Chapter 54: Weekend Rush
Saturday sunlight filters through the greasy skylight and ignites the steam coiling above the stockpot. Madam Kang paces the galley like a field marshal, wooden spoon tapping her thigh.
"Special forces today," she declares. "Min-ji on grill, I'm at soup, Seo-yeon—cash and plating."
The promotion lands with a metallic click somewhere behind my ribs. Front of house means trust. I nod, slip the battered money pouch around my waist, and flex blistered fingers. The welts ache, but pride overrides pain.
A fresh crate of samgyeopsal thuds onto the counter, slick with frost. Garlic, perilla oil, and rendered pork fat braid into a perfume so rich I almost forget to breathe through my mouth.
The first minibus coughs to a stop outside, spewing hikers in neon windbreakers and carbon-fiber trekking poles. They flood the doorway in a rush of laughter, wet nylon, and the sharp tang of cheap sunscreen. Phones appear instantly—shutters clicking like cicadas.
Min-ji groans. "Capital ants, invading for selfies with their soup."
I straighten my apron, plaster on a smile that feels real enough, and usher them toward the wall menu. The bell above the door rings again—another cluster in pastel parkas. Weekend, I remind myself, equals
The line stretches eight deep. Order slips pile beside the register like dominos; the grill hisses a tireless accompaniment behind me.
"Two pork-belly sets, extra kimchi, make it spicy."
"Mul-naengmyeon, no egg."
"Three makgeolli!"
I rattle totals faster than the calculator would: "₩48 000. Next!" Coins cascade, notes flutter, receipts bloom. Flow-state, Ha-eun murmurs from a nearby silence, watch your breath.
My chest expands with the comforting logic of mental arithmetic—this plus that equals enough. For a moment I feel as weightless as steam above the soup cauldron.
A tourist jabs a selfie stick over the counter. The sudden white burst of the phone flash detonates across my vision, bleaching the world to blank negatives.
For one heartbeat I'm back in the marble lobby, paparazzi bulbs hammering my eyes, Han Jin-su's hand on my shoulder like a claw. Pulse spikes—120 bpm, 130. I slap three fingers against my thigh.
Light—dark—breathe, Ha-eun whispers. The café narrows to three scents: gochujang simmering on the stove, sesame smoke rising from fat on the grill, rain-soaked polyester dripping behind the tourist's backpack. The triangle anchors me; color seeps back into the room.
"Cash or card?" I ask, voice steady. The tourist blinks, antenna of the selfie stick drooping, then orders two mandu plates in embarrassed silence.
A woman in a lavender visor scrolls her phone while the till processes her payment. The screen tilts toward me. INSIDER-TRADING PROBE EXPANDS screams a headline, thumbnail photo spookily close to my old press-kit portrait—sleek bun, glass heels, hollow eyes. My hand jerks; the coin tray clatters like cymbals.
Before the panic blooms, Min-ji slams the register drawer so hard the bell rings again. "Cash only today, folks—card reader's overheating!" She winks at me, then spins toward the grill, ponytail whipping behind her. Laughter rolls through the queue; the visor woman shrugs and tucks her phone away.
The icy knot in my stomach loosens enough for oxygen to slip through. Sister-instinct, Ha-eun notes with approval.
Grease sizzles down to a grumpy whisper. Tables lie scattered with empty clam shells and abandoned selfie props. I wipe a streak of sauce from my cheek just as Yujin breezes in, white coat flapping like a doctor on vacation.
"Takeaway coffee, fast," she says, scanning my trembling hands. Instead of cash, she slides a small index card across the counter.
Bold marker letters: STOP · BREATHE · NAME 5 SCENTS
"Pocket therapy," she murmurs. "Works even when I'm not around."
I press the card against my sternum as if it can slow the hammering underneath. "Thank you, Doc."
"Wash those blisters with saline tonight," she warns, then exits, leaving a wake of antiseptic lavender.
Steam fogs my glasses while plates clang in an endless chain. Hot water bites raw skin; each scrub feels like peeling onion layers off my palms. I surrender the ladle to Min-ji, who tosses me a cotton rag and a grin.
"Break, city girl. You earned it."
I shuffle toward the back hall, heat prickling the nape of my neck.
The narrow passage behind the noraebang smells of stale beer and mint urinal cakes. A floor-length mirror leans against cracked tile, glass already split by a branching vein that bisects my reflection.
