Chương 21: What He Left at Home

Incheon Airport was bright. When Kichan passed through the glass doors of arrivals with a face that had only barely peeled the New York night off it, the white floor and the familiar announcements stabbed at his eyes. The scrape of baggage cart wheels on tile, SIM card ads, flags held by tour guides, people carrying duty-free bags. All of it was Korea. That made it more exhausting. Kichan adjusted his grip on the handle of the equipment bag. It was long and awkward enough to stand out anywhere.

It wasn't a guitar case, wasn't a golf bag, wasn't real camera equipment either, but it also wasn't quite strange enough to look openly suspicious. The real problem was that it contained a solid iron rod that was annoying to explain. His phone vibrated. It was his mother. Kichan took a breath before answering.

"Hello." The moment he picked up, her voice poured out.

"Han Kichan. Why do you stop answering your phone every time you leave the country?"

"I was on a plane."

"You weren't answering before you got on the plane either. Did you see my texts or not?"

"I saw them."

"Seeing a text doesn't count. You have to reply for it to count." Kichan stopped for a moment in front of the automatic doors. It was funny, but he was too tired to laugh.

"I just got in."

"To Korea?"

"Yeah."

"You should've said that earlier. Did you eat?"

"I ate on the plane."

"That doesn't count as food. You probably ate bread again." She was correct. Kichan felt his shoulders loosen a little. The tension that had clung to his back all the way from New York went strangely slack at the sound of her scolding through the phone.

"Come home. I'll heat the soybean paste stew again."

"I'm at the airport right now."

"So what? Are you teleporting? Then come home."

"Mom."

"What."

"Your voice is loud." His mother clicked her tongue.

"You make people like this. You've been unreachable since morning. How am I supposed to stay calm? Your father kept asking where you were too. You didn't get hurt somewhere, did you?" Kichan bit the inside of his lip. The coat that had been soaked and dried in New York, the bruises along his inner arm, the ache left in his shoulder, the wake-up rod in the bag, the metal plate from the Book of Soyga inside his coat. He almost said he wasn't hurt, then stopped.

"I'm fine."

"That doesn't sound like a fine voice."

"I'm just tired."

"Fine, then come quickly. There's food at home. Take the subway, the airport bus, a taxi, whatever you want. But answer the phone while you're coming."

"Okay."

"Don't say okay and hang up. Actually answer it."

"I got it."

"And you didn't bring a suitcase again, did you?" Kichan looked down at his equipment bag.

"Nope."

"Honestly. Try living like a normal person for once." The call ended. Kichan stared at the screen for a moment, then put the phone in his pocket. Like a normal person. These days, that was the hardest thing anyone could ask of him.

Gray buildings slid backward outside the Airport Railroad window. Winter light in Korea was different from New York. Neater. Thinner. The face reflected in the window didn't look unfamiliar either. He just looked like an office worker who hadn't slept for several nights. The problem was that office workers did not usually carry Voynich documents, a Rohonc copy, and a Book of Soyga metal plate inside their coat.

An elementary school boy sitting across from him stared at the equipment bag and asked,"Is that a fishing rod?" Kichan hesitated, then answered.

"Something like that." The boy's mother pulled him back with an embarrassed expression. Kichan shook his head to say it was fine. Fishing rod. That was probably a lie he could keep using. The route map over the train doors ticked by one station at a time. The digital ads changed, and shoulders overlapped in the black reflection of the screen. Through those reflected surfaces, Kichan scanned the next car behind him. Black padded jacket. Beige coat. Traveler with a neck pillow. One man in a cap pulled low.

None of the faces were familiar. But one kind of gaze was. The sort that looked once, pretended to miss him, then checked again in the reflection. In New York, people like that had worn security uniforms. In London, they had looked like friendly reading society members. In Seoul, being an ordinary passenger was enough. Kichan turned his head toward the window. It was still too early to be certain.

