The escape was planned more meticulously than I’d ever imagined. Every step was taken to avoid anyone we knew directly. The truck we used to reach Seoul was a barely roadworthy one-tonner that Han I’s surf shop contact had sourced. Once we arrived, we left it parked at our prearranged spot, and its owner, who’d followed on the bus, reclaimed it.
Next, a veteran sergeant from Han I’s unit introduced us to a private investigator. We stayed in a guesthouse only for the first two nights—after that, the PI’s office secured our long-term lodgings. He even left a letter hinting that, should Morae’s family try to track us down before he made contact, he was prepared to go to extreme lengths—even self-harm—to deter them. Despite that, we knew the odds were very high that her family would still pry into our whereabouts.
So we needed professionals to help us vanish without a trace. The PI’s director—Han I’s former NCO’s hometown senior—didn’t look the part of an underworld fixer at first glance. If appearances spoke, the surf shop owner looked more like a private investigator.
“Don’t touch the money in your bank account. We’ll take it over exactly as is. We can launder it a few times and withdraw it safely. We’ll give you the cash equivalent—use cash only. You know better than to use credit cards, right? Even civilians have seen enough movies to know that.”
The director complained about tedious clients who acted like experts after watching a few spy flicks, then produced enough banknotes to cover every penny Han I and Morae had saved: Han I’s year of thrift between graduation and enlistment, and Morae’s childhood allowances. It was a small fortune.
“Too little in actual bills? Want me to round it up with ten-thousand-won notes to make you feel better?” he teased, noting our stiff tension even in crisp suits. “Just kidding. Fifty-thousand won notes are easiest to handle.”
Without hiding cash in floorboards or behind wallpaper, we spent it immediately on securing our rooftop flat. It was all we could afford—a single room, cramped, reachable only by seventy-plus stairs, either a semi-basement or rooftop. Summers baked, winters froze, but at least the rooftop got sunlight. We agreed that would do for one to two years underground, hidden.
Three weeks have passed since we moved. So far, the elaborate preparations have paid off: no sign of pursuit, and our routines have settled into a tenuous normal. Within that first week, I started again at the moving company; Han I and Morae each had jobs lined up in advance.
The café—“What Happened in Bali”—perched in a quiet residential neighborhood, evoked the easy rhythms of a tropical seaside. The owner, another comrade of Han I’s old NCO, hired Han I as a kitchen helper and Morae as front-of-house. I cleaned tables and washed dishes.
Each evening after closing, we sat on a low platform on the roof, shared a beer with whatever leftovers the owner gifted, and replayed the day’s events. We were still so young—too young to care about the newlywed couple’s fights downstairs or the stifling heat that would come once the season warmed.
Climbing those sixty-odd stairs was brutal, but the Seoul nightscape from up there wasn’t cold or haughty. It glowed like squid-boat lights on the distant sea or the stars in Van Gogh’s Arles sky. Freedom, vague worries, the thrill of escape and the lingering anxiety—they all mingled in quiet waves inside me.
“So, who was that person you ran into today?” Morae asked, curious.
“Her younger brother’s my mom’s friend... he taught me to draw when I was little.”
At mention of my parents, both Morae and Han I registered subtle expressions that quickly faded.
“You reconnected with him? That’s wild. You could call into a radio show and win a gift certificate with that story.”
Morae spooned the last of her nasi goreng onto my plate. Despite her attempt at cheer, Han I still looked tense.
“He said he’s heard about our situation through my aunt.”
“Oh?”
Only then did Han I relax and sip his beer.
“He’d been in Hong Kong but came back to Korea about four years ago. Now he works at a private gallery.”
“A gallery? So he stayed in the art world after teaching you?”
Morae—finishing her last bite—nodded.
“Seems so. He’s got three back-to-back exhibitions right now, so he never has time to care for a place. When I went to move in, the house was a total mess.”
Twisting the remaining beer can in his hand, I admitted I’d drunk a bit more than usual tonight—I felt warm despite the cool breeze.
“Will you do it?” Morae’s question implied she hoped I’d accept the job.
“I don’t know yet.”