I stand before it, apron crooked, cheeks flushed, bangs sticking to sweat. The woman staring back is no tabloid villain—just tired, alive, and dusted with sesame seeds. I trace the fissure; my finger trembles but doesn't break the surface. Not yet, I think, unaware of why the words feel prophetic.
Behind the door, someone belts a trot chorus off-key; the mirror vibrates, but holds.
I climb the rattling ladder two rungs at a time, lungs begging for mountain air. The rooftop greets me with a gust scented of pine and ocean and distant charcoal. Crowd noise below swells like surf crashing against steel.
The one-eyed cat hops from a vent pipe, tail flicking. I stroke its scarred head while flipping my gratitude notebook open to page two.
Entry #4: Kept my cool when the flash hit.
I add a shaky line beneath—Didn't run.
The cat purrs, vibrations thrumming against my palm. Down in the alley, another minibus engine growls—deeper, rowdier.
More waves coming, Ha-eun murmurs, equal parts warning and encouragement.
"I hear them," I whisper, pocketing Yujin's cue card. The edges bite reassuringly into my fingertips.
Somewhere a bottle cap pops, releasing the sharp scent of cheap soju into the afternoon heat—that will be furture storm. But on this rooftop, for five more breaths, I am steady.
Light—dark—breathe—release.
Below, neon jackets flood the doorway again. Above, gulls wheel over the ridgeline, their wings slicing the blue like scalpel blades—precise, inevitable. The rush has only just begun.
Chapter 55: Soju & Selfies
Golden dusk drips across Mount Valley Café's vinyl awning, turning the condensation beads into tiny molten suns. I am wiping the last lunch streaks from a plastic tray when the backpackers arrive—three men, two women—loud as migrating geese in bubble-gum parkas. Convenience-store soju bags jangle at their wrists; the sweet-vinegar scent of the alcohol reaches me before their words do.
"Hidden eats in Gangwon, baby!" the tallest woman squeals into her phone, thrusting a ring-light the size of a saucer toward the doorway. Min-ji stiffens beside me, tongs poised like daggers. "Get ready," she mutters, rolling her eyes so hard I hear it.
The squad storms the counter, cheeks already blotched pink. "Best kimchi-jjigae for Insta!" Neon-Jacket orders, sliding a debit card that glitters under the ring-light. I ring up the mountain of food—six jjigae, five bowls of rice, three extra samgyeopsal—and call the total. My voice emerges steady, but the flashlight gushes against my retinas with every syllable, sparking a pulse of migraine silver behind my eyes.
STOP—breathe—name five scents. I thumb the damp CBT card in my apron pocket while Madam Kang slams pork belly onto the grill behind me. One—burnt garlic. Two—fermented chili. Three—soju sugar. Four—metallic steam from the rice cooker. Five—my own sweat, sharp and nervous. The card steadies in my hand like ballast.
Out on the patio the sun has flattened itself against the ridgeline, painting every soju pouch ruby. The backpackers chant "One shot, one shot!" and down shots straight from plastic spouts. Min-ji hustles plates between them, face locked in a customer-service grin that threatens to snap. When the tallest man pulls her into frame, she hip-checks him playfully, planting herself between the lens and my station inside. I flash a grateful half-smile; she answers with a wink.
They swarm back to the counter for napkins. "You, too! Self-ie!" one of the women sings, latching onto my elbow. The ring-light circles me like a noose. I swallow, pulse jumping to 120. "Staff don't drink on duty," I say, voice thin but audible. The woman pouts, phone still hovering. Min-ji swoops in, pops a peace sign square in front of the camera, her ponytail fanning across the lens. "House rule," she chirps. The backpackers giggle and retreat, distracted by sizzling pork.
For one deceptive minute, calm returns—until Drunk-Hiker spins in a sloppy circle, filming a 360-degree panorama. His phone glides past the cash drawer, past the side pots, and lands on my profile for two full seconds. I see myself on his screen—flush-cheeked, hair escaping my kerchief, sweat glinting on my collarbone—and in the bottom corner the live-viewer count explodes from 42 to 110. A chat bubble flashes: Is that the banker girl? My stomach plunges.
