Hyunjin
The funeral hall is deathly silent, so quiet that you could hear a pin drop. The only sounds are muffled footsteps, the rustling of funeral robes and the crackling of incense. The air smells of smoke and cooled tea.
Next door, in the mourning hall, everything is arranged according to the rules of Sangnye—the set of funeral rites and traditions that close a life and accompany the soul to the threshold of the other side. These are rituals that make sense only when we try to wrap our grief in ceremony. During them, people come to jomun to show their respect and offer condolences, just as we do now. Sangnye is stricter than Jesa, which takes place later at home, in the quiet among those who remain. There, in hushed voices, we remind ourselves that a soul is never lost—only moved elsewhere.
In the middle of the funeral hall stands a frame containing a black-and-white photograph. Jiwook.
His smile remains on the paper, but he is absent from the room. The photograph is mounted on a white board in a black frame. Above it hangs a black ribbon, with two white stripes forming an inverted V, and below the photograph is a wooden plaque bearing his name. Next to it is a bowl of rice, with a burning incense stick in it. The smoke curls upwards, forming an irregular line between this world and the next.
Jiwook was young. His body deserved to live. He was..., in the wrong place at the wrong time. We all say that, because other words would hurt more.
His mother kneels before the altar in her funeral clothes. Her palms are clenched so tightly, that her knuckles turn white. Tears stream down her cheeks, but nobody dares to wipe them away. I lean forward slightly, light a stick of incense, let the smoke rise and bow three times before his photo. Three times, slowly and deeply, my forehead almost touching the ground each time.
Taeju is doing the same thing next to me and the Kang brothers are standing behind us. Taesung is standing nearby. He's watching me, unsure of how to behave in a moment like this. I nod at him. He takes a deep breath, steps forward and bows in the same way. Three times. His hands are shaking slightly.
There's something special about it. His bow is sincere and pure, unlike the rest of us, who have long since learned to wear sadness as part of our job.
After a moment, we all quietly move to the tables of food. There are so many bowls of rice, kimchi, fish and fruit that they form a sea of white and red. We worship Jiwook with food because sometimes words are not enough.
We all sit at one low table, my legs folded under me and my hands resting on my knees. A white band with three black stripes hangs from my left sleeve, a sign of mourning. Everyone around me has one too.
Jiwook's mother pours tea for everyone, but her hands are shaking as she pours the hot liquid from the pot into cups. I gently place my hand on hers, just to show her, that she can do it. Her eyes are red, but she looks at me and nods.
„He was a good man," she whispers.
„I know," I reply quietly. My voice breaks more than I would like to admit.
We sit in silence for a long time. The smoke from the incense slowly dissipates, as if disappearing with Jiwook's last breath. No one speaks, only the occasional scratching of chopsticks on porcelain or a suppressed sob breaks the silence.
I close my eyes for a moment.
When I open them again, I see Jiwook in front of me for a brief moment. I thank him in my mind for his devotion and service.
After the ceremony, I am the first to stand up. I approach the photo frame one last time and adjust the ribbon, which has slipped slightly to one side.
„Rest in peace," I say simply. No pomp, no words of honour. Just a quiet farewell.
I hear movement behind me. Taesung quietly approaches me.
„He was more, than just a bodyguard to you, wasn't he?" he whispers into the silence. „Was he your friend?" he asks timidly.
„He was my man," I reply. „And sometimes that means more," I add after a moment's silence.I leave first. My feet slip on the wooden floor, which creaks under my weight. I put on my shoes and step outside into the cold morning air, which is mixed with the lingering smell of incense on my clothes.
I look back one last time, at the room, where the candles are still burning.
Everything, that cannot be returned, remains there today.
... ༺༻ ...
BLOOD DEBT (피의 빚)