#cho yi hyun

Kdrama: All Of Us Are Dead

Park Solomon & Cho Yi-hyun

Cho Yi-hyun as Nam Ra

ALL OF US ARE DEAD (2022-)

Choi Yi hyun

I felt like forever watching this drama. Every episode is like 2 hours so I’m like budgeting my hours per day lol. However, I learned a lot from these gals. Though my weakness is memorization, I think I can do it too if I focus in my dreams. Dreams seemingly attainable because people surround them were supportive and friends are family to them. In this drama, you’ll learn to know the value of life, the life of doctors, the life of being saved by them. My bias here is Lee Ik-Jun! Hands down to the director!!! I can say that he’s such brilliant. I’ve already watched Reply 1988 and so many references remind me of the guys and how their friendship were just like in Hospital Playlist. Amazing and worth the watch❣❣❣ The soundtracks will make you sing on the top of your lungs!

Hospital Playlist 1 & 2 (2020)

Links:AO3,Fanfiction.net
Fandom:All of Us Are Dead (Netflix, 2022)
Character(s):Lee Su-hyeok, Choi Nam-ra
Status:Complete
Summary: The path to happiness is long and winding for Su-hyeok and Nam-ra, but eventually, they get there.

say my name and i’ll follow you home

…

prelude

Su-hyeok dreams in black and white – long, inky hair against a crisp, clean shirt, burning wood in a bonfire started by a lighter, thick clouds hanging in the sky as a palm gently pressed his knee.

He wakes with his hand outstretched and her name on his lips.

It’s cool and sweet, like melting snow after a long winter.

…

Nam-ra dreams in red – the hazy scarlet that clouds her gaze, the steady stream of crimson dripping down her chin, the stains, deep like rubies, that will never leave her hands.

She wakes with an aching hunger tightening her throat, and it’s only the memory of his voice calling her name that lets her breathe again.

It’s like a tether, a string around her finger, the phantom touch of fabric tied around her wrist.

…

i.

Life under quarantine is a lot like high school, if Su-hyeok’s being honest.

There are designated mealtimes, physical checkups, mandatory exercise, and even math and writing classes to attend. It’s mundane and more than a little boring, but he can’t complain, not when he has a bed, clean clothes, a roof over his head, and the knowledge that there are no monsters lurking in any of these streets or dark corners.

It has been one month since they made it to safety, but it feels like only yesterday.

He can still remember every last detail – the hours spent sitting in that cold, damp cell, the doctors poking and prodding with needles, the whirlwind of questions that had seemed to go on for days.

Once they’d finally been cleared, once they’d passed all the tests and interrogations, the six of them were treated like brave soldiers returning home from war. In a sense, that’s exactly what they were, but they never should’ve had to be, and he feels resentment even now when eyes and whispers follow him around camp, when people burst into applause – or worse, tears – at the sight of him.

The adults keep trying to touch him, to pat his head or rub his cheeks as if he were a lucky charm, more bujeok than boy. And then there’s the way they look at him, with a cloying awe and hope, as if they hadn’t been the ones to leave him and his friends out there to die, as if they weren’t the reason one of them had chosen to stay behind.

Shortly after they arrive at the camp, news of their survival spreads all the way to the Blue House, and the government immediately jumps on the opportunity to rewrite the story of the outbreak, ending not with the tragic bombing of Hyosan but instead with the miraculous rescue of six surviving high school students. He wants to ask the reporters exactly who they thought had done the rescuing, because the way he recalls it, he and his friends had been forced to save themselves.

It’s a media frenzy after that. There are interviews and photo-ops and a never-ending parade of men and women in suits shaking his hand and telling him how brave he is, how happy they are that he survived, how bright his future will be. Their story is told and retold, with some pieces missing and other parts added, and the articles are often accompanied by photos from their school days. It hurts every time, seeing those pictures, remembering how young they had once been, looking upon the smiling faces of those they had lost.

Even now, months later, their names are repeated by news anchors and YouTubers alike, and most days, they’re still trending on social media. The headlines have other names for them too – the student survivors, the nation’s children, the Hyosan High Six.

He hates it.

He hates the nicknames, the constant attention, the reminder that so few of them survived. There should have been more of them, and there could have been, if only someone had bothered to help.

Most of all, he hates that no one will ever know the real story, that no one but them will ever know the truth.

It wasn’t just six of them who survived.