The ring-light's LED halo flares again; the café tilts. Voices tunnel, bass frequencies sucked away until conversation sounds like it is happening underwater. I reach for the CBT card, but someone jostles the tray; broth sloshes, drenching the card until the ink feathers into pink paisley. Three-tap signal—impossible, my hands are buried in wet dish towels.
Light—dark—breathe, Ha-eun whispers, steady as a monk's bell. The edges of my vision blur, then tighten around a single pinprick: steam spiralling off a stainless pot. I lock onto it, count breaths with the spiral, feel my pulse drop to 100, then 90. The tunnel widens; voices return in stereo. I am still standing.
Min-ji slaps the ring-light switch. "New rule—no livestreaming staff faces. Grill smoke messes with autofocus anyway." Her joke lands; the squad crumples with laughter, apologetic palms fluttering. Neon-Jacket peels a fresh ₩10 000 note from her wallet and tucks it into our tip jar, followed by a chorus of imitation bows.
Relief flows through my limbs in a slow, tremulous wave. You stayed present, Ha-eun hums, pride warming each syllable. Sweat cools on my spine, salty and real.
Inside the kitchen, garlic-steam fogs the cracked window. Madam Kang counts the day's haul—notes splayed like playing cards across the cutting board—her husky chuckle punctuating each stack. "Record sales! We'll need another crate tomorrow." She hands Min-ji and me leftover hotteok wrapped in paper. My fingers tremble so violently the pastry threatens to fall; Min-ji presses a bottle of cold barley tea against my wrist until the tremor ebbs.
"Saved your face and your snack," she teases, voice soft. "Now breathe, Seoul eonni."
Gratitude swells thick behind my sternum. Later, on the rooftop, this moment will become notebook entry number five.
Closing chores spin into quiet rhythm: knives clack, hoses hiss, tables exhale crumbs. My phone vibrates with Yujin's profile pic and a single line: Remember—toes, scent list. I snap a photo of five sticky rice-flour fingerprints on my CBT card's ruined surface and send a thumbs-up emoji.
In the patio darkness the backpacker squad lingers, laughter drifting like soap bubbles. Neon-Jacket uploads the night's reel—progress bar filling while I scrub last broth stains from an enamel bowl. The caption #SecretCaféBeauties twinkles above my unseen profile frame.
I rinse the bowl, unaware, and let the water carry today's chili flakes down the drain. Somewhere in Seoul, an algorithm begins to chew on pixels of my face. I don't hear its first satisfied click; all I hear is the grill cooling behind me and Min-ji humming old Jeongseon Arirang as she locks the front door.
Tomorrow night the mirror will shatter. For now, dusk settles over the valley, and the sweet-sour perfume of emptied soju pouches drifts into the alley like a warning the mountains have not yet learned to translate.
Chapter 56: Slurred Question
Night settles like warm broth over Mount Valley Café. The dinner rush is a memory of overturned bowls and chili-streaked spoons; only the cicada-zap of the bug light and the citrus sting of dish soap remain. I wipe sticky gochujang from the last plastic table, wrists trembling with a fatigue that lives in the marrow now. Min-ji clatters bowls into a tub beside me, ponytail damp with sweat.
The neon rooster above the door flickers, sputters, catches again. Its seizure of light mirrors the twitch in my left eyelid. Almost done, I remind myself, rolling my sore ankle inside a splattered sneaker.
A chorus of whoops ricochets down the alley. The backpackers I thought we'd survived earlier stumble back into the patio glow, soju pouches swinging like IV bags full of moonlight. Ji-hoon—the tall one with a vlogger smile and flushed cheeks—raises his phone, ring-light blazing.
"Gangwon night-cap, y'all!" he slurs to a thousand invisible viewers. "Back at the #SecretCaféBeauties." The stream notification pings like distant gunfire.
Min-ji mutters something unprintable in dialect and shoulders past, but Ji-hoon pans after her, lens sweeping across the patio until it lands on me. The LED halo whites out my vision for a beat; heat blooms behind my eyes where the migraine still hides.
Ji-hoon lowers the phone, squints. "Wait." He takes two stumbling steps closer, the soju sloshing green over his knuckles. "Wait, wait, wait… I know that face."
Blood drains from my ears; the world's edges blur.
He leans in, breath sugary-sour. "You're that Maeil Biz banker chick, right? The insider-trading scandal—Lee… Lee Seo-something."
