The morgue corridor was green. The floor where the fluorescent light reflected was green, the walls green. Sujin listened to the slap of slippers as she walked that corridor. The sound was her own. Slippers borrowed from the hospital. Her feet were cold. It was July and her feet were cold.
A queue ticket was posted at the reception window. Number 37. Sujin's number. Two people sat ahead of her. 35 and 36. Both wore black. Sujin wore black too. Above the reception window hung a notice board. 'Quantum Memory Access Center. Access requests may be filed only within 72 hours of death. Access is limited to one occasion, and after access the original data is deleted. This Center accepts no responsibility for psychological trauma arising during access.'
It had been 58 hours since her son died. 14 hours remained.
The quantum memory access system had gone into effect four years earlier. At first it was used only in criminal investigations. The memories of murder victims were restored to identify the killer. The accuracy was high. The conviction rate rose to 94 percent. After that, insurance companies began to use it. To distinguish accidental death from suicide. Whether a payout was made hung on the memory of the dead. And then access by the bereaved was permitted. The right to see a family member's final moments. Sujin had come to exercise that right.
Number 35 was called. A middle-aged man stood up. An envelope was in his hand. A white envelope. Probably a death certificate. There was an identical envelope inside Sujin's bag as well. He went in through the window. The door closed. Sujin sat in the chair and looked at her hands. There was dirt under her fingernails. Yesterday, sorting through her son's things, she had knocked over a flowerpot. A pot her son had kept. A cactus. Only needs water once a month, her son had said. Sujin did not brush off the dirt. It was the trace of the last thing he had touched while he was alive.
Number 36 was called. A young woman stood up. A photograph was in her hand. Someone's photograph. The woman's eyes were swollen. The trace of crying. Sujin had not cried. Not once since her son died. She could not cry. To cry was the end. Once it ended she would be able to do nothing. Sujin had something to do.
Number 37. Sujin stood up. She went in through the window. Inside, a clerk sat looking at a screen.
"Your relation to the deceased?"
"His mother."
"Name of the deceased?"
"Lee Junhyuk."
The clerk looked at the screen.
"Found July 14 in the Jamsil stretch of the Han River. Cause of death, drowning. Closed as accidental. Per the police record, one witness. Not intoxicated. No external injury. Water temperature 23 degrees. Current 0.8 meters per second. That correct?"
"Yes."
"Here is the access consent form. Please read and sign."
The document came down. A three-page document. Sujin began to read. 'This access replays, in visual and auditory form, the 72 hours of memory data before death, restored from the brain of the deceased by quantum interference scan. The restoration rate averages 83 percent, and omissions or distortions may occur. The accessed data is the subjective experience of the deceased and may differ from objective fact. After access, the original data is irreversibly deleted.' Sujin picked up the pen. The pen stopped above the signature line. Irreversible. See it once and it was over. There was no turning it back. The quantum scan read the residual electron states of the brain cells. The moment it read them, the states collapsed. It was a law of physics. That which vanishes when observed. Her son's last memory was the same. It could not be seen again. She could see her son's final 72 hours only once.
Sujin signed.
The access room was small. One chair. One screen. One set of headphones. The chair was shaped like a dentist's chair. The backrest tilted back. Sujin sat. The clerk fitted the headphones over her.
"Once playback begins it cannot be stopped. The 72 hours are compressed at 12x and play for 6 hours."
"6 hours."
"Use the restroom now, if you need it."
"I'm fine."
The clerk left. The door closed. The room went quiet. Only the sound of the air conditioner. Sujin set her hands on her knees. Her hands were cold. The room was cold too. A date appeared on the screen. July 12, 8:14 a.m. 58 hours before her son died. Sujin closed her eyes, then opened them. Playback began.
The screen brightened. The world came into view through her son's eyes. A ceiling. A white ceiling. It was the ceiling of her son's room. A ceiling Sujin knew. A ceiling she had papered herself three years ago. The day her son said he would not go to university, Sujin had papered it through the night. She had cried as she laid the wallpaper. Her son never knew. Her son got up. He looked at the alarm clock. 8:14. His hand came into view. Her son's hand. The hand Sujin had held. Small when he was a child. Now bigger than her own. Her throat tightened.
Her son went to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator. There was milk. Her son drank it. Not poured into a cup, straight from the carton. A habit Sujin hated. She nearly smiled. The corners of her mouth rose, then stopped. This footage was her son's last. Her son was drinking milk, not knowing it. He closed the refrigerator. A photograph was stuck to the refrigerator door. Sujin and her son. Taken last winter. Sujin had put it there. Her son looked at that photograph once. And then he passed on by.