It was seven.

…

Slowly but surely, Nam-ra learns how to live again.

Three months after the bombing, the city is still under lockdown, and she spends her days walking the empty streets, drawing a map of this ghost town with her feet. To pass the time, she reads books and magazines, she writes, she draws, she learns to knit. When she’s hungry, she eats stale chips and canned fruit, and when she’s very hungry, she goes fishing. She’s gotten quite good at it, even if she’s still learning to tolerate the taste.

Every other week or so, she meets the other hybrids. They gather in a circle, sharing the locations of safe places to spend the night and teaching each other strategies for controlling their cravings, a sort of study group for their least favorite class. They are not friends and she does not miss them when they’re gone, but they are a family in their own way, bound together by the shared virus that still courses through their veins.

Most days, she is alone, and the solitude is familiar, welcome even. It’s not so different from her life before. The only thing that’s changed is her.

She hasn’t touched a human since that terrible day all those months ago. She refuses, time and time again, to listen to that voice inside her head, the one telling her to eat, the one telling her to feed.

Some days are easy and she barely feels the hunger at all.

Other days are harder.

Other days, her vision bleeds red and her bones crack beneath her skin and she feels more like a gaping hole than a living girl.

During those days, she goes back to her family’s apartment, puts on her favorite shirt, and lays down in her own bed. It makes her feel like her old self again, it makes her feel almost human again, and when she wakes, the hunger has dulled and her eyes are clear.

Truth be told, most days are hard. But she gets through them, somehow.

She tries not to think too much about the others, and that’s hard too.

She tries, and most of the time, she fails.

Once, in the early days, a week or so after she left them on that empty street, she had even tried to visit them. She made it all the way to the woods outside the camp, and she stood there, hidden among the trees, trying to catch a glimpse of them through the fence, hoping to hear their voices, at the very least.

She never did.

Instead, she was met with the sight of armed soldiers on patrol and the metallic clink of their guns echoing in her ears, and she remembered then that what separated her from her friends was so much more than just a wall and some fencing.

Back in their school days, she had always kept her distance, never really allowing herself to be a part of their world, and now, she never would be again.

She hasn’t been back to see them since, but she thinks about it often.

She is afraid of the soldiers and she is afraid of dying, but she fears the loss of her friends even more.

Perhaps she will try again in another month, maybe two, when she is no longer raw with regret and loss and the knowledge that they have been saved but she has not, that they will have a future while she will have only this, a life lived in secret, in shadows.

It’s not quite a life, she is not quite living, but she does it anyway, because what other choice does she have?

The outbreak, the virus, the bombing – she survived it all.

And on nights when she is cold and alone and hungry, she takes comfort in this.

Despite everything, she survived.

Even if it doesn’t always feel like it.

…

ii.

It was late summer when he last saw her and early winter before they finally meet again.

The sight of her is everything he’s ever wanted – it’s his dreams made real, it’s a relief, a reprieve from the constant ache of missing her, and it’s over far too soon.

Before he can react, she’s gone again, a flash of dark hair disappearing over the ledge of the roof, a soft thud of feet hitting pavement.

It’s not the first time he’s watched her go.

He refuses to let it be the last.

The next night, he returns, alone, and makes his way up to the rooftop. He lights a fire and takes a seat near its warmth, his eyes scanning the horizon for the slightest movement. He waits for hours, until the flames die out and the sun comes up, but she never shows.

He returns again, the next night, and the one after that, and the one after that. Su-hyeok has never been particularly patient, but for her, he will try.

He waits.

And waits.

And waits.

For 48 nights, he waits, and on the 49th, she returns.

…

Later, during their happy times, she asks him what he would’ve done if she’d never showed up.

Kept waiting, he shrugs, as if the answer were obvious.

She laughs, giving his a shoulder a gentle nudge, but the smile falls from her lips when she sees him looking back at her, his face solemn and sincere.

For how long?, she asks.

He replies without hesitation. Forever.

…

She hadn’t planned on going back.

Their reunion around the bonfire was supposed to be the last time, the only time, a chance for her to say a proper goodbye, so she could finally let them go, so she could leave them with the memory of the girl she was and not this other thing she has become.

It had been harder than she wanted but easier than expected, even if the sight of them had hit her like a fist, even if the sound of him saying her name had nearly unraveled her.

But it was okay. She would be okay. And she is, right up until the next night when she sees the bonfire burning again, when she sees one lone silhouette sitting across the flames.