My name cleaves the air like shattered porcelain. Sound folds; all I hear is the dull roar of blood and the echo of Lee.
Heart rate spikes—one-forty, one-fifty. Light—dark—breathe,italic Ha-eun whispers, voice a silk thread anchoring me to the patio tiles.
A towel cracks against the table edge—thwap. Min-ji plants herself between Ji-hoon and me, shoulders squared. "House rule," she says, eyes bright as whetted knives. "No personal attacks on staff." She nudges his wrist downward; the phone camera stares at her apron instead of my face.
Ara, the friend in a bucket hat, tugs Ji-hoon's sleeve. "Oppa, you're wasted. Stop streaming."
He laughs, the sound brittle. "Just asking! Internet wants to know."
I inhale through a throat lined with pins. "Please delete the live," I say, volume barely above the grill's dying sizzle. My ruined CBT card is gone—left in last night's stew—so I have only breath and the slick edge of the counter beneath my fingers.
Ji-hoon sways, camera still rolling. "It's public domain, noona. If you're her, own it!"
Each syllable chisels cracks through the fragile anonymity I have cobbled together with dish soap and late-shift smiles. Tremor ignites in my fingertips, travels up forearms. Stay,italic Ha-eun murmurs, but her hands remain folded behind my heartbeat. Your legs, your choice.
Audio warps—laughter stretches into whale song, neon hum into submarine engines. The patio tilts. I grip the counter edge until laminates bite crescents into my palms. Pine-cool air ghosts across my cheek—Ha-eun's hush blooming inside my ribs. The tunnel closes a fraction; shapes sharpen. I am still upright. I have not disappeared.
The kitchen door bangs open. Madam Kang strides out, ladle held like a judge's hammer. "Night orders closed. You buy again or you leave." She slams the ladle onto the tray stack—clang—echoes ricochet through every empty bowl.
Ji-hoon startles; the livestream chat explodes with laughing emojis I cannot see. Ara bows half a dozen times, mouthing apologies. The group shuffles back toward the alley, camera still pointed over a shoulder.
"Scandal lady's got attitude!" Ji-hoon calls, voice fading into the night—and into the cloud.
Fluorescent lights buzz overhead like hornets. I lean against the steel sink, lungs hitching. Min-ji slams the back door mute, thrusts a cold rag into my hands. "You OK, eonni?"
I nod, which is easier than words. The rag is wet with barley tea; sweetness and chill seep into my wrists. Yet the air feels too thin, the room too loud.
"Name five colours," she prompts, remembering Yujin's trick.
"Red chili paste." My voice quavers. "Green scallion stem… yellow dish glove… brown soy-sauce jug… white rice bag." The colours tether me like fishing lines to a rocking boat.
*Good,*italic Ha-eun whispers, warmth returning to my extremities. Proved you could stand without me.
Madam boxes the night's take, oblivious. "Record sales again! Seoul kids spend like lottery winners." She presses a ₩10 000 note into my palm for bus fare; I flinch at the rustle. Min-ji watches me, worry tucked behind her grin.
The valley's night air smells of wet earth and extinguished charcoal. Min-ji insists on escorting me the two blocks to the attic. Streetlamps smear gold across puddles; karaoke bass thumps somewhere uphill.
We pass the hardware store's security mirror bolted to a lamppost. Its convex surface catches us in moon-bleached silhouette. My reflection lags a heartbeat, then warps—eyes widening, mouth glitching into an O before snapping back. I freeze, fingertips brushing cold glass.
The mountain wind prowls the alley, lifting a squeak from a loose sign. *Not real,*italic Ha-eun murmurs, yet unease coils tight as piano wire beneath my sternum.
Min-ji's hand lands on my shoulder. "Mirror's dirty," she jokes, but her voice tilts with concern.
I force a nod, step away, and the reflection slips back into obedient mimicry. Still, its afterimage clings to the inside of my eyelids—all edges and cracks, as if one more jolt might shatter both glass and the paper-thin shell of my disguise.
We continue uphill toward the attic door. Behind us, an unseen phone uploads a sloppy clip titled Scandal lady at secret café lol. The upload bar fills; the mirror keeps its counsel—for now.