Her son looked at his phone. A message had come in. Sender: Hyeongjun. Her son's friend. A name Sujin knew. A friend he'd known since middle school. The message: 'Jamsil pool, 3 p.m. Don't be late.' Her son wrote back. 'Got it.'
The footage sped up. Time at 12x. Her son changed his clothes. He left the house. He caught a bus. He got off at Jamsil Station. He walked to the pool. In front of it, he waited for someone. Sujin watched the screen. The waiting. Her son sat on a bench. He was swinging his legs. It was what he did when he was nervous. Sujin knew the habit.
Hyeongjun arrived. His face came into her son's field of view. Short hair. A black short-sleeved shirt. The last time Sujin had seen Hyeongjun was 3 months ago. Her son's birthday party. He'd brought a cake.
"You're late."
"The bus didn't come."
The two of them went into the pool. In the locker room they changed into their swimsuits. Her son warmed up. He rolled his arms. Sujin looked at his shoulders. Broad shoulders. He'd swum for 10 years. Since the 2nd grade. He'd competed. Second place in the school meet. 0.3 seconds behind first. It ate at him. 0.3 seconds. Sujin remembered him saying it. He was a boy who was good at swimming. A boy who wasn't afraid of water. That boy drowned.
The two of them swam. Freestyle. In lanes side by side. Her son was faster than Hyeongjun. He finished a lap first. He touched the wall and waited for Hyeongjun. Water filled her son's field of view. Blue water. Between the lanes the water sloshed. Underwater, her son opened his eyes. The world seen from below appeared. Blue light. Sujin couldn't take her eyes off the screen. The last water her son ever saw. Not knowing this water would be his last. The swim ended. They dressed in the locker room. They came out of the pool. Outside it was bright. The summer sun was fierce. Her son squinted.
"Let's go eat."
"Where?"
"Tteokbokki."
The two of them went to a snack shop. They ordered 2 portions of tteokbokki and 1 roll of gimbap. Her son ate. He picked up the tteokbokki with his chopsticks. He put it in his mouth. The heat made him open his mouth. Hyeongjun laughed.
"Still can't handle spicy?"
"I can handle it. It's spicy, that doesn't mean I can't eat it."
Hyeongjun laughed again. Sujin heard the way her son spoke. The stubborn, insisting tone. He'd been like that since he was small. Headstrong. Takes after you, her husband had said. Her husband left when her son was 7. Her son couldn't remember his father's face. Sujin raised him alone. Working at a snack shop. Rolling gimbap before dawn. Sujin knew the taste of the tteokbokki her son was eating now. Spicy tteokbokki. It would be much like the kind she used to make.
Evening came. Her son and Hyeongjun were walking the Jamsil stretch of the Han River. A wind blew off the water. Her son's hair lifted. The Han River filled her son's field of view. The setting sun was reflecting off the surface.
"Hey, Hyeongjun."
"Yeah."
A call ended. Her son set his phone down. Sujin's name was on the screen. Mom. Her son looked at the screen for 2 seconds. Then the screen went dark. Sujin watched those 2 seconds. Her son looking at her name for 2 seconds. That was the last moment her son thought of her.
"There's something I haven't told my mom."
Sujin's hand gripped the arm of the chair.
"What is it?"
"I quit the job. 2 weeks ago."
Sujin drew in a breath. The distribution center where her son had worked. He'd gotten hired 6 months ago. Sujin had been overjoyed. With his first paycheck he'd bought her an umbrella. A black umbrella. It hung by the front door.
"Why?"
"The team lead, he's… Makes you work overtime every day and doesn't pay for it. I hurt my hand sorting freight and he wouldn't even file it as a workplace injury."
"You've got to tell your mother."
"I can't. She was so happy about it."
Her son's voice grew smaller. Sujin heard that voice inside the headphones. Her son's voice. A voice that was sorry. Sujin gripped the arm of the chair harder. Her fingers were going white.
"Are you looking somewhere else?"
"I'm looking. But it isn't easy."
"And money?"
"My last paycheck comes in this week. I can get by a month on that."
Her son looked at the river. The water was darkening. Because the sun was going down.
"You bought your mom that umbrella. How much was it?"
"32,000 won."
"Weren't you broke after buying that?"
Her son laughed. He didn't answer Hyeongjun's question. Sujin thought of the umbrella hanging by the front door. 32,000 won. Out of her son's first paycheck. Sujin had never once used that umbrella. Even when it rained she kept it folded in her bag. Opening it felt like it would wear out. Because her son's heart was inside that umbrella.