She doesn’t go up to see him, but she does stay the night, watching and listening for the slightest hints of danger, waiting until he puts the fire out and makes it safely back to camp before she finally lets herself walk away.

He’s there the next night, and the night after that, and the night after that. And each time, she keeps watch from the shadows, keeping him safe from the other creatures out there in the woods, keeping him safe from herself.

A week passes, and she thought he would’ve given up by now, and then two weeks go by, then a month.

It’s the dead of winter, the air frigid enough that she can see her breaths, and still, he returns, night after night, waiting. Waiting for her.

Finally, she can no longer stand it.

Nearly two months after she said goodbye, Nam-ra steps out of the shadows and makes her way back up to the rooftop.

She hadn’t known then that this would change everything.

She had only wanted to let him in from the cold.

…

Many years later, during the bad times, when she is tired and bitter and lonely, she will wonder if it was a mistake to go to him that night, to open that door again and invite herself back into his life.

She could’ve saved the both of them so much heartache if only she’d ignored him and kept walking.

But then she pictures him all alone on that rooftop, shivering, holding his hands out to the fire, sitting patiently in the dark.

She imagines him waiting, night after night, for someone who never arrives, and the thought, it haunts her.

Maybe it was a mistake.

She would make it again in a heartbeat.

…

iii.

Their first date is in the back room of an abandoned clothing store. Their next one is in a windowless basement and the one after that, in the stairwell of a half-demolished building.

It’s not exactly the romantic night out that Su-hyeok would’ve planned, not the typical teenage romance he’s seen so many times in dramas, but they are not exactly typical teenagers, so he supposes they will have to make it work.

Honestly, it works better than it has any right to.

They develop a language of their own, a series of codes and signals to let each other know when and where to meet, and she always gets there first, admitting later that she likes hearing the sound of his footsteps coming up the street. It’s just as well, because he prefers arriving after her and seeing the way her face lights up when he enters the room.

They spend most nights together, talking about their hopes, their dreams, their fears, and everything in between. He could listen to her talk for hours, and he does, sometimes falling asleep and waking up with his head against hers and her hand wrapped around his.

In the mornings, he waits for her to leave before sneaking back to camp, and if the others notice that he’s in a better mood, they don’t say anything, and if an adult happens to stop by his bunk after lights out and notice him missing, they’re quick to cover for him every time.

They’re just glad to see him smile again.

…

Their routine goes like this:

He kisses her hello.

She kisses him goodbye.

And in between, they talk all night and into the morning.

Before they know it, six months have passed.

…

Their friends are genuinely glad the two of them have found each other again.

But they worry too.

They don’t see how this story could possibly have a happy ending.

…

A year after the outbreak, the lockdown in Hyosan is finally lifted.

The city reopens, and while some people return to their old lives, most do not, opting instead to make a fresh start somewhere new.

Each of the survivors from Hyosan High are given a generous donation by the government to help them start their new lives, wherever that may be, and of those six students, five of them choose to leave.

As for the sixth, he decides to stay, much to the chagrin of the adults around him. They urge him to reconsider, asking him why he would want to stay in this place, telling him that he’ll be wasting his life in this ghost town.

It’s only his peers who are silent, who don’t protest or question his choice. They understand why he stays and they are perhaps the only ones who do. On a cool summer day, they bid him goodbye, wishing him well, and then they are gone and he is the last living high school student left in Hyosan.

The adults shake their heads in dismay, wondering how he will manage now that he’s all alone.

But Su-hyeok has always been good at adapting.

And he is not alone.

…

In the end, they do get their happy ending.

But that doesn’t come until much later.

…

iv.

Before they know it, another six months have passed.

Su-hyeok buys a small house on the outskirts of town, and they move in together, giddy like newlyweds.

In the mornings, he goes to the library to study for the police exam, and she stays inside and paints. In the evenings, they have dinner together, and when it’s dark, they take a walk outside and look at the stars.

The city is no longer empty like it was in the early days, though it is still far from the bustling metropolis it used to be, and while the only people who might recognize her are either long dead or long gone, they still choose to be careful. There would be too many questions if anyone ever saw them out on the street, so they continue to live in secret, just the two of them.

It’s not so bad.

They have the days as well as the nights, they have music and laughter, they have memories of the times they’ve shared and the knowledge that there will be more still to make.

