The coastal wind was sharp that morning, carrying the smell of salt and distant rain. The Move to Heaven van rolled slowly through a narrow side street, its tires splashing through shallow puddles.
In the passenger seat, Han Geu-ru held the envelope containing Mrs. Kim’s photographs. His gloved hands rested on his knees, posture straight as always. Beside him, Cho Sang-gu drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.
“So,” Sang-gu said finally, “what if she doesn’t want it?”
“Then we still give it to her,” Geu-ru replied without looking away from the window. “Our job is to deliver what the deceased left behind. It’s not about what we want.”
Sang-gu grunted. “Sounds like a great way to get a door slammed in your face.”
---
They stopped in front of a modest apartment complex. The exterior walls were pale pink, chipped from years of sun and rain. Geu-ru stepped out first, walking with quiet determination toward Unit 5.
A woman answered the door. She was in her fifties, her hair pulled into a loose bun. Her eyes were sharp, assessing the strangers on her doorstep.
“Yes?” she said.
“I am Han Geu-ru,” the boy began. “We recently processed the belongings of your mother, Mrs. Kim Hye-sook. This is for you.” He held out the envelope with both hands.
The woman didn’t take it immediately. “I told them I didn’t want anything,” she said flatly.
---
Sang-gu shifted uncomfortably. “It’s just some old photos,” he said. “Might as well look before throwing them away.”
Her eyes flicked to him, then to the envelope. With a sigh, she took it. Her fingers trembled slightly as she opened the flap and pulled out the tin box inside.
When she saw the first photograph—her as a child in her mother’s arms—her lips parted. She flipped through them faster, her eyes shining though she said nothing. One photo made her pause longer than the rest: her mother sewing a bright yellow baby blanket by a sunny window.
Her thumb brushed the image as if trying to feel the fabric through the paper.
“She never finished it,” Geu-ru said softly.
The woman’s jaw tightened. “She was always making things for other people. I thought she’d stopped caring about me. Maybe I was wrong.”
She closed the box and held it tightly to her chest.
“Thank you,” she whispered, almost as if to herself.
---
Back in the van, the rain had started to fall, tapping softly against the windshield.
“You see?” Geu-ru said quietly. “She wanted it.”
Sang-gu kept his eyes on the road, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Guess you were right, kid.”
Geu-ru adjusted the box of supplies at his feet, every label facing forward. “It’s not about being right. It’s about remembering.”
Outside, the streets blurred into silver lines of rain, and somewhere in that quiet, something between them shifted—just a little.
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