Chapter 57: Broken Mirror Night
The wash-room door clicks shut behind me, sealing out the clatter of dishes and Madam Kang's broom. Inside, the single fluorescent tube trembles and whines, its blue-white light slicing the cramped space into cruel angles. Bleach ghosts rise from the mop bucket in the corner; chili oil lingers on my sleeves.
I brace both hands on the sink and meet my reflection. For a heartbeat it is only a tired woman with fraying bangs and steamed-open pores. Then a push-alert flashes across my cracked phone screen—CLIP HIT 3 000 VIEWS — MAEIL BIZ "BANKER BEAUTY"—and the mirror warps. My cheeks blur into the tabloid mug-shot I have tried to forget: corporate makeup, courtroom lighting, headline screaming beneath.
The bulb's buzz thickens into coastal wind; walls inch closer. Light—dark—breathe,italic Ha-eun whispers, but her words hitch like a skipped vinyl record. I reach for the coping card that used to live in my apron pocket—remember too late that stewed chili paste drowned it yesterday.
"Five things I can see," I gasp. "Tap… towel… drain… tile… me." Me fractures into two, then four; the mirror shows a kaleidoscope of anxious eyes. Pings multiply, metallic rain against porcelain. 4 200 VIEWS. 5 100.
Little crane, steady, Ha-eun tries again, voice fraying at the edges. Name the ground beneath— Static swallows the rest.
I slam the phone onto the soap dispenser. "Stop looking at me!" The echo ricochets off tiles. As if obeying, the handset slides, screen-first, into the sink—glass splinters with a soft, awful crunch. Sparks of reflected light dance across the mirror. My fist follows before thought can veto.
A crack like winter ice under bootheels. The mirror spiders from wrist-high impact, silver veins racing outward. One shard detaches, glitters in mid-air, and kisses the floor with a crystalline sigh. Pain registers late: a bright slice across my knuckles, blood welling quick and warm.
The world funnels to red, white, and buzzing blue. Heartbeat 160… 170. My knees sag. Override, Ha-eun orders inside me—then she is steering: snatching a hand towel, winding it tight over bleeding skin, pushing the lock with her elbow. Her commands arrive in clipped beats, the syntax archaic, half-missing. Hold fast … still thy quake …
Door flies wide. Kitchen corridor air—steamed rice, soy, freezer hum—rushes over us. Min-ji skids to a stop, tray of clean spoons rattling. Her eyes dart from the towel blooming crimson to the glass dust sparkling in my hair.
"Eonni, what happened?"
Ha-eun lifts my lips into a placid smile that is not mine. "A slip of hand. Fear not—safe now." The vowels roll odd, as though translated from some older century. Min-ji's brows knit.
She sets the tray aside and reaches gently for my wrist. "That's not just a slip. Come, I'll clean it."
Footsteps thunder behind. Madam Kang storms up, ladle scepter raised. "What's this crash? We're not insured for—" Her words fizzle when she sees the shattered mirror beyond the open door. A sigh, half anger, half worry. "Close shop. Shards everywhere. We deal with it tomorrow."
Ha-eun bows the body, but the motion wavers; I feel her grip slip on my muscles like wet rope. Energy… thin… The pine-needle scent that usually accompanies her steadiness flickers, replaced by the iron tang of blood.
Cold night folds around us as Min-ji guides me through the back door. Rain earlier has left the concrete damp; sodium streetlight turns puddles into molten copper. Insects thrum beyond the rubbish bins.
Ha-eun speaks once more, voice a candle in wind: Little crane, the night— Silence craters the inside of my skull. No breath-count, no pine, nothing. Empty as the Han before dawn. My legs buckle.
Min-ji catches my elbow. "Hey! Stay with me." She props me against the brick wall, presses the towel harder to stanch the bleeding. Her own breath rattles. "I'm calling Yujin-unni. You might need stitches."
Words stick behind my teeth; without the guardian's metronome, every syllable feels too heavy to lift. "D-don't… hospital," I manage. Exposure lives there. Cameras live there.
Phone lights bloom and fade in her hand as she hesitates. Somewhere on the other side of town, karaoke speakers bleed a tinny trot melody into the night. The sound swells, then recedes like tide.
Blankness sweeps over me, a blackout curtain drawn across consciousness. The alley tilts, streetlights smearing into comet tails. I fall inward, not outward; gravity becomes memory, then nothing at all.