They have each other.

And life is good.

…

Su-hyeok still remembers the first time she ever said his name. Even now, years later, he still remembers.

It was halfway through his first year of high school and he’d been running out the front door at the end of the day, bumping into someone in the process and sending both their bags flying. He’d muttered a hasty apology as he picked up the books and papers scattered across the ground and when he stood up, there she was, the prettiest girl he’d ever seen.

He didn’t know her, and it would be another year before they were in the same class, but in that moment, he was smitten.

He apologized again, more formally this time, awkwardly handing her things back to her before turning away, wishing desperately that he’d had the guts to say something more.

Lee Su-hyeok, she had said then, and he stopped in his tracks at the sound of her voice, quiet but firm, the voice of someone who would one day give speeches or maybe orders.

He turned around, wondering how she knew his name, wondering if she would berate him for being so reckless, but she’d only looked at him with a cool, even stare. You dropped this, she said simply, brushing the dirt from his notebook before handing it to him and walking away.

It was nice, the way she had said his name, so formal and tidy, unlike the way he’d scribbled it onto his notebook cover. She had been so careful with it too. He had never been a very good student, and inside, the pages were covered with more doodles than notes, but she had handed it back to him like it was something precious.

He watched her go, her outline getting smaller and smaller until she disappeared from view, and from that moment on, he was hers.

He remembers this now as he watches her across the room.

She sits on their bed with a sketchpad in her lap, and her fingers move gracefully, like a dancer waltzing across the page.

He has never loved anyone as much as he loves her.

He doesn’t think he ever will.

…

Their routine goes like this:

He studies and she paints, and they cook, they clean, they talk, they laugh.

Before they know it, they’ve built a life.

…

Nam-ra finds herself wondering sometimes where she would be if none of this had ever happened.

Maybe she’d be living in an expensive apartment in Seoul and working a fancy, corporate job. Maybe she’d be on a plane halfway around the world. Or maybe, she’d still have ended up here in this house on the edge of the city where she grew up.

She wonders too what would’ve happened between her and Su-hyeok. If their world hadn’t been ripped apart and they hadn’t been forced together, where would they be?

Maybe they still would’ve ended up together, the high-school sweethearts who got married and started a family. Maybe they would’ve drifted apart in college and been banished to each other’s memories. Or maybe they would’ve been nothing at all, just another vaguely familiar name in an old yearbook, one among many.

When she considers all the options, even she has to admit that the life she has isn’t so bad.

She has a clean house, food on the table, and the knowledge that she is safe. She has good days and bad days, and these days, the good far outnumber the bad.

Maybe it’s not a fancy city apartment, and maybe she’s not traveling the world, but she has a boy she loves, a boy who loves her back.

She has never been happier than when she is wrapped in his arms, his embrace soft like silk but strong like a promise.

It’s one she would very much like to keep.

…

They have a life together, and it is good.

For a while.

…

v.

It’s two years into their relationship when the cracks start to form.

They don’t notice, not at first.

They’re just happy to have made it this far.

They have no way of knowing that six months later, they’ll be apart.

…

Su-hyeok is a police officer now, tasked with protecting the same city that so completely failed him, and it may sound noble of him, but it’s not. All he wants to do help people, to protect those who need it and make sure no one else is ever abandoned and left to die like he and his friends were. It shouldn’t be considered noble to do the right thing.

For the most part, the work is slow. The city is still on the rebound, and within the precinct he’s assigned to, the residents continue to walk around on tiptoe as if the virus may come back at any moment. There is very little crime to speak of, so he mostly rescues cats from trees and helps the neighborhood elders with their errands. Those same elders always whisper behind his back that it’s such a shame he never left the city, so much wasted potential, but Su-hyeok doesn’t mind. He makes a difference in the small ways, and that’s enough for him.

About nine months into his career, the work picks up in a big way. Crime rings across the country start flocking to Hyosan, and, to be honest, he can’t say he blames them. It’s the perfect spot for illegal activity, full of abandoned buildings and understaffed police stations. Su-hyeok and his team work overtime with the other precincts, but they’re just barely able to shut down one operation before another one pops up in its place.

He spends more and more nights sleeping at the station, and he hates leaving Nam-ra alone, but she never complains, just reassures him that she’ll be fine without him for a few days.

But then days turn into weeks. Weeks turn into months. And before he realizes it, it’s been half a year, and he’s spent more time at the station than in his own bed.

