Page 65 of Tell Me Where It Ends

That evening, I arrange everything. I don’t wait until the next morning. I call a private nurse agency and the top facility in Seoul. I transfer my father to the hospital myself, ensuring all necessary funds go directly to the administration.

I leave Yeong-gi a note:I’m done helping you. Find your own way.Then I block his number on my phone.

I drive back to my apartment with Hondongi, not wanting to stay another night in that haunted house. The last vestige of family obligation falls away.

I grab my laptop and purchase a one-way ticket to Jeju. It is for two: one actress, and one extremely anxious dog.

8c

Jeju

Themorning I leave, my apartment looks like the aftermath of an impulsive vacation scene from a movie—messy, chaotic, and completely unglamorous.

I shove my favorite clothes, a ridiculously oversized vanity case, and all of Hondongi’s meticulously organized supplies into a single leather duffel. The last, essential addition is my analogue camera. I haven’t touched it in ages, but Jeju feels like the perfect place to restart that little hobby.

As the taxi pulls away from the curb, leaving the gilded cage of my Seoul life behind, I dial my aunt’s number.

“Hi,imo,” I say, skipping past the usual greetings. “I’m on my way to Jeju.”

One thing I’ve always loved about my aunt is how she never seems surprised. Unlike Bora, who would measure my plan on the “Min-hee impulsivity meter,” or Shin, whose quiet calm hides an inner headshake, or Su-ho, who probably would have doubled down on the crazy—I never have to explain myself to her.

“Ooh,” she acknowledges casually. “What about it?”

I laugh lightly. “I was hoping you could help your niece. Maybe give me some clues about her mother’s whereabouts?”

Damn you, Mom, I think.Leaving me for more than a decade, and not even bothering to leave a proper address or a phone number in your letter. How am I supposed to find you in Jeju without at least a hint? I know it’s a small island, but not that small that I can wander around blindly and hope to bump into you. This isn’t a K-drama.

“Hmm,” my aunt murmurs. “I’m sorry, I don’t know the exact address. But from the postcards she sent… it was always near a black sand beach. She mentioned her coffee shop has blue shutters and red brick walls.”

I thank her and say a short goodbye. I can almost hear her saying,“Good luck!”

Hondongi, my four-legged anxiety machine, doesn’t share my poetic sense of adventure. He spends the taxi ride pressed into the furthest corner of his carrier, trembling like a leaf in a hurricane. I stroke his head gently.

“I’m sorry, Hondongi,” I whisper. “But we have to do this. You’ll understand, I promise.”

By the time we reach the airport, Hondongi is flattened against the bottom of his carrier, ears pinned, eyes wide. I unclip the straps and scoop him into my arms. “It’s okay, baby. We’re going to a new place. A calm place. Maybe you’ll even do some fetch on the beach.” He trembles for a few seconds, then burrows his nose into the crook of my arm, reluctantly accepting the lie.

The flight is short, but long enough for my thoughts to twist themselves into knots. Hondongi alternates between anxious whining and curling into a tight ball on his carrier.

At last, we land in the soft, humid air of Jeju. The island is immediately different from Seoul—it feels less urgent, more green. I can hear the distant, steady ebbs and flows of the waves, even over the mechanical churn of the airport. It’s a low, constantmurmur—the sound of nature refusing to be rushed.

I unbuckle and slide my duffel bag down. I open the door of Hondongi’s carrier, but he refuses to budge. He is a tight little ball of fur, clearly terrified of the sudden lack of familiar city structure.

Ah, I get it, I think.This must be his new under-the-sofa spot. This much nature is a shock to the system for two creatures who have only ever known concrete sidewalks and soundproof walls.

I bend down, rummaging deep into my duffel bag, my hand clutching a foil packet. The plastic wrapper rustles softly as I pull out a tube of the tasty liquid dog treat that Hondongi cannot resist.

I hold the packaging near the carrier door, and I’m completely right. The moment he hears the specific crinkle of the reward, his wet nose pokes tentatively out from the dark plastic mouth of the carrier.

I keep my hand steady, guiding the treat to Hondongi’s snout. His little tongue flicks rapidly, ignoring the strange new surroundings, focused entirely on the reward.

Food, it seems, outweighs all fear.

“I get it, Hondongi, I totally get it,” I whisper, feeling a surge of triumph like the best dog-mom ever.

Then I feel my phone buzz in my pocket—another slight sense of dread, even in the island calm.

I fumble between wrapping Hondongi’s treat, tightening my mask, aligning my duffel bag, and pulling my phone out of my pocket.