briefly.
"That's why I only marked it."
Ria pressed the corner of the textbook once with her fingertip, then let go.
She picked up the water glass.
The glass was cold. Her lips must have been dry; the coolness spread first the moment the water touched them. She took a sip and started to set the glass down.
It tilted, just a little.
In the instant she hurried to right it, the Hero's hand came up from below and steadied the glass.
Both of them paused for a moment.
"…Did you see that?"
"A little."
Ria set the glass down more meekly than necessary.
"Maybe because I stared at the problems for so long today…"
She said it, yet she did not quite believe it to the end. Her gaze dropped again into the glass.
It was not only drowsiness. Every time she swallowed, the inside of her throat stung faintly, and her lips dried again almost at once. Sitting so long under the kitchen light made her forehead feel stuffy as well.
Ria set the glass down and eased her chair back a little.
"Ria?"
Instead of answering, she rose slowly from her seat.
The kitchen light felt a little too warm. On the glass by the window, the lights of the Han River stretched long and bright.
Perhaps it would be better near the window.
The apartment was quiet.
Lately, once the table fell silent in the evenings, the hours tended to stretch later and later.
Closing the textbook, clearing the cups, pretending not to notice each other until they finally laughed—those were the usual hours.
Yet today, before she could even recall that look in his eyes, simply standing up from the chair felt slow.
Ria walked slowly toward the living room.
It was only a few steps. Yet today the soles of her feet met the floor a fraction late.
As she passed the sofa, her fingertips brushed the backrest.
She had not meant to lean on it, but once she touched it, it felt a little easier. Her body tilted slightly that way.
In front of the balcony door, Ria looked out through the glass.
The lights over the Han River were smeared long across the water. She narrowed her eyes a little, trying to watch them shimmer.
In that instant, the lights all came undone at once.
The floor beneath her feet stayed where it was.
Yet her body tilted sideways ahead of her.
Ria reached for the doorframe.
Before her hand could find it, the Hero's arm came around her from behind, catching her at the waist.
"Ria."
This time his voice was close.
She leaned into his arm and closed her eyes for a moment. The lights lingered faintly behind her eyelids, then slowly sank away.
"I'm fi—"
The words did not finish.
She had meant to say she was fine, yet her lips stopped first. Whether she truly was fine—even Ria could not tell in that moment.
The back of the Hero's hand touched her forehead.
His hand was cool.
Ria opened her eyes.
"I thought your hand was just cold, Hero."
He did not answer. He laid the back of his hand against her forehead once more. This time he left it longer. In the short silence between them, her breathing had grown a little quicker.
"You've got a fever."
Only after the words came out did the pieces fall into place one by one.
The sting inside her throat.
The lips that kept drying.
The reason the soup had felt so distant earlier.
The way the sentences in the textbook had arrived late.
Ria started to put a hand to her own throat, then stopped.
"A fever."
It was her own voice, yet the meaning followed a little late.
The arm at her waist stayed where it was. When she set her foot down again, the Hero stepped back in time with her pace.
Ria took one step.
The first step went out.
On the second, strength reached her knee a fraction late. The Hero's arm tightened.
She gave a small, unnecessary laugh.
"That was a little ungraceful just now, wasn't it."
"Very."
"You shouldn't answer that quickly."
The corner of the Hero's mouth moved, just a little. His arm still supported her waist.
They walked slowly as far as the sofa.
Once she sat, the breath she had been holding escaped late. When she leaned back against the cushions, the delayed weight settled all at once into her shoulders and thighs.
The Hero went to the kitchen.
While he was gone for water, Ria opened her hand again.
A slender thread of gold gathered at her fingertips.
It was weak, yet the warmth was still there.
She raised the light toward her forehead.
The familiar warmth flowed from her fingertips. As it always did when she soothed a small pain, the light rested quietly above her brow. Yet the fever remained.
Ria drew her hand away for a moment.
This time she laid it at the base of her throat. The light rose again. But the sting inside her throat stayed exactly where it was.
She left her hand there for a while.
The light was clearly present.
It remained at her fingertips, and the heat remained at her forehead and inside her throat.
Ria lowered her hand.
When the Hero returned, she was still looking at her own fingertips.
"The light is here."
The rest of the words did not come.
He held out the water glass.
When she took it in both hands, his hands hesitated a moment before letting go. She saw it and tried to smile a little, but her throat stung, so she drank first.
Where the water passed, it grew quiet for a moment.
The Hero's gaze fell on her fingertips—the place where light had been only a moment ago. Fingers that now held nothing at all.
He took the glass and set it on the table.
"Shall we go rest now?"
Ria looked at her fingertips for a moment.
No more light rose.
She slowly closed her fingers.
This time she reached for the Hero's arm first.
The strength in her fingertips was weak. Even so, she held that arm and stood.
All the way to the bedroom, Ria walked on her own feet.
When her steps lagged once, she stopped herself and caught her breath. The Hero stopped with her pace.
Only when she stepped forward again did he move with her.
At the edge of the bed she sat first.
Only after she sat did his hand leave her.
The room was quieter than the living room. Even the lights outside the window felt a little farther away here.
Ria opened her hand once more.
No light came.
She looked down at her palm and let out a very small breath.
Countless foreheads rose in her mind.
A small child's burning brow.
A new mother's damp hair.
The rough breathing of a soldier returned from the battlefield.
Each time, she had stood at the bedside. She had gathered light at her fingertips and waited for breath to return.
Today she sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at a hand from which no light would rise.
Ria lifted the corners of her mouth a little.
The sting in her throat cut the smile short.
From the bathroom came the sound of water.
She looked that way.
A moment later came the sound of a towel being wrung.
Once.
And a little later, once more.
The Hero returned carrying a wet towel.
He stopped on the way, checked the temperature with the back of his hand. His expression grew uncertain, and he went back into the bathroom.
Ria watched his retreating back and, even through the ache, smiled a little.
The hand that held the second towel hesitated less than the first.
The Hero sat beside the bed, folded the towel once, then opened it again. His fingertips were a little clumsy as they smoothed the corners.
Ria watched the whole process.
He laid the towel across her forehead.
It was cold.
Ria opened her eyes.
Not light, but wet cloth.
No prayer, no incantation—only a coolness that simply stayed long upon her brow.
"Is it supposed to be this cold?"
Her voice came out a little small.
"The first one was colder."
"It's a good thing you didn't put that one on."
"I think so too."
The dampness at the edge of the towel slowly cooled.
A few strands of silver hair caught in the edge of the cloth.
The Hero's fingertips drew the damp hair free. It was the same touch he often used after she showered.
Only then did Ria close her eyes a little.
Her hand rose slowly.
Her fingers found the edge of the towel.
She pressed the cold, damp cloth very lightly with her fingertips.
The cloth stayed where it was upon her forehead.
The fever was still there, and her throat still stung.
Yet the tension behind her eyelids eased a little.
She left her fingertips on the edge of the towel a moment longer.
The chill of the wet cloth clung to her fingertips.
Ria looked at that hand for a moment, then laid it down upon the blanket.
The coolness of the wet cloth remained quietly upon her forehead.
The Hero set the water glass on the nightstand, then picked it up again and moved it a little closer.
"It was too far, wasn't it."
Instead of answering, Ria tapped the glass lightly with her fingertip.
It was within reach.
When she touched the glass, the Hero finally leaned back against the chair.
"Do I… look very sick?"
He paused a moment, as if choosing his answer.
"A pretty face that's sick."
"That is a strange answer."
"It isn't wrong."
Ria started to laugh, then closed her lips again as her throat stung. Even so, a little of the smile remained this time.
Beside the bed the chair shifted softly. The Hero sat.
Ria closed her eyes.
A wet towel lay upon her forehead. The heat inside her body was still there.
With her eyes closed, she moved her hand a little toward where the glass stood.
Cool glass met her fingertips.
The cup was within reach of her hand, and the wet towel remained upon her forehead.
As if confirming that fact, Ria closed her fingers and slowly shut her eyes.
