In the quiet living room of Mrs. Young-ja's home, steam rose slowly from two cups of tea, drifting above the small table like wandering spirits.
Hemi sat across from her, fingers tightly interlocked with visible nervousness, her exhausted gaze fixed on the elderly woman's face, finally waiting for the truth she had chased for so long.
Mrs. Young-ja let out a deep sigh, closed her eyes for a few seconds, then began speaking in a low voice:
"I once had a small family… a husband, a daughter, and a life I thought would last forever."
A faint, fading smile appeared on her lips and disappeared just as quickly.
"My daughter was in middle school, and my husband worked at a private real estate company. I didn't work back then… I spent my days shopping and meeting friends."
She paused briefly, then continued more softly:
"But I loved going home. I loved cooking for them… I lived only to see the exhaustion fade from their faces when they sat at the table."
Hemi's fingers slowly moved over her warm cup.
Mrs. Young-ja stared into the empty space ahead of her.
"And then… everything ended."
The words came out in a disturbingly calm tone.
"A car accident… took my husband and daughter at the same moment."
Her lips trembled slightly.
"After that, I stopped understanding time. I woke up only because my body had not yet died."
Silence filled the room for a moment.
Even the rain outside the window felt distant and sorrowful.
Finally, she continued:
"Six months after the accident… I went out one night to drink with acquaintances. I wore heavy makeup and drowned myself in perfume, as if I could escape the smell of death clinging to me."
She lowered her head slightly.
"At that time, I truly believed I was the most miserable person in the world."
Then she slowly raised her eyes toward Hemi.
"But I was wrong."
Hemi felt a tightness in her chest.
Mrs. Young-ja continued, her voice now seeming to come from somewhere far beyond the room:
"I couldn't find a parking spot, so I went into the alley behind the restaurant."
"The sky was pouring heavily. The streetlights barely pierced the darkness."
She paused.
"And there… I saw him."
Hemi held her breath without realizing it.
"At first, I thought he was a garbage bag near the dumpster."
A bitter smile crossed the woman's face.
"But he moved."
Hemi closed her eyes briefly.
"I got out of the car with an umbrella and called out to him."
She paused again.
"When he turned toward me… his eyes were completely empty. It frightened me."
"Then he hid behind the dumpster like a wounded animal."
Her hands trembled as she clasped them together.
"He was clutching a dirty rice ball… grains stuck around his mouth."
Her voice shook more:
"His lips were turning purple from the cold, and his clothes were nothing but torn rags that couldn't protect him from anything."
Hemi lowered her head as silent tears fell.
Mrs. Young-ja seemed to be seeing the child in front of her once again.
"His body was covered in bruises."
She breathed slowly.
"And blood…"
She stopped.
"Was everywhere."
Silence returned.
Even the sound of rain outside felt heavier.
"Please… continue," Hemi whispered, trembling.
The woman nodded slowly.
"I saw a knife nearby… stained with blood."
She raised a trembling hand slightly, as if still remembering its weight.
"I don't know why… but I didn't think too much."
"I wrapped him in my coat, took the knife, and brought him home."
She closed her eyes for a moment.
"When I started washing his body… the water turned red."
A chill ran through Hemi's arms.
"I washed the knife too… and then I got rid of it."
She lowered her voice further:
"As if I were hiding a crime I didn't even understand."
Her lips moved slowly again:
"I dressed him in my daughter's clothes."
Her breath trembled.
"And that night… he slept beside me."
She paused.
Then her voice broke:
"He kept screaming in his sleep: 'Oma… Oma…'"
Silence filled the room.
Hemi did not dare speak.
After a long pause, Mrs. Young-ja continued:
"In the morning, I tried to ask his name… about his family… anything."
She shook her head slowly.
"But he didn't remember."
She sighed deeply.
"He only trembled and cried."
She looked up at the ceiling, as if replaying the moment.
"And one day, he suddenly looked at me and said: 'My doll became alive.'"
Hemi's fingers trembled violently.
Mrs. Young-ja gave a small, pale smile.
"I was afraid to get attached to him."
"My heart couldn't endure another loss."
She leaned slightly forward.
"So I handed him over to people I knew who ran a good shelter."
"I supported them financially for years… but I refused to know his new name, or see his photos."
She lowered her gaze.
"I only asked one thing: did he regain his memory?"
She exhaled slowly.
"And then I completely stepped away."
After a pause, she whispered:
"I was afraid."
She raised her eyes toward Hemi.
"That blood… I didn't know if it was animal blood… or human."
Her voice froze for a moment.
"I didn't know if he was a victim… or something else."
Slowly, Mrs. Young-ja stood up and walked to an old wooden cabinet.
She took out a worn photo album and sat back down.
She flipped through the pages silently until she stopped at a certain picture.
She placed her finger on it for a moment, then pulled it out and handed it to Hemi.
"This is him."
Hemi quickly took the photo, then placed it in her bag, avoiding looking at it directly.
But the widening of her eyes revealed what she was trying to hide.
The woman noticed… but said nothing.
Instead, she stood and walked toward the window.
"I went back to cooking after that."
She smiled faintly.
"I opened a small restaurant… to make the dishes my husband and daughter loved."
She paused.
"But that child…"
She sighed.
"He taught me how to live."
She turned back to Hemi and wrote something on a small note.
"This is the address where I found him twenty years ago."
She handed it over slowly.
"Go there and look."
Then added more seriously:
"But do not mention my name to anyone."
Hemi lowered her head silently.
Mrs. Young-ja watched her for a long moment before speaking:
"I don't know why I trusted you…"
Then she gave a tired smile.
"But I believed the sadness I saw in your eyes."
Just as I trusted my intuition that night many years ago…
I admit… sometimes I still doubt it.