Even so, his fingertips were already paying more attention to the metal plate inside his coat than to the phone in his pocket. He had to go home. Whether he really could go home safely was the next question.

The convenience store at the entrance to his apartment complex was unchanged. Every time the automatic doors opened, the smell of triangle kimbap and microwaved food leaked out. The bicycle parked by the recycling station, the flowerpots in front of the security booth, the warning sign by the parking garage entrance—none of it looked different. That made it stranger. Familiar things were not supposed to be frightening. As Kichan walked into the complex, he looked up.

The balconies of his building, the laundry hanging out, curtains, fluorescent lights turned on, dark rooms. Ordinary. There were two unfamiliar things hidden in that ordinariness. A black sedan parked beside the underground garage entrance. And one man reflected in its windshield, watching the security booth for far too long. The man wore a padded jacket and sneakers. He had a phone in his hand, and the screen was on. But his thumb did not move even once. Pretending not to notice, Kichan headed for the elevator.

His heart beat slowly. He could see behind himself in the elevator mirror, and just before the doors closed, the man in the padded jacket finally lifted his head as if only then deciding to look. The floor numbers rose. Three. Five. Nine. While the numbers changed, Kichan tightened his grip on the handle of the equipment bag. When the doors opened, the familiar smell of the hallway met him. Detergent, instant ramyeon boiling somewhere, old wallpaper and warm air.

And two delivery boxes his mother had left in front of their door. Before pressing the bell, he glanced up once. Above the front door, beneath the shadow of the motion light. A tiny wire body clung there. Dust. It barely moved its legs, but it was there. Kichan let out a breath. It wasn't alive, but he was still glad to see it. The moment the door opened, his mother stood there with her arms crossed.

"Why does your face look like that?"

"It's not like I was handsome to begin with."

"So you still have the strength to joke. Get in." The instant he took off his shoes, the smell of soybean paste stew rushed over from the kitchen. The television was on in the living room. His father sat there with the remote in hand, tuned to the news. Numbers about exchange rates and oil prices rolled by in the captions at the bottom of the screen. The world was still turning on numbers, ads, and breaking news. His father looked at Kichan and said,"You're back." For some reason, that simple sentence hit hard.

Kichan nodded.

"Yeah." His mother glanced at the bag.

"And what is that this time?"

"Equipment."

"It's always equipment. Why does your equipment always look so well suited for hitting people?" Kichan flinched.

"You can't even see what's inside."

"I don't have to. It's long. It's obviously not a fishing rod." His father turned the TV down a little and said,"Feed him first. Don't interrogate him standing up."

"Was I interrogating him? He only gets interrogated because he won't come home." His mother grumbled, but she already had the ladle in her hand. Kichan set the equipment bag beside the door to his room and sat at the table. The stew bubbled again as it reheated. Zucchini, tofu, mushrooms, green onion. Beside it were rolled omelet, stir-fried anchovies, kimchi, and seaweed. It was so ordinary it made his eyes ache. As she set down his rice bowl, his mother said,"Eat. Your face is half the size it should be."

"It was small to begin with."

"You little—" His father gave a short laugh. Kichan lifted his first spoonful. The broth was hot. Hot enough to almost burn his tongue, and that somehow made him feel more alive. His mother, who had clearly been waiting, asked,"So how was New York?"

"Loud."

"Then why do you keep going to noisy places?"

"Because work went there."

"Work is done by people, and people need to eat."

"I'm eating now."

"Now you're eating because you're back in Korea." Without arguing, Kichan picked up a piece of rolled omelet. His mother's scolding did not stop.

"And why do you stop answering your phone every time you go abroad? Is leaving one text really that hard?"

"No."

"But you don't do it."

"I was busy."

"If you're busy, that's when you need to do it more. You were like this when you were young too. School retreats, no contact. You never even did military service, but somehow you were harder to reach than the boys who did."

"Did the military boys really call more often?"

