The Sense of Knowing (Retouch)

[Evening — Dr. Jung’s Main Office]

The neon lights hummed faintly overhead, casting a pale glow along the narrow corridor. Kim stood near the glass door leading to Jung’s office, his hands folded loosely behind his back.

Inside, Jung sat at his desk, reviewing the day’s observation notes. Without lifting his head, he said,

“Lieutenant, you requested a special permit. That’s not standard procedure.”

Kim stepped closer, his voice calm.

“She has been confined in that room for over seventy years. Even though she only regained consciousness recently, the psychological effects of prolonged isolation… cannot be ignored.”

At last, Jung looked up, pushing his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose.

“And you’re certain she’s ready? You read the same file I did.”

“I’m certain,” Kim replied without hesitation. “Just one hour, in the inner courtyard, under full supervision.”

A long silence stretched, broken only by faint footsteps echoing from a distant hall. Jung leaned back in his chair, gazing at Kim as though weighing the risk of defying something unspoken.

Finally, he exhaled through his nose.

“One hour. But if anything unusual—”

“There won’t be,” Kim cut in quickly, his voice softer, yet firm.

Kim left Jung’s office and headed toward the special storage room. The guard on duty, a Sergeant, gave a brief nod before unlocking the steel cabinet. Inside were only a few items—ordinary in appearance, but kept under Level 7 containment protocol.

Kim chose a thin thermal jacket—hospital issue, pale gray, with a tracking marker neatly stitched into the collar. He checked the tag twice before draping it over his arm. Next, a pair of soft-soled canvas shoes, still sealed in clear plastic. He tore the seal and set them aside.

He signed out a slim transceiver from the logbook, clipping it to his belt. His thumb swept across the channel dial, ensuring it was locked onto the inner courtyard’s secure frequency.

A laminated permit card, stamped with KAD, slipped into his inner pocket.

Before leaving, he paused in front of a small surveillance monitor near the post. A live feed showed Yun’s room. The girl sat on the edge of the bed, head tilted slightly toward the window, as though listening to something no one else could hear.

Kim lingered longer than necessary, then turned toward Room 71-A.

[Observation Room 71-A]

The electronic lock clicked softly as it opened. Kim stepped inside, carrying the folded jacket and shoes. The room’s lighting had been dimmed to a warm golden hue, softening the cold white walls.

Yun sat at the edge of the bed, her bare feet touching the floor. Beside her, a nurse knelt, fastening the ties of her long-sleeved hospital tunic. The pale fabric hung loose but tidy, paired with wide trousers brushing her ankles.

Kim set the jacket and shoes on a chair.

“You’ll need these.”

The nurse helped Yun slip her arms into the jacket, then adjusted the collar. Yun’s fingers paused briefly at the seam, tracing the fabric’s texture with curiosity.

“Warm,” she murmured.

The nurse knelt again, sliding the white canvas shoes onto her feet and tightening the laces with care. Yun watched without protest, her face calm, almost serene.

She tilted her head slightly, a faint smile forming. “We can go… now?”

As the nurse stepped back, Kim replied, “Of course.”

“One hour,” Kim added. “In the inner courtyard.”

Yun rose slowly, moving cautiously as if testing each step. The hem of the jacket swayed lightly with her motion.

The door to Room 71-A closed behind them with a soft mechanical hiss. The nurse remained inside, straightening the bed, while Kim and Yun walked into the corridor. The hum of the ventilation system seeped through the air, mingling with the faint scent of antiseptic.

Yun’s steps were unhurried, the canvas soles whispering against the polished floor. She glanced at Kim.

“What was Dr. Jung doing before you came to fetch me tonight?”

“Reviewing today’s reports on you,” Kim answered without hesitation. “We discuss your health and behavior daily, to make sure you’re doing well.”

Her gaze shifted ahead. “And the nurse?”

“Helping you prepare, like earlier,” Kim said. “They also keep your room clean and take care of your basic needs.”