He can barely remember the last time they had a real conversation, ate a meal together, or took one of their evening walks. That night, when he returns after a late shift, he makes a point to apologize and ask her how she is. And just like before, she reassures him that she’s fine, that he doesn’t need to worry, that he must be tired and he should get some sleep.

But he sees the way her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. He sees the empty sketchpad shoved in the corner and the patio door and windows that have all accumulated dust on their handles.

His stomach drops.

Without meaning to, Su-hyeok has done the one thing he never wanted to do.

He has turned her into a prisoner.

…

Since the day she moved in, Nam-ra has seen their house as a safe haven – a place where she can let her guard down, take a breath, and make art.

There is no shortage of inspiration here, from the nature that surrounds them, from the simplicity in their everyday lives, and even from Su-hyeok himself. She loves drawing him. She loves watching him, memorizing his features as she puts pencil to paper and brings him to life on the page.

She’d had a passing interest in art as a child but had never dared to entertain the idea of pursuing it as a career, and even now, it seems foolishly naive to think her work may ever be seen by anyone but the two of them. Still, at his urging, she creates an Instagram account, posts a few photos of her favorite pieces, and within months, she’s amassed an impressive following. Su-hyeok is thrilled at her success and delights in calling her a famous artist, and she lets herself admit that it feels good, having this thing for herself, this skill she can be proud of.

There’s something poetic about it too, the fact that he makes the world a better place while she captures the beauty that already exists within it.

But beauty fades, and so too does inspiration, and the more time she spends in this small, secluded corner of the world, the less of both she can find. The scenery outside loses its luster, the small details of their lives suddenly seem so ordinary and meaningless, and even Su-hyeok’s face, which she treasures so much, has become hollow and weary from stress.

She barely sees him these days, and she doesn’t mind being left alone, but she does mind the state he’s in. If he’s not sleeping at the station, he’s stumbling through the front door past midnight and then rushing back out again before dawn the next day, and even on the rare occasion when he has a day off, he barely leaves the house, wanting to spend as much time with her as possible before he has to go back to work.

It breaks her heart, seeing the exhaustion on his face, but even worse is the knowledge that she is partly to blame.

His world has diminished so much since he met her, now a map of a single city with only two destinations – the police station and their house. This house, once their shelter from the storm, has become a prison, a cage, and without meaning to, she has locked both of them inside.

It had been so easy in the beginning to give up her freedom for the safety of four walls, a roof over her head, and his arms around her at night. But that decision had never impacted her alone, and now, he is the one paying for her choices.

The price is far too high.

…

They part ways after two and a half years together.

It’s more time than either of them ever expected to have.

It’s still not enough.

…

It’s better this way, Su-hyeok tells himself.

He has been so foolish to think that he alone could make up for everything she has lost, so arrogant to think that his love for her could be worth more than her freedom.

She did not suffer so much pain to be stuck in a small four-room house for the rest of her days. She did not survive so much only to live half a life with him.

She deserves more than he can offer her right now, a bigger life, a brighter one, and he hopes she finds it one day, even if he’s not there to see it.

It’s better this way, he tells himself.

Maybe one day, he’ll even believe it.

…

It’s better this way, Nam-ra tells herself.

He is not meant for the solitude, not this man who is so bright and shining, who attracts friends and admirers wherever he goes, who is always ready to offer a helping hand.

He is meant for a life lived out in the spotlight, or at least out in the open, and she can give him neither of those things. She can give him only her heart, and not even she would make that trade.

She has spent so much of her life living selfishly in her own world, but this time, she will put him first, even if it she has to break her own heart to do it.

It’s better this way, she tells herself.

That doesn’t make it any easier.

…

A question: what do you call two lovers who want to be together but can’t?

The answer: a tragedy.

…

vi.

Somehow, life goes on.

She misses him, and it hurts her, but she welcomes it too, the pain, the longing.

It reminds her that she’s still human.

…

Nam-ra has a new identity now, a small apartment of her own in Incheon, and a variety of odd jobs she works to pay the bills.

She continues to make art – soft watercolor landscapes, vivid acrylic still-lifes, and abstract mixed-media designs. Her social media following continues to grow, and she starts getting offers from buyers and gallery owners alike. Most of her pieces she sells, hiring gig workers to make the deliveries, and she does shows and exhibits occasionally, though she never attends in person. She ignores all interview requests and event invitations and though it’s been five years since the outbreak, she continues to be cautious, more out of habit at this point than necessity.

