Golden

The escape had been more meticulously planned than I expected. Everything was arranged through people none of us knew directly.

The truck that took us to Seoul was a one-ton vehicle on the verge of being scrapped, borrowed from someone hyung knew at the surf shop. Once we arrived and parked it at the pre-arranged spot, the owner — who would follow us by express bus — would come to retrieve it.

Through hyung’s senior and direct superior from the military, we were connected to a private investigation agency. We only stayed at the inn for the first two nights; by the end of them, the agency had already arranged a room for us to lease.

We had left behind a letter implying that if they came looking for us before we made contact ourselves, we would resort to stronger resistance — perhaps even self-harm. Even so, there was a real chance they'd go to Morae's address first, trying to pick up our trail. In fact, it was very likely.

To prepare for that, we needed the agency's help to cover our tracks as thoroughly as possible.

The agency director, a sunbae¹ of hyung’s former military superior, didn't look like someone who worked in that line of businesss — though I couldn't be sure what that was supposed to look like. If anything, the owner of the surf shop looked far more the part.

"Don't even touch the money in your bank accounts. We'll take over that account as is. For us, we just need to launder it a few times to get it out. I'll give you the cash equivalent, so use only cash from now on. I assume you won't be using credit cards either — I don't even need to say it, right? These days even ordinary people watch enough movies to have that much common sense."

While complaining that work had gotten tough lately because clients who'd watched a few movies now acted like experts and tried to tell him how to do his job, the director retrieved from his safe the cash equivalent of what hyung and Morae had saved.

The money hyung had set aside over roughly a year between high school graduation and enlistment — spending nothing, buying nothing new — combined with the allowance Morae had been quietly accumulating since childhood amounted to a considerable sum.

"What? Does it look small now that you're seeing it in cash? Should I count it out in ten-thousand-won bills just to spite you?"

The director gave a slight smirk toward us as we sat stiffly, still tense. No matter how neatly he was dressed in his office suit, no matter how cleanly his hair was styled, moments like that made it clear he was someone who moved in the shadows.

"Just kidding, just kidding. Fifty-thousand-won bills are simply easier to store."

That money went entirely toward securing a place to live — no need to hide it deep in drawers or beneath the floorboards.

It was a large sum for us, but the only rentals we could afford in Seoul with that amount were a semi-basement or a rooftop room. In terms of being hot in summer and cold in winter, both were equally miserable — but we agreed the rooftop was better, since at least you could see the sun.

Even though it was far from the subway station, and reaching the bus stop meant climbing a rather steep staircase, we felt reassured by the director's guarantee that we could live there undetected for at least one or two years.

A guarantee that this escape wouldn't end as nothing more than a feeble act of defiance.

For now, that was enough.

Since we had no spare money, the only furnishings in our small rooftop room were a modular storage box for clothes, bedding, and a few essential kitchen items. That was it. Morae remarked that it actually made the room look more spacious, which was a nice way to look at it.

It had already been about three weeks since we moved in.

Whether the meticulous preparation had paid off, or simply luck, our daily lives had settled in without any serious signs of threat. Before a week had even passed since the move, I had started working part-time at a moving company, while Morae and hyung had both secured jobs beforehand.

"What Happened in Bali."

The café, tucked deep into a residential area instead of a busy commercial district, evoked a free and unhurried southern beach atmosphere that matched its name perfectly. The owner was hyung’s former military superior — the same one who had connected us to the agency. Hyung worked as a prep cook, and Morae worked the floor.

After finishing the evening service, the owner would share the day's leftover ingredients, and then hyung would practice by cooking the café's menu at home.

Sitting on the wooden platform near the rooftop's edge — which had been there since we moved in — drinking a can of beer and swapping stories about the day over hyung's cooking had become one of our daily rituals.

We were young, more than the word "young" could capture, and things like the noise from the newlywed couple downstairs who fought like clockwork every other day, or our modest rooftop room that would surely turn into a sauna come midsummer, didn't matter to us at all.

Even though the climb up sixty-two stairs was arduous, the night view of Seoul from up here wasn't cold or forbidding. It sometimes resembled the lights of squid fishing boats floating far out at sea, and at other times brought to mind Van Gogh's The Starry Night.

Those were days when liberation and vague dread swirled together — a baseless excitement in my chest, and underneath it, the feeling of being chased.

"So who was that person?"

Morae asked, clearly interested in the story of my day.

"She's the younger sibling of my mom's friend. She was my art teacher briefly when I was little."

Hearing that the person was connected to our parents, a subtle expression flickered across both their faces before quickly disappearing.

"And you ran into her again just like that? That's something. You'd probably win a gift certificate if you sent it in as a story to a radio show."

