Page 68 of Tell Me Where It Ends

“Well, at least one of us is having a good time,” I mutter to him.

And that’s when I see it.

Across the street, nestled between a hardware store and a tiny post office, is a small, charming cafe with faded blue shutters, red brick walls, and a hand-painted sign. The sign, written in a familiar, slightly rushed script, reads:The Last Shore Cafe.

The name is a punch to the gut. It’s so absurdly, painfully perfect that it feels like a line from a script I didn’t know I was in. I know, with a world-tilting certainty, that this is it.

I stand up, my chair scraping loudly against the pavement. Hondongi looks up at me, startled. The walk across the street feels like the longest, most terrifying walk of my life. Every step is a question.What will I say? What if she doesn’t want to see me? What if she’s happy, and I’m just a ghost from a life she’s tried to forget?

I stop in front of the blue door, my heart doing somersaults against my ribs. The café is warm and quiet, filled with the late afternoon sun.

I take a deep breath. And I walk in.

The bell above the door chimes—a soft, delicate sound. The smell of coffee and cinnamon immediately enters my system, a scent so deeply tied to my earliest childhood memories it makes my eyes water.

And behind the counter, her back to me, is a woman. She’s wiping down the espresso machine, her movements practiced and sure. She’s older, her hair a little grayer, her frame a little softer, but it’s her. I know it with the same certainty that I know my own name.

She turns, a polite, professional smile on her face for the new customer. And then she sees me.

The world stops.

The smile freezes, then crumples. Her face—a face I’ve only seen in faded photographs for the past fifteen years—goes pale. Her eyes, which are my eyes, widen in stunned, terrified recognition. The cup in her trembling hand slips, clattering against the saucer with a sharp, piercing sound that seems to swallow the entire world.

There are no dramatic shouts. No tearful reunions. Just a quiet, stunned silence that stretches for an eternity. She’s the spitting image of me, only with a few more wrinkles and gray threads in her hair.

“Min-hee…” she whispers, her eyes starting to form tears. “Min-hee…” that seems to be the only word she knows how to say now.

Some customers start to notice. Instantly, a familiar, cold reserve kicks in. I keep my nod small and make no sound, quickly reaching up to pinch the wet fabric of my mask, trying to dry the tears before they betray me entirely.

***

That night, I’m sitting at a small, worn wooden table in her apartment above the café. The space smells like her. My mother.

I didn’t realize how strange—and how good—it would feel to think and say those words out loud again.

My mother.

Words I used to dodge in casual conversation, just to keep people from feeling awkward. Words that once sparked quiet jealousy when someone mentioned their own—raving about the homemade cooking or complaining about their call. Words that carried confusion, anger, and a longing I never wanted to name.

She sets a bowl ofsundubu-jjigae, in front of me. Simple, homemade, steaming faintly. It’s the first real meal she’s made for me since I was a teenager. The weight of that hits me harder than I expect. My throat tightens, and for a moment, I almost cry—but I just wipe my eyes and pick up the spoon.

We eat in silence. Not angry. Just dense with what we’ve never said.

Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I set my spoon down.

“Why?” The word slips out like a breath I’ve been holding for years.

She doesn’t ask what I mean. Her fingers curl together on the table, knuckles white. When she finally speaks, her voice is soft and tired.

“Do you remember how your father was, back then?”

I nod. I feel something twist inside me.

“The drinking,” she says, staring down at the bowl. “The debt. The way the light just… disappeared from our house, little by little. I was drowning, Min-hee. Every morning I woke up, it felt like my lungs were full of water. I couldn’t breathe.”

She looks up. Her eyes are glassy, but her voice stays even.

“And I looked at you. You were so bright, so full of life. You had just begun your life as an idol and moved into the dorm with the other girls. And I was terrified that if I stayed, my sadness would smother that light—that I’d pull you under with me.”