July 13. 34 hours before her son died. Her son was at home looking at his laptop. A job site. He was editing his résumé. His résumé showed on the screen. Experience: distribution center, 6 months. Certifications: none. Education: high school graduate. Her son saved the résumé. He applied to 3 places. A convenience store, a gas station, parcel sorting. Each time he pressed the apply button, the screen blinked. Application complete. Her son closed the laptop. He looked at the ceiling. The ceiling Sujin had papered. He looked at it a long while. Then he picked up his phone. He went to call Sujin and set it down. Picked it up again and set it down again. Twice. Her son did not call Sujin. Sujin watched that screen. Her son was job-hunting alone. Without telling her. Sujin's eyes grew hot.
Afternoon. Her son called Sujin. Sujin remembered this call. The call from two days ago.
“Mom, what do you want for dinner?”
“Should I put on some doenjang stew?”
“Ah, I've got plans with Hyeongjun tonight. I might be late.”
“All right. Text me if you're late.”
“Okay.”
Her son's voice was bright. He was pretending to be bright. Two days ago Sujin hadn't known that. Now she knew. That her son had quit his job, that he was hunting for work, that he had no money. Her son pretended to be bright. So as not to worry Sujin.
Evening. Her son and Hyeongjun met again. In front of the convenience store in Jamsil. They bought beer at the store. 4 cans. They went down to the banks of the Han River. They sat on the grass. The night skyline shimmered across the river. The wind blew. The river wind lifted her son's hair. The lights of the buildings scattered over the water. A mosquito landed on his arm. Her son slapped it with the back of his hand. Hyeongjun said they should have grabbed a mosquito coil at the store. He cracked a can. Her son drank his beer.
“Hyeongjun.”
“Yeah.”
“I want to swim.”
“Now?”
“Yeah. In the Han River.”
Hyeongjun looked at her son.
“Hey, you can't swim here.”
“I know. But I want to.”
“Are you drunk?”
“One can, and I'd be drunk?”
Her son set the empty can down beside him. He cracked a second one. Hyeongjun watched him.
Her son stood up. He took off his shoes. He took off his socks. Hyeongjun grabbed his arm.
“Hey. Seriously?”
“Just a second. I'll only get my feet wet.”
Her son walked to the water's edge. The grass brushed his feet. He stood at the waterline. He put his feet in the water. It was cold. It was July, but the Han River water was cold. Sujin looked at her son's feet. Feet sunk into the water. Her son's feet. The feet she had washed when he was a baby. In the bathhouse she had held the little feet and worked soap into them. She had cleaned between the toes. Her son had shrieked with laughter. It tickles. Those feet were now sunk into the Han River water.
“Hey, come back up.”
Hyeongjun's voice came from behind.
“Just a second.”
Her son went in deeper. To his knees. To his thighs. To his waist. Hyeongjun ran down to the water's edge.
“Hey! Don't, I mean it!”
“It's fine. You know I'm a good swimmer.”
Her son slipped into the water. He began to swim. Freestyle. His arms rose above the water and came down. There was a rhythm to it. Sujin watched her son swim. He swam well. 10 years of swimming. Arms cutting through the water.
And then her son stopped.
All at once. His arm wouldn't rise. Her son's vision lurched. Water rose before his eyes. He came up above the surface. He took a breath. He sank again. His legs wouldn't move. A cramp. Her son's left calf. The muscle seized. The pain shook his vision. Sujin leaned forward in her chair. Her hand reached toward the screen. She couldn't touch it. It was a screen. It was a memory. It was 58 hours ago. The screen shook. Water rose. Her son clawed with his arm. With only one arm. His face broke the surface.
“Hyeongjun!”
Water came into his mouth. Her son coughed. Hyeongjun's face appeared at the water's edge. Hyeongjun threw himself into the water. Still in his clothes. Still in his shoes. He swam. He pulled with his arms. Hyeongjun was not a good swimmer. Not the way her son was. Still he pulled with his arms. He came toward her son. Hyeongjun's hand caught her son's arm. Caught it, and lost it. The current was strong. Her son sank. Under the water Hyeongjun's legs were visible. Hyeongjun tried to grab him again. Her son's hand caught Hyeongjun's hand. Caught it. For a moment. The fingers slipped. In her son's vision Hyeongjun's face hung above the water. A face gripped with terror. Hyeongjun shouted. The sound was swallowed by the water. Her son sank.