They passed through a sealed security door, its keypad glowing dimly. Yun’s eyes lingered there briefly before asking,

“Are there other patients here?”

Kim gave a small nod. “Yes, but not on this floor. This section is for… those requiring special care.”

Yun slowed her steps. “So… they never see me?”

“No,” he replied simply. “You’re not in a general ward. You’re here because we must make sure you’re safe… and others as well.”

Their footsteps echoed softly along the white floor, past a row of evenly numbered doors, until they reached the end of the corridor where a special lift awaited.

The lift served only a restricted route—descending no further than the third floor. The metal doors slid open with a hiss, and they stepped inside. On the display, the numbers ticked downward: 7… 6… 5… as if counting down to another world.

When the doors opened again, the air on the third floor was different—slightly colder, the lighting dimmer, the corridors narrower.

Yun remained silent, but the quiet between them was not cold. She faced forward again, toward the main lift that would take them to the lobby. Toward the glass doors at the end of the hall. Beyond them, a strip of night sky waited.

Her pace slowed once more. She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes toward the general ward some distance away, behind the walls.

Kim glanced at her. “What is it?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze held steady, as if hearing something faint.

“Room 315,” she said at last. “Someone there… will die.”

Kim froze mid-step. “Room 315?”

“Let me help them,” she whispered.

He shook his head. “That’s not our jurisdiction. That ward isn’t permitted to you.”

For a moment, she searched his eyes for a gap. Then she nodded once.

“Alright.”

They walked on. Only the rhythm of their steps filled the silence. Behind them, the hospital intercom crackled, summoning an emergency team to Room 315.

Kim glanced at her profile. No reaction—no shock, no doubt. Only the same calmness, as they turned the corner. He said nothing, but the number clung to his thoughts.

They reached the end of the hall, leaving behind the rush of footsteps and urgent voices from the general ward. The private wing grew quieter, untouched by the commotion.

After descending to the lobby, Kim opened the glass doors to the courtyard. Fresh night air swept in, carrying the scent of grass and wet stone.

Outside, the sky stretched vast and cloudless. Stars scattered brightly, sharp and clear. Garden lights glowed softly, their illumination brushing across gravel and the leaves of low trees.

Yun stepped out first, tilting her face upward. In the starlight, her pale blue eyes—clear as morning sky—seemed to catch and reflect the night’s brilliance, glittering as though each star had left a spark within them. For a moment, her gaze looked unreal—like fragments of daylight hidden inside the dark.

She drew a long breath, her shoulders loosening.

“So beautiful,” she whispered, without looking away.

Kim followed more slowly, his eyes shifting between the sky and the glow in hers. The hospital still pulsed behind them, yet here, the world seemed to stop.

The courtyard spread wide beneath the night, every star like a distant fire, cold and bright. Yun stood at its center, gravel crunching softly beneath her white shoes. The hospital jacket hung loose over her slender frame, the hem lifted gently by the night breeze.

She closed her eyes, face lifted, as if listening to secrets whispered by the wind. Then, slowly, she stretched out her arms and began to turn—hesitant at first, then with more certainty. Her steps were light, sometimes unsteady, like relearning a rhythm long forgotten.

Her laughter broke—soft, fragile—rising into the air like a melody lost to time. Her jacket fluttered like fragile wings in the dark.

Each spin pulled her closer to the self she had forgotten—a girl trapped for decades, silent, unseen. But here, beneath the eternal stars, she felt something new—the fragile breath of freedom.

She stopped, face lifted once more. The stars shone back, mirrored in her eyes—tiny sparks caught in the embrace of the night.

From a few steps behind, Kim only watched. His gaze held both awe and caution, following the uncertain spins and delicate laughter filling the air. He stayed close enough to guard her, yet far enough for Yun to taste this freedom—though perhaps only briefly, fragile as the stars above.

The courtyard seemed to hold its breath with her, a fragile hope in a world long forgotten how to dream.

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