"At least they said they were alive." His father slid the anchovies toward him.

"Your mother is right."

"Why are you joining in too?"

"Because you don't stay in touch." Kichan picked up one anchovy. It was salty. A familiar kind of salty. His mother asked again, The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

"Did you actually eat proper meals?"

"More or less."

"That is the most suspicious answer possible."

"I ate bread. Sandwiches too."

"See? What did I say? Bread and that sort of thing."

"Bread is food too."

"Not for you. You eat bread, then complain you're starving two hours later." Since that was true, Kichan kept his mouth shut. Looking victorious, his mother tore off a sheet of seaweed and set it beside his bowl.

"If you're back in Korea, eat like a human being." Kichan put rice on the seaweed. Even while chewing, his eyes kept drifting toward the front door. Dust, which had been there moments ago. The hallway. The black sedan. The man in the padded jacket. Whenever footsteps passed outside, the sound swelled in his head for a moment, then shrank again. A variety show ad played on TV. People laughed loudly, captions flashed, and next week's teaser rolled across the screen.

His mother kept nudging side dishes closer in case he might run out. The living room lights were too bright, and the dining chair gave the same familiar creak. It was warm. That made it more frightening. This house had always breathed at this pace. But right now, someone was listening to that rhythm from outside. His father asked,"Will you be here a while this time?" Kichan paused with his spoon in hand.

"Maybe... a few days." His mother immediately narrowed her eyes.

"What do you mean maybe? You don't even know your own schedule?"

"There are a few variables."

"And those variables are what make everyone else's life miserable?"

"Yeah."

"Don't say yeah to that." Even as she sighed, she picked up the ladle again.

"Do you want more broth?" Kichan looked down at his bowl. It was empty.

"Yeah." His mother filled it again, pretending to be put upon.

"So you were hungry after all."

"Looks like it." Even as he said it, Kichan looked once toward the window. Beyond the apartment balcony were the lights of the building across from theirs. Any one of those windows, any one of those people, was probably just an ordinary home. Just an ordinary home. That was the most precious thing in the world.

After dinner, his mother tried to cut fruit too. Kichan barely managed to stop her.

"I really need to lie down."

"Wash up first. You just got off a plane and you're not even changing your clothes?"

"Okay."

"And if you have anything for the laundry, take it out."

"Okay."

"Don't just keep saying okay."

"I got it." While the shower beat against his shoulders, Kichan stood there staring at the wall, unable to tell whether the smell of New York was actually washing off. Under hot water, it didn't feel as if his fatigue was easing. It felt as if his body might start sticking to this house instead. He had the strong sense that he should not sleep here. That thought ran down his back like water. When he came out, his mother was already looking through the laundry basket, and his father had turned the news back on.

A report on overseas conflict passed by briefly, then gave way to entertainment news. Standing in the doorway of his room, Kichan looked around. The familiar desk. The bed. The drawers. The ramen drawer where he had hidden a white envelope once. Nothing looked different. But it had changed. Someone had photographed the Dust clinging above this front door and pinned that picture to the wall of a lab. Someone had almost certainly already written down when his parents came and went.

Once that fact took root in his head, even the arrangement of furniture in the room began to look like a vulnerability. Window height. Distance to the front door. How fast his parents could close their bedroom door. The angle from which the front door was visible from the living room. Once you knew too much, a house stopped looking like a house. His phone vibrated once. There was no caller ID. `We know you're back in Korea. Don't stay in Seoul long. ` Mina Han. Kichan read the message and deleted it.

The advice was correct. It still felt disgusting. The problem was that he had already reached the same conclusion himself.

As the night deepened, the sounds inside the apartment changed. The TV got quieter. The clatter of dishes in the kitchen went on for a while, then stopped. The bathroom door shutting, his father coughing, his mother muttering that she should wash the rice for breakfast tomorrow. This was how an ordinary home grew quiet at night. Kichan pretended to lie in bed, then quietly got up. He opened the zipper of the equipment bag just enough to check inside. The wake-up rod, passport, envelopes, storage device.