Wooden steps bite into my spine. I blink, sandpaper lids rasping. The hallway outside my rented attic smells of old wallpaper paste and winter dust. A bare bulb hums overhead, haloed in cobweb lace.
Min-ji crouches opposite, her mascara smudged into smoky crescents. My ruined phone rests beside her—black screen starred with cracks. The blood-spotted towel lies between us like a surrendered flag.
"Thank God," she exhales, hands shaking harder than mine. "You blanked out. I couldn't carry you any farther."
I push upright; vertigo swirls but holds. Knuckles throb under the hasty bandage. "How… long?"
"Half an hour. You walked here but didn't know it—eyes unfocused, talking weird. Kept saying 'hold the vessel.'" She swallows. "Who were you talking to?"
Inside me: a void, cold and echoing. No whisper, no scent, no heartbeat shadowing mine. Loneliness sharpens every sound—the ticking bulb, the distant rain gutter, the drum in my chest. Panic flutters, tiny moth wings against a glass jar.
I clutch the banister, nails biting wood. "Where did she go?"
No answer comes—from hallway, from guardian, or from the fractured pieces of the night still glittering on a wash-room floor two blocks away.
Chapter 58: Aftermath Quiet
The hush after calamity is never true silence; it is a bowl ringing long after the mallet has left. In the dish-pit, shards still tremble across the steel floor like a field of frost, catching every jitter of fluorescent light. I stand at its centre, arms limp, fingers peppered with pin-point cuts that ooze along my wrists. Water runs but I do not feel its splash. Somebody has switched off the part of me that thinks.
"Unni…?"
Min-ji's voice slides in under the drone of the exhaust fan. She steps through the swinging door, eyes widening at the mess and at whatever expression is frozen on my face. A spoon clatters from the tray she carries; the sound is distant thunder inside cotton.
"Seo-yeon-ga, can you hear me?" She waves a hand before my eyes. No answer emerges, not even from the place inside where italic words usually bloom. Empty.
Min-ji mutters a curse in dialect, kicks aside a drift of glass, and moves with practised speed. She flips the "Staff Only" sign, bolts the door, and grabs two side-towels from the drying rack. The first presses around my right hand—heat, pressure, the faint bite of detergent perfume—yet I do not flinch. The second towel becomes a tether around my left wrist, her knot swift and sure.
"Small cuts, nothing deep," she murmurs, more to herself than to me. "Stay here, bean sprout."
A squawk from the countertop walkie-talkie: Madam to kitchen—status?
Min-ji snatches the device. "Pipe in the dish pit burst, ma'am. Water everywhere. We're locking up early, okay?"
Static. Then Madam's brusque sigh: Fine. Shut it tight and mop tomorrow.
Cover secured, Min-ji shoulders my backpack, snags my hoodie from the hook, and loops an arm around my waist. "We're leaving through the fire door. Left foot first."
The world lurches as she half-guides, half-drags me past overturned bus tubs. Shattered mirror dust crunches under her sneakers like brittle snow. I register the sound but not the meaning. My gaze floats to the ceiling tiles, follows a brown water-stain shaped like a chrysalis.
The alley greets us with a slap of night air. Cool damp rushes across my cheeks, smelling of wet cardboard and grilling pork from some late-night tent two streets over. Neon signage throbs ruby against puddles; its reflection quivers with my heartbeat. I bend at the waist, retching nothing onto the concrete. Still no pine scent, no second pulse guiding the rhythm of my lungs.
"괜찮아-ga? Breathe… in, out." Min-ji stands between me and a pair of passing tourists, blocking their curious glance with her small frame. The tourists totter on unsteady heels, still laughing about some bar. Their perfume hangs behind them like cheap smoke.
"Safe?" The single word rasps out of me, brittle as singed paper. It is the first sound I've owned since the mirror broke.
"Yeah. I've got you." She shrugs my backpack higher. "One step at a time."
The uphill road toward the karaoke house is slick, reflecting string-lights that zigzag above shuttered snack stalls. Each incline flares my calf muscles, but Min-ji's hand remains steady at my elbow. She chatters softly, coaxing me forward: "Almost there… Watch the pothole… Good." I manage a nod, trailing breaths like chalk marks so I can find my way back if consciousness slips again.
