Page 44 of The Way Back Home

My phone buzzes on the mattress beside me.

I glance at it, expecting another email from the academy or maybe my mom checking in. Instead I see a notification from the forum.

I set the container down and grab my phone, thumbprint unlocking the screen as I navigate to the post. There are maybe thirty comments now, a couple each day. I scroll through them quickly, skimming.

Saw someone like that in Ulsan maybe five years ago but lost track of him.

My cousin’s boyfriend has a scar like that but he’s from Daejeon.

There was a guy working at a garage in Gwangju who looked similar but that was ages ago.

None of it helps. Most of these I’ve already read, people throwing out vague maybes that lead nowhere. I’m about to close the app when I see a new comment at the bottom, posted twenty minutes ago.

The username is bluecar_97 and the comment is longer than the others.

Holy shit, the guy in this picture looks EXACTLY like this older man who lives in the building next to mine. Same face, same scar on his mouth and everything. I’m talking identical, just older. He’s got tattoos now but otherwise it’s like looking at the same person. I remember him because one time my card got declined at the convenience store between our buildings and he covered my kimbap and a couple drinks. I thought he was really nice even though he looks kind of intimidating. I always say hi when I see him now, he’s usually outside smoking on his balcony.

I stop breathing.

My hands are shaking as I read it again. Then a third time.

I fumble to type a reply, my fingers clumsy on the screen.

Do you know his address? Which unit he’s in?

I hit send and then sit there staring at my phone like I can will a response into existence.

The variety show keeps playing in the background, shrieking with laughter.

My phone buzzes.

I don’t know which unit sorry, but the building is in Sokcho, on the northeast coast. I can give you the address if that helps?

Sokcho.

Four hours north of here. A port town on the East Sea, tucked up near the border with the north. I’ve never been. It’s nowhere near Gyeongsang Province, nowhere near any of the places I’ve been searching. Completely off my radar.

I type back immediately.

Yes, please. Any information you have.

The reply comes fast.

It’s the Haneul Apartments, building B. It’s the one right next to mine on Jungang-ro. There’s a convenience store on the ground floor of my building and a fried chicken place on the ground floor of his. Hope that helps!

I screenshot the message. My heart’s hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.

This could be nothing. Another dead end. Some guy who just happens to look like Ryowoon did at eighteen.

But something in my gut tells me it’s not.

I shove the half-eaten jajangmyeon aside and pull my laptop over, already pulling up directions to Sokcho.

I wake up before my alarm, I shower, throw my stuff back in my bag, and check out before the sun’s up.

The drive north is long. Four hours if I don’t hit traffic, longer if I do. I stop only when I have to, pulling into rest stops for the bathroom and grabbing whatever’s quick. Triangle kimbap in plastic wrap, a can of coffee that tastes like burnt sugar. I eat standing up, leaning against the hood of my car, watching trucks rumble past on the highway.

The landscape changes as I drive. The industrial sprawl of the southern coast gives way to mountains, then flattens out again as I get closer to the East Sea. By the time I cross into Gangwon Province the light’s sharper, the air cooler when I roll the windows down.