Everything was still there. He opened his bedroom door and stepped into the hallway. The living room lights were off. Only the motion light by the front door glowed faintly. Its shadow stretched long across the wall above the door. Dust was still there. Kichan carefully climbed onto the shoe cabinet. The wood gave a small creak. He immediately held his breath. His parents' room stayed quiet. He reached out. Dust's wire legs touched his fingertips. Cold and light.

"Hey." When he called softly, Dust folded and unfolded its legs once. It was not a living answer. Still, he could tell it meant it would come back. He opened his palm, and Dust slowly crawled onto it. Its coin-flat back scraped lightly across his palm lines. During the time he had left it here, it looked more worn. Fine bits of dust and fiber clung to the ends of its legs, and along one side of its body there was one more thin scratch than before. Kichan carefully supported it with his thumb.

"You worked hard." Instead of answering, Dust curled in on itself slightly, then unfolded again. He slipped it into the inside pocket of his shirt. Just then, somewhere across the hallway, the elevator arrived. Ding. Kichan turned his head. Someone could have gotten off at this hour. It could have been a neighbor from an upper floor. But the footsteps were wrong. Slow. Not hesitant. They did not come all the way to his door, but they stopped once around the middle of the hall, then turned back.

If it had been a resident, they would have searched for keys at their own door, checked a delivery box, called for someone. Those footsteps were only measuring the length of the hallway. Kichan climbed down from the shoe cabinet. He moved close to the door and stilled his breathing. He did not look through the peephole. The other side could expect that. Instead, he rested his fingertips lightly on the metal of the doorknob and lock. A low vibration came through.

The hand that had pressed the elevator button moments ago. The phone vibrating in a pocket. A body leaning for a second against the wall opposite the front door. And one unfamiliar piece of metal. The thin circuit of an earpiece microphone, or maybe a compact camera. Kichan's expression hardened. The hallway outside his home was already an operational zone. He slowly withdrew his hand. He could not afford to wait any longer.

Back in his room, Kichan opened the bag at once. Passport. Wallet. Charger. Envelopes of copied documents. The Book of Soyga metal plate. Dust. He opened the airline app. Rome. The direct flights were awkward, the transfers were long, and the prices were still enough to irritate any normal person.

"Seriously." He muttered the curse under his breath, but his hands moved fast. The payment screen came up. Card number. Passenger name. Departure time. He hesitated right up until the moment he hit confirm. He had only been home a few hours. Leaving again already felt insane. His mother would absolutely have something to say, and his father's face would harden too. But staying here until deep into the night would be even more insane. The people outside could afford to wait.

He could not let them do that in front of his parents' home. Payment complete. Kichan stared at the screen for a moment. The time left until departure was neither enough nor impossibly tight. It was exactly the kind of awkward timing that made a person angry. He let out one breath and opened the bedroom door. His mother was still awake. She was in the kitchen drinking water. The moment she saw him, her eyes narrowed.

"Why aren't you asleep?"

"Mom."

"What." Kichan kept his mouth shut for a second, then said,"I think I need to leave again." The cup in his mother's hand stopped in place.

"Right now?"

"Yeah."

"Are you insane?" It was a perfectly accurate reaction. His father came out of the room, heard that much, and stopped.

"What happened?" Kichan kept it as short as he could.

"I don't think I can stay here long. I think there are people outside watching." His mother's expression changed at once. It was the kind of face that started calculating before it started getting angry.

"Who?"

"Long explanation. But they're not good people."

"Should we call the police?"

"Not right now."

"Why not?"

"Because it won't solve anything right away." His mother set the cup down on the table. The small sound rang loudly through the apartment.

"This is you trying to handle everything alone again, isn't it?"

"Not handle it. Just