It was underwater. Her son's eyes were open. It was dark. The bottom of the Han River was nowhere to be seen. Her son's arm moved. Slowly. His legs didn't move. The cramp wouldn't let go. Her son looked up toward the surface. He could see the water's surface. He could see light. The light of the setting sun was coming down through the water. It was gold. The world above the water looked gold. Bubbles rose from her son's mouth. Small bubbles rising toward the surface. It was her son's breath. Her son's last breath was rising as bubbles. The bubbles reached the surface and burst. Her son's eyes followed them. He was looking up. He was looking at the light. Her son reached out one hand. Toward the surface. Toward the light. His hand didn't reach.
Sujin's hand slid off the arm of the chair. It came to rest on her knee. Sujin was looking at the screen. Her son's last sight. Light on the Water. The hand that didn't reach.
Her son's vision went dark. Little by little. The light thinned. Her son's eyes were closing. The last thing he saw was the light on the surface of the water. The screen went black.
The playback ended.
Sujin sat in the chair. Still wearing the headphones. The screen was black. Sujin didn't move. She could hear the fluorescent light out in the corridor. A hum. A faint sound. She could hear her own breathing. Sujin was breathing. 6 hours had passed. Outside it would have gone dark. Sujin's legs had gone numb. For 6 hours they hadn't moved.
A staff member knocked on the door.
“It's finished. You may come out.”
Sujin didn't get up. After a moment the door opened. The staff member came in.
“Are you all right?”
“Hyeongjun.”
“Sorry?”
“In the access record. There was a name, Hyeongjun, wasn't there.”
“We aren't permitted to disclose the contents of an access to outside parties.”
“That boy tried to save him.”
The staff member looked at Sujin.
“That boy threw himself into the water. To save him.”
The staff member didn't answer.
Sujin left the reading room. She walked down the corridor. Her slippers made a sound. A green corridor. She got into the elevator. There was a mirror. Sujin's face was reflected in it. Her eyes were dry. It felt as if she hadn't blinked for 6 hours. First floor. The hospital lobby. Sujin sat down on a bench in the lobby.
Hyeongjun was there.
He was sitting on the bench on the far side of the lobby. His head was bowed. His hands rested on his knees. Sujin looked at Hyeongjun. His eyes were red and swollen. Hyeongjun lifted his head. He looked at Sujin. There was a bandage on his hand. He must have scraped it on the rocks by the river. Reaching for her son. Hyeongjun's mouth opened. He started to speak, then closed it.
Sujin walked toward Hyeongjun. The sound of her slippers echoed through the lobby. Hyeongjun stood up. His hands were trembling.
“Mother.”
Sujin stood before him. Hyeongjun's face was the same as the Hyeongjun in her son's memory. The face gripped with terror by the river. Now, in place of the terror, there was something else.
“Junhyuk went in first. I tried to stop him.”
Hyeongjun's voice shook.
“He got a cramp in his leg. I dove in after him. But my hands slipped.”
Water ran from Hyeongjun's eyes.
“It's because of me. If I'd held on tighter.”
Sujin looked at his hands. Hyeongjun's hands. The hands that had held her son's. That had held and then lost their grip. The hands that had slipped.
Sujin took Hyeongjun's hands.
Hyeongjun raised his head. He looked at Sujin's face. Sujin was crying. For the first time since her son had died. Without a sound. Water flowed from her eyes. Her mouth did not move. Only her hands held Hyeongjun's. His hands trembled. Sujin's hands trembled too. Both of their hands were trembling.
Sujin spoke.
“I saw.”
Hyeongjun looked at her.
“You diving in. I saw it.”
Hyeongjun's mouth fell open.
“He went in first. It wasn't your fault.”
Hyeongjun bowed his head. His shoulders shook.
“You trying to grab him. I saw it. Your hands slipping. I saw that too.”
Sujin did not let go of Hyeongjun's hands. The fluorescent lights of the lobby cast down a green glow. Outside, an ambulance siren passed by. A drop of water fell in front of Sujin's slippers. It was her tear. A clear drop of water fallen on the green floor. Sujin looked at the soil beneath her fingernails. The soil from her son's flowerpot. Still holding Hyeongjun's hands, Sujin sat down on the bench. Hyeongjun sat too. The two of them sat in the hospital lobby. She could feel the pulse in Hyeongjun's hands. A quick pulse. The pulse of someone alive. Outside, the wind blew. The hospital's automatic doors opened and closed. The July wind came into the lobby. A warm wind. Sujin's feet were still cold. Her feet inside the slippers. But her hands were warm. Hyeongjun's hands were warm. Sujin did not let go.