She still sketches, too – charcoal or pencil drawings, portraits of faces lit with a smile or softened with sleep. It’s always the same face, the one that fills her pages and her memories, the one she only ever sees now in dreams.

She never posts these drawings, never sells them, never shows them in a gallery.

These, she keeps for herself, like a secret.

Like a treasure.

…

After three years, she moves to Seoul.

She’s a full-time artist now, the inspiration she had once lost now returned to her tenfold. Her days are filled with paint on canvas, and she has an assistant she’s only met over email who helps manage the logistics of her business.

A few times a year, she makes her work available for sale, and then a few days after that, she gets a list of all the buyers, their names and addresses.

Many of them are Korean, but some are foreign, from America, from Canada, from France. It comforts her, knowing that her art has traveled the world even if she hasn’t.

She still misses him, and even after all these years, his absence still hurts, but it’s less of a knife to the heart and more like a pebble in her shoe. With a little more time, it may become just another one of the many aches in her daily life, like the constant hunger, the headaches whenever there’s thunder, and the pang of losing her family, her friends, even her own name.

She has learned to live with so much already.

She will learn to live with this too.

…

Life goes on, after all.

Life goes on.

…

vii.

On the tenth anniversary of the outbreak, the government marks the occasion with a special ceremony to honor the heroes and survivors and pay tribute to the fallen.

It’s the perfect day, sunny with a slight breeze, and hundreds of mourners make the journey to the site of the bombing, now a beautiful memorial park. Among them are five former students of Hyosan High School, and for all of them, it’s the first time in nearly a decade since they’ve been back to their hometown.

The sixth, the only one who never left, knows the way to the memorial by heart.

The seventh watches the broadcast alone and cries the entire time.

…

After the ceremony, Su-hyeok meets his old friends at a nearby restaurant, and over chicken wings and beer, they catch each other up on their lives.

It’s a high school reunion of sorts, though they never actually graduated together, and Su-hyeok feels an immense relief to finally be back with his people, his fellow survivors, the only ones who understand what it’s like to have this invisible wound that still hasn’t healed, not even now, a decade later.

They swap stories for hours, and it’s not quite a rooftop bonfire, but it’s close, better even, because they’re safe now, because they survived, because they still have each other.

At the end of the evening, the group parts ways, splitting into two taxis headed towards the train station and the airport. They ask Su-hyeok if he wants a ride home, but he just shakes his head and says there’s somewhere else he still needs to be.

His friends watch him walk away, and once he’s out of sight, they shake their heads sadly. They can all guess where he’s going, even if he doesn’t say it. They had seen the way his eyes lingered on the memorial wall during the ceremony, the way he’d pressed his hand to one name in particular.

They’re not surprised, just disappointed that his story didn’t have a happy ending.

…

But the story isn’t over just yet.

…

Nam-ra takes the last train out of Seoul and makes it to Hyosan after midnight.

She hadn’t planned on coming, but it feels wrong to let this day go by without paying her respects in person.

The memorial park is empty when she arrives, and the only things left from the earlier ceremony are the flowers and wreaths still lining the path.

This is the first time she’s been here, the first time she’s seen it at all. She remembers reading an article a few years ago announcing the construction of the park, but she hadn’t wanted to know any of the details and had avoided all news about it after that. She was afraid that seeing it, even in pictures, would make her lose her resolve and would send her back to his door asking for another chance.

Now that she’s here, she sees that she was right to fear because it is beautiful, full of lush greenery and water features that give it the feeling of an oasis, and she immediately wants to stay, to lose herself in memories and regrets and possibilities.

She has to pinch herself to let go of the fantasy, and as she makes her way to the memorial wall, she tells herself that this will be the last time.

As she gets closer to the stone structure, she notices a soft glow at ground level, and though reason and logic yell at her to stop walking, hope and yearning propel her forward, one step at a time, one foot in front of the other, until she is there in front of the bonfire, before a lone silhouette crouched by the flame.

Her breath catches at the sight of him, his face illuminated by firelight, and she stops breathing entirely when he lifts his gaze to meet hers.

Su-hyeok, she whispers, startling at the sound of her voice in the air. She hadn’t meant to say it out loud and his name hangs there between them, soft and delicate like a single strand of thread.