Morae gathered the last bite of her nasi goreng onto her spoon as she spoke. Despite her effort to lighten the mood, hyung’s expression remained slightly tense.

"She already knew about my family's situation. My aunt told her."

"...Really?"

Only then did hyung relax and take a sip of his beer.

"She worked in Hong Kong until about four years ago, then came back to Korea. Now she's at a private gallery."

"A gallery? If she was teaching you art and now works at a gallery, she must have been in the art world all along."

Morae finished chewing her last bite of nasi goreng and swallowed before looking over at me.

"I guess so," I said idly, spinning a beer can with about a third of its contents left in my hand. "She mentioned she has three exhibitions lined up right now, so she doesn't have time to worry about the house. When I went to help her move, the place was a complete mess."

I'd drunk a little more than usual today. Maybe that was why I felt a slight warmth in my cheeks despite the pleasant breeze.

"Are you going to do it?"

That was Morae — her tone suggesting she hoped I'd accept the Teacher's offer.

"I'm still not sure."

Hyung said that if seeing that person was difficult, there was no need to go through with it. He was worried it might only end up reopening old wounds.

But seeing the Teacher's face hadn't felt difficult at all. In fact, the very first honest emotion that came to mind when I recognized her was that I was glad to see her. Her face wasn't connected to painful memories.

"Seo Yeehyeon is practically a god when it comes to organizing. She's not offering this because she knows your situation and wants to help — she happened to need someone qualified, and you fit perfectly. If you're worried about being a burden, don't be. That would be more of an insult to her. Just decide based on what you truly want."

After finishing her meal, Morae said this and took a long, refreshing gulp of the beer she'd been saving.

"Right. I should."

That was my answer. But it wasn't easy to pinpoint where my heart was actually leaning.

"Morae and I are both working, and we're not in any urgent need of money right now, so take your time deciding."

"Okay."

Hyung seemed to be approaching this more cautiously than Morae. People react to wounds in all different ways...

The next day I had to be in Gwangjin District by seven. It was time to wrap up before the newlyweds downstairs started their nightly war. I needed to fall into a deep sleep before that.

When I opened the flimsy front door — the kind that looked like it would fall off its hinges if any reasonably built adult gave it a few hard shoves — the narrow kitchen space just beyond was barely large enough for two people to lie down side by side. Past the sliding doors that opened on either side was the room.

The private investigation agency director, who had shown us this place on behalf of the landlord who'd moved to Jeolla Province, had emphasized that it was a "semi-separated studio apartment."

Morae and hyung took the room, and I took the kitchen. That was how we divided it and laid out our bedding.

The two of them had strongly objected — asking why I insisted on sleeping in the kitchen when there was space in the room, accusing me of making them feel like a burden — but I simply wanted to protect them that much.

Even if they didn't act like a couple in front of me, I knew their relationship wasn't made up only of the easy, friendly warmth they showed me.

"Yeehyeon-ah, just sleep in the room with us. Nuna’s cool with it, okay?"

Leaning against the frame of the open sliding door, Morae watched me lay out my bedding in the kitchen and delivered the same line as always.

I sat down on the soft new mattress, hugged a pillow, and looked up at her with a deliberately playful expression.

"Nuna."

"Yes?"

"I'm fine too. I'll sleep here."

Morae let out a small laugh, then smiled warmly with affectionate eyes. With a quiet "good night," she disappeared beyond the door.

Still, we couldn't keep living like this with only one door between us. It was fine now while the weather was warm, but once autumn came, cold air would seep in through the flimsy front door. And I didn't want the two of them to keep feeling sorry for me, keep carrying that weight on my behalf.

I knew their escape wasn't simply a romantic elopement — it was a kind of struggle to live as themselves. That was precisely why I hated that even after finally seizing that hard-won freedom, even after finally having the chance to love openly, they still couldn't share even casual physical affection without restraint.

I'd followed their lead up to this point. But there was still the matter of my own life.

Lying on my back with my hands clasped behind my head, facing the ceiling, I could faintly hear hyung and Morae talking quietly beyond the sliding door — its opaque glass panels divided into chocolate-square shapes. I couldn't make out what they were saying.

Even though I'd told them I wasn't sure what to do when they asked, I was well aware that this was not the time to be picky. If the work paid, I had to do something first.

Even when I lay down to sleep, even when I closed my eyes, the absence of the sound of waves made me truly feel how far we — how far I — had come.

TRANSLATOR'S NOTE

1. 1 Sunbae (선배) — Most commonly means "senior" in Korean, used to address or refer to someone with more experience in a school, workplace, military, or professional field. ↩ Back to text