Page 48 of The Way Back Home

He growls, “No, I’m not,” and pulls out a cigarette. He puts it between his teeth and looks over at me as I lean on the rail beside him, then offers the pack. “Want one?” The words come out garbled around the cigarette.

I shake my head. “I quit, remember?”

Ryowoon gives me a look from beneath his lashes, something flickering in his eyes. “I remember. Just thought you’d need it for this conversation.”

I wait while he lights up, just looking at him in the dim light. Taking in every bit about how he’s changed, how he hasn’t. The way his hands cup around the flame, shielding it from the breeze. The way the lighter catches the planes of his face, throwing shadows across his cheekbones. The ink curling up from beneath his sleeve when he lifts his arm.

He exhales smoke and tips his head back, looking at the sky. “So. Came all this way to yell at me?”

“No.” The anger’s drained out of me now, leaving quiet behind. Now that I’m here, now that I’m looking at him in person, I can barely believe it. “Mrs. Nam passed.”

Ryowoon goes still. His eyes stay fixed outward, not looking at me, but he says quietly, “I know. I heard.”

I frown. “You heard? How?”

“I follow some of the kids from school on social media. Saw the posts about it a few weeks ago.”

My brow furrows. “What? You have social media?”

He scoffs, giving me a chagrined look. “Of course I have social media, Seyeon. I’m thirty, not eighty, for crying out loud.”

I resist rolling my eyes. “No, I mean, I searched everywhere. Tried looking you up under a thousand different names. You’re not on anything.”

He grunts. “Well, I don’t use my real name online.” Then, quieter, under his breath, “And I might’ve blocked you.”

I close my eyes. My hands fist at my sides. I try to find patience, try to breathe through the irritation rising in my chest.

Then I blow out a breath and open my eyes again.

He turns his head slightly and quirks a brow, prompting, “What about it? What about Mrs. Nam—what does that have to do with you being here?”

“She left you something.” I reach into my jacket and pull out the sealed envelope, showing it to him. “Both of us something, apparently. Under the condition that this part of her will can’t be opened without both of us present.”

Both of his brows shoot up. He stares at the envelope, and I watch the emotions flicker across his face. His eyes slide over both of our names printed on the front in Mrs. Nam’s handwriting.

“She sent you after me,” he says finally, his mouth curling on one side, bitter and knowing.

I nod.

Ryowoon straightens, exhaling. He rubs at his face with one hand and then puts out his cigarette against the railing, shaking his head. “Of course she did.”

I nod toward the apartment. “We should probably sit down to open it, don’t you think?”

He makes a face, mouth twisting like he wants to argue, but then he turns and I follow him as he unlocks the door.

I have no idea what to expect stepping inside. Part of me imagined something chaotic—clothes everywhere, empty takeout containers stacked on surfaces, mess from living alone without anyone to answer to. But the reality is nothing like that.

It’s quiet. Simple. Just a small space, one bedroom from what I can see through the cracked door down the short hallway. The main room has a couch, a low table, a small TV on a stand. The kitchen’s barely separated from the living area, just a narrow counter with a two-burner stove and a sink. But it’s clean. Organized. Everything has a place.

The furniture is dark and simple, worn in but cared for. There are no pictures on the walls, no awards or certificates like the ones my mom has hanging in her house. But there’s a thick blanket folded neatly over the back of the couch, books with worn edges stacked on the table, a coffee mug sitting on the counter beside the sink. It’s lived in. Private.

Ryowoon gestures toward the couch without taking off his jacket. He drops down onto the floor instead, folding his legs beneath him with his back against the side of the couch.

I watch him as he settles, the slow careful way he moves, the slight wince when he tucks his legs under. The motion makes my chest tighten but I don’t say anything.

I sit on the couch, the cushion sinking slightly beneath me. The envelope crinkles in my hand.

Ryowoon looks up at me from the floor and gestures toward the envelope. “Let’s get on with it so you can get out of here.”