As she watches, he closes his eyes, and a look passes briefly across his face, one she’s never seen before.

Su-hyeok, she repeats, and there it is again, that strange expression, there and gone in a flash. But then he straightens, opening his eyes and taking three steps until there is a mere breath between them, and she is focused only on the sound of both their hearts beating in unison once more. She has so many things she wants to say to him – I’m sorry, I missed you, forgive me, I love you – but first, there is a question she must ask him, something she has been wondering ever since she arrived.

Have you been waiting long?, she murmurs, placing her palm against his cheek.

He smiles at her then, and it is bittersweet and hopeful all at once.

No, he answers. Not long at all.

…

The truth is, he waited five hours.

The truth is, he waited seven years.

And it has all been worth it, just to hear her say his name again.

She whispers it like a prayer, and though Su-hyeok is not religious, for the first time in his life, he feels holy.

…

The next train back to Seoul doesn’t depart until dawn, so they go back to his apartment to wait.

It’s a short walk, and though they don’t talk much along the way, the silence between them is comforting. She takes in the sights and the sounds, relieved that the city has recovered and now hums with life once more, and occasionally, he points out a restaurant he likes, a bookstore he frequents, a coffee shop that always gives him a police discount. It’s nice, learning about his favorite places, and she’s glad to hear that he has them.

When they make it to his apartment, he busies himself making tea, and she doesn’t ask him when or why he moved, but he tells he anyway, admitting that it was too hard to live in that house without her, that he sold it shortly after she left.

They lapse into silence again, a teapot and two mugs sitting untouched between them.

Nam-ra, he says after a moment, and her eyes immediately prick with tears. It has been so long since she’s heard her own name, her real name. She’d almost forgotten the sound of it.

Nam-ra, he repeats, gentler this time when he notices the look on her face. Why did you come back?

She has been asking herself the same question these past few hours, and there are so many answers she could give – to honor the tenth anniversary, to satisfy her own curiosity, to remember and pay tribute to the lost – but none of them would be true, not really.

The real reason is much simpler than all that, but it’s much harder for her to say.

Because I missed you, she confesses, and she knows it will change everything, these four words, but she says them anyway.

She says them because it’s the truth, because he deserves to hear it, and more than anything, she says them because she has been numb without him all these years, and she is ready to come in from the cold.

…

In the morning, he takes her to the train station.

On the surface, nothing has changed between them. She still lives in Seoul and his life is still here in Hyosan. They still say goodbye. He still watches her go.

But as he makes his way back to his apartment, it’s with the knowledge that her number is in his phone and it’s with the memory of her fingers clasped tightly around his own.

They didn’t make any promises last night, and there are still so many things they need to consider before committing to a future together. He doesn’t even know when he’ll be seeing her again.

What he does know is this:

He will wait for her.

For another five hours or another seven years.

He will wait for her.

For as long as it takes.

…

Their second time around is much easier than the first.

It’s as simple as turning the page and starting a new chapter.

…

coda

It has been twenty years since the outbreak, and the time they’ve spent together now outnumbers the time they spent apart.

They live in a neighborhood with a thriving art scene, in a house that’s within walking distance of the station where he works. The memorial park is only a few subway stops away, close enough to visit before dinner but no so close that they can see it from their yard.

After everything, they’ve still chosen to stay in Hyosan.

But of course they did.

It’s the city where they both grew up, the city where they first met and fell in love, the city that finally brought them back together.

For all the tragedy they suffered here, they also have a life, one that’s filled with love and laughter and light.

It’s the black and white of a fresh stick of charcoal against blank canvas, the press of piano keys on a sunny afternoon, a monochrome wedding photo hanging in the living room.

It’s the red of a fiery sunset during an evening walk, a bouquet of rosy tulips brought in from the front yard, a handful of garden-grown tomatoes fresh from the vine.

It’s a life where they survived, where they are together, where they are happy, and it is enough.

It is home.

…

Fin

…

Notes:

The red string/thread of fate (referenced in prefaceandvii.) – the belief in many East Asian cultures that soulmates are joined together by an invisible red string tied around their fingers.

Bujeok (referenced in i.) – a traditional talisman meant to ward off evil spirits.

49 days (referenced in ii.) – the Buddhist belief that a soul is reborn 49 days after death.

Thank you for reading.

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{All of us are deadedition

~Yoon Chan-Young~ ❕◼️}