“If seeing him again upsets you, you don’t have to.”
Han I’s protective voice worried I might reopen old wounds. But seeing my former teacher filled me with warmth, not pain. The first feeling that sprang to mind was relief.
“Ihyeon, you’re basically a god at organizing. It wasn’t out of pity—he really needs someone—and you fit perfectly. If you’re worried about inconveniencing him, don’t be. That would be more disrespectful to him. Do whatever feels right.”
Morae drained her saved beer and set the can down.
“Yeah. I should.”
Though I agreed, my heart wavered—I wasn’t sure which way it would steer me.
“You’re both working, and money isn’t urgent for now. Think it over and decide.”
“Okay.”
Han I still sounded cautious—people react to old wounds in all kinds of ways.
Tomorrow, I had to be in Gwangjin by seven. It was time to call it a night—better to sleep deeply before the downstairs couple’s next shouting match.
The flimsy front door—so thin an adult could break it down—opened onto a kitchen barely big enough for two people to lie down side by side. Beyond sliding doors on either side lay the single room.
The PI had called it a “quasi one-room,” but it was truly separated: Morae and Han I in the room, me in the kitchen. We spread our mats accordingly.
They’d protested that I could take the room, but I insisted on the kitchen—it felt right to protect them, even if they never showed affection in front of me. I knew their bond ran deeper than friendship.
“Ihyeon, come sleep in the room with us. Will that make you feel cooler?” Morae teased as she leaned against the open door frame.
I sat on the soft new mat, hugging my pillow, and gave her a teasing look.
“I’m cool, too. I’ll stay here.”
Morae laughed, then gave me a warm, ❀ Nоvеlігht ❀ (Don’t copy, read here) loving smile before slipping through the door.
We couldn’t go on sleeping side by side forever—when autumn arrived, that thin door would let in a chill. I didn’t want them to feel guilty around me. I knew their flight wasn’t merely an elopement of love but a fight to claim their lives. Yet even in freedom, I resented that we couldn’t touch or hold each other freely.
So far, I’d followed their lead—but now I had to decide my own path.
Lying down with my clasped hands behind my head, I heard soft whispers beyond the frosted-glass sliding door—Han I and Morae talking quietly. I couldn’t make out the words. Though I’d told them I wasn’t sure, I realized this wasn’t the time to pick and choose. I had to earn money, any way I could.
Even in the silence, the absence of waves reminded me how far we’d come.
■ ■ ■
I spent my days painting alone until fourth grade, when I begged my parents to enroll me in art class. They signed me up immediately—but the classes bored me. Instead of learning to portray the world as I saw it, kids smeared paint on their palms, stamped sketchbooks, or splashed each other. After a week, I quit. My parents simply said, “Okay,” without asking questions. They didn’t refund the remaining three weeks of tuition—a kindness I only appreciated later.
Then my first private teacher appeared—someone who taught me not only how to transfer my vision onto paper, but how to see the world with an artist’s eye. Lessons felt like adventures: mundane surroundings transformed into pop-up Christmas cards. I drew twisted roots bursting from the soil—not just trees—and shadows across walls—not just houses. The world begged to be painted.
We worked together for about a year—until he likely graduated university and moved to Hong Kong. That was ten years ago. Han I and Morae had worried revisiting him would reopen old wounds, but the memories he evoked were distant and joyful.
“Oh, I feel alive once food gets in me.”
My teacher—now a gallery curator—leaned back after devouring twelve pieces of sushi from a rectangular bento.
“I’ve been so slammed I haven’t eaten since a kimbap at three.”
He watched me chew the unfamiliar sushi textures and smiled apologetically.
“Take your time. I’m sorry it’s just store-bought.”
“It’s the best sushi I’ve ever had.”
Tonight marked my fifth visit since accepting his offer. He wasn’t fully off the clock—he had materials to pick up after dinner before returning to the gallery. It was nearly eleven.
“What about college?” he asked, twisting open a water bottle cap.
“No.”
“And the drawing—do you still?”
“No...”
Though relief had filled me upon first seeing his face, guilt followed immediately—I hadn’t drawn in years.