Crickets saw in the drainage ditch, their chorus swallowed whenever a distant car whooshes by. Above the rooftops, storm clouds stack like bruises over the moon. I count the flickers of streetlamps—one, two, three—to keep the panic walls from closing.
At the boarding-house gate, rusted hinges shriek. We climb the narrow wooden stairs that smell of old varnish and wet newspapers until we reach the attic door. Min-ji nudges it open with a stockinged toe.
Inside, the room is a cereal box tipped on its side—low rafters, single futon, faint mildew at the corners. Rain begins to tick on the tin roof, soft but insistent. Min-ji lowers me onto the mattress, then darts to the kitchenette tap. She returns with a plastic basin of lukewarm water, antiseptic packet, and the calm of someone who has mended worse wounds on siblings.
The sting of alcohol wipes wakes the nerves in my hands. I twitch. "Sorry," she whispers, blowing across the cut to cool the burn. The gesture is so tender tears gather without warning, spill down the slope of my cheek, and vanish into my collar.
"Drink." She presses an electrolyte pouch between my palms. "Doctor Yujin swears by these." I suck down syrupy citrus while she tapes gauze over the knuckles, every wrap tight but gentle. The small bucket she sets beside the futon smells of lemon cleaner— insurance against further nausea.
She rifles my backpack, pulls out a clean work shirt, folds it at the foot of the mattress. "If the one you're wearing sticks with blood, change. I'll wash the rest." Her practical litany grounds me more than any breathing exercise. The room steadies; the ceiling beam stops tilting.
At the threshold she hesitates, one hand on the chipped frame. Rain patters harder overhead, a mother's fingertip rhythm on the roof. "Tomorrow we sweep up together," she says, voice firm. "Until then, sleep. I got you, unni."
I try to shape thanks; only air squeaks out. She seems to understand, offers a half-smile, and pulls the door nearly closed, leaving a slice of corridor light—an escape hatch for the dark.
Alone, I test the inside of my skull. No echo, no silver thread, no alpine-pine hush. The silence is not peace; it is a cavern where a guardian once stood. Thunder rolls far off, polishing the quiet to a razor edge.
Five senses, I recite, voice a whisper: spider crackle of rain, cloth scrape of sleeve, iodine whiff of gauze, stale sweetness of electrolyte film on tongue, ache in right hand. Four things I can touch: futon quilt, cotton bandage, the cool plastic bucket, the warm skin under my collarbone. Three breaths. Two. One.
"Ha-eun," I murmur into the dimness, "come back when you can."
No answer. Yet the act of saying her name folds some warmth around my ribs. Outside, the storm gathers itself, palm-leaves rattling like coins in a begging bowl. Inside, my breaths deepen, slow, and finally hitch into the first fragile drift of sleep—alone but, for the moment, unafraid.
To be swept up at dawn.
Chapter 59: Mirror Shards
Splintered dawn leaks through the attic's skylight, a thin blade of pewter that slides across my eyelids. I jerk awake at its touch and collide with pain: hands wrapped in bandages, skin throbbing where tiny glass mouths bit last night. For three slow breaths I listen for the guardian's hush of alpine pine—nothing. The silence is a cliff-edge.
Count, Seo-yeon. One, two, three, four. I manage to sit, quilt rustling over sweat-damp clothes, and stare at the warped reflection in my tin cup of water: hollow eyes, gauze spotted brown, a bruise blooming beneath my jaw. Shame tastes like iron shavings.
A soft knock. Min-ji nudges the door with her elbow, steam curling from a metal thermos cradled in her hands. "Morning, city bean sprout 1.0. Still breathing?"
I nod. Speech feels risky, as though one word might shatter me again. She sets the thermos by the futon, flipping its cap. Ginseng and barley drift upward—earthy, grounding. Beside it she places a squat bottle of disinfectant and a fresh roll of gauze.
"Café opens in forty. We need to face the… crime scene." She wrinkles her nose, half grin, half grimace. "Ready?"
The idea of re-entering that mirror-bright room sends my pulse skittering, yet her steady presence offers a handhold. I peel back the quilt, slide into my hoodie, and follow her down the narrow stairs. Each step creaks like a question I'm not prepared to answer.
Fog still clings to the alley, softening the neon scars left by last night's rain. Min-ji keeps easy pace, talkative in the hush. "Madam's at market. We clean before tourists sniff gossip. Quick and quiet—deal?"
