The morning was slow, and the sky was grey, like a breath stuck in the chest. Last night's windstorm rattled the windows all night, leaving the world outside damp and still. Puddles sparkled in the yard, and a few clothes from the laundry line had fallen, scattered like petals across the stones.
Soo Young woke up before anybody else. Her eyes were heavy, but her mind was not yet at peace. She had a dream about her father, not the kind of dream she used to conjure as a child, but a clearer image, holding a radio in a static field, whispering something she couldn't understand.
As she entered the kitchen, she saw that her mother was already up and preparing soybean stew. The house smelled like garlic and broth, earthy and familiar.
"You're up early," her mother said, not looking back.
"I couldn't sleep," Soo Young replied. She stood and stared at the curve of her mother's back, and how her hair was tied in a bun with a single wooden stick.
After a moment, her mother turned the heat down low. "I heard the voices last night. The ones on the tape"
Soo Young swallowed. "You listened?"
Her mother then looked at her. "I didn't need to. I knew the sound of your father's voice." She turned away and started stirring the pot again, but her voice softened. "He always said too little, and yet somehow, he carried the weight of too much."
They didn't talk for a while. The stew was simmering. A fly was buzzing near the window. A rooster cried out in the distance, but it was late; maybe he also slept through his alarm.
"I'll go back to the outpost today," Soo Young said.
Her mother nodded, unsurprised. "Then eat first. You'll need strength."
As they started to eat, Jun Ho was already at the doorway, shaking off the rain from his sleeves. Soo Young's mother asked him to sit and eat with them, and he respectfully greeted them and sat down at the table. Tae Soo had gone to get Dae Sik from the shed out back. This place was his refuge when things got too heavy indoors.
As they ate, Soo Young's mother placed her spoon down and looked at her daughter.
"You remind me of him," she said. "Not in the face. In the stubborn way you carry your silence."
Soo Young blinked. "I don't mean to—"
"I'm not saying it's bad," her mother gently interrupted. "Only that silence has weight. Don't carry it alone for too long."
It was the closest her mother had said "I worry about you" in a long time.
After breakfast, Jun Ho prepared the cycle. The road leading to the old outpost wasn't paved; it snaked through rice fields and pine woods, uphill and mucky after the storm. Soo Young tied a small scarf around her head, wore her father's jacket around her waist, and sat on the cycle with Jun Ho, following through the wet morning.
The outpost wasn't a lot. Just an abandoned concrete structure integrated into the hillside, half covered by moss and vines. It had likely been a watchtower once, where guards would sit with cold hands and warm hopes. A decaying door slumped from its support. Inside, it smelled of damp earth and old time.
"This is it," Jun Ho said. "You've been here before?"
She nodded. "When I was little. I used to play here. There was something comforting about it… like even if no one was watching, someone once did."
They went inside. Water was dripping from the ceiling through a crack. The floor was cluttered with rotten wood, time-worn crates, and the shadow of dust. A battered, tiny desk stood under a cobwebbed window.
They started working quietly, moving debris, lifting floorboards. Just when she began questioning if they were still on the right track, Jun Ho's voice rang low.
"Here."
He had forced open a concealed compartment under the desk. Inside was a tin box, weather-beaten and sealed with twine. Soo Young took the box, her heart beating fast, and undid the knot with trembling fingers.
Inside: a second reel.
And a folded note.
She opened the note first.
"If you've found this, that means you were brave enough to search. There are things I never said, not because I didn't want to, but because I thought I had more time. What I did wasn't just for the country. It was for you. For all of you. Forgive me if I couldn't stay to explain it all.
Don't be afraid of the truth. Just hold it gently, like you would a wounded bird."
— Appa
She covered her mouth with her hand and said nothing for a long moment.
Jun Ho gently took the reel from her hand. "Let's take it back."
But Soo Young shook her head. "Not yet. I want to hear it here."
Jun Ho understood. He set up the small portable player he brought. As the tape started to spin, Soo Young slowly walked towards the window, with her father's letter in one hand, and the other resting on the frame.
The voice emerged.
Her father again, but different this time. Less cautious. Softer. Some parts cracked, where the reel had lost quality, but there was still enough.
"…sometimes I wondered if you'd even want to know. Maybe it would be better if I stayed just your quiet Appa, who fixed shoes and told bedtime stories. But I couldn't leave without at least trying."
There were locations, names, and snippets of people her father had helped. Families who were separated after the war, children whose names were no longer on record, and men wrongly accused of treachery.
Her father was not just a technician. He was a witness. He was a protector of records that others wanted to forget.
By the time the reel ended, Soo Young's eyes were red and her cheeks were wet. She didn't realize she was crying until the tears ran down her chin.
She wrapped the reel in her scarf and tucked it into her jacket. Then they left for home.
As they returned, dusk was growing. Her mother stood at the entrance, folding laundry under the dimming light. As she saw Soo Young, she came to her, not with words, but with a quiet embrace.
Soo Young put her head against her mother's shoulder.
"I heard him," she said.
Her mother didn't ask her about anything or even what he said. Instead, she just held her tighter.
That night, instead of going to bed, Soo Young sat with her siblings and her mother near the fire, eating roasted chestnuts and watching the flames flicker. Jun Ho stayed back till late, occasionally helping her youngest sibling with his math homework, though he had no idea what he was doing.
The house felt warm.
Not because it was safe and peaceful. But, for the first time in a very long time, it felt sincere.
And in the quiet of that evening, in between the laughter and cracking firewood, Soo Young started to hope for something she hadn't dared to believe in a long time:
That healing doesn't always begin with answers.
Sometimes, it begins with the courage to ask.