"Deal," I rasp. The single syllable scrapes my throat, but it is mine.
We slip through the back door. The café smells of soy-steamed rice and faint bleach, but beneath it lies another scent: the metallic tang of broken reflections. Sunlight spears through the front windows, igniting the floor in glittering constellations of shattered glass. It is beautiful in a knife-edge way.
Min-ji ties caution tape across the hallway and unpacks tools—vacuum, broom, shovel pan. "Big pieces first," she orders, voice turning brisk. She attacks the visible shards with the vacuum's hungry snout while I kneel behind the counter where fragments hide like snow under shadow. Bandages itch; every sweep of the broom bristles sends prickles up my wrists.
A shard the size of a contact lens catches on the gauze. I pinch it free, and the distorted eye staring back is mine—wide, frantic, accusing.
Where were you? The silent question detonates in my chest.
Pine and cold iron flood my nostrils. Little crane, release the blade. Ha-eun's voice unspools behind my ribs, as fragile as a reed flute. Startled, I drop the dust-pan; shards quiver across tile. A bright sliver slices through fresh bandage into my palm. Blood beads, vivid as lipstick.
You left. The accusation flames in my mind.
System overload required sleep. Her tone is thinner than I remember, syllables skipping like a scratched LP. Your cortical storm—too fierce.
So you abandon me when I need you most?
I protect where consent allows. When fear eclipses will, my tether frays. There must be rest intervals.
Glass crunches—Min-ji peers around the counter. "Everything okay over there?"
"Just…dropped the pan," I stammer, forcing a smile. She returns to vacuuming, but her wary glance lingers.
Inside, the argument spirals. I clench the fresh cut; pain rings like a bell. We made a bargain!
Not invincibility. Partnership. The guardian's voice flickers, dim-bright-dim. Signal sooner. Let me steady before the surge.
My throat tightens, yet some part of me understands: even spirits have fault lines. I inhale, tasting dust and disinfectant. "Then new rule," I whisper, lips barely moving. "I alert you before panic breaches. You demand rest when you need it."
Agreed. A whisper of approval, warm as a hand cupped around a match.
I press thumb to forefinger—our pinky-swear gesture impossible with gloves—then fold the bleeding palm until pulse and voice settle.
At the wash-basin I strip off gloves and rinse the gouge. Crimson swirls down the drain, chased by icy water. Ha-eun hums an ancient lullaby, harmony faint but present. I pluck a thumbnail-sized shard from the sink's edge, study its warped surface, then slip it into my apron pocket—penance and reminder.
Min-ji clicks off the vacuum. The dining room is glass-free, tiles gleaming damp. "Door in five," she announces, wiping sweat with her forearm. Walkie-talkie crackles: Madam: Good work, open up. Min-ji answers with breezy confidence, yet her gaze flicks to my re-bandaged palm.
"Next time I trip," I promise, voice steadier, "I'll shout."
She bumps my shoulder with hers. "City bean sprout ver. 2.0. I like upgrades." Laughter skims the surface of exhaustion.
At 06:30 we unlatch the front door. Two ajummas file in, gossip already tumbling from their lips. The soy-broth pot sings; radio jingle twirls through the air. I flex gloved hands, feel glass cuts sting inside gauze, and realise the café smells like possibility again.
Between orders Min-ji slips me a phone she'd rescued—a loaner until mine is repaired. "Emergency line," she whispers. The gesture tilts my world a fraction toward safety.
After the breakfast rush, calm settles like flour dust. At 10:15 the loaner phone vibrates. Pharmacist Yujin: Temple lantern folding tonight—breath exercises included. Come? Under the counter my thumb hovers over the keypad. The floor is mirror-free; my palm thuds in sore agreement with each heartbeat.
Maybe, I type, then add, Thank you.
Ha-eun murmurs approval, her tone stronger now, though still laced with fatigue.
In the break room at noon, ceiling fan stirring the humidity, I fish the tiny mirror fragment from my pocket. Light catches its edge, scattering rainbows over the broom closet door. I tuck it into the coin pocket of my jeans—close, but not cutting—an accountability token.
"One body," I whisper.
Two lessons learned, Ha-eun finishes, voice and breath braided at last.
The shard glints silver; the day moves forward, and outside, temple lanterns wait for paper, fire, and a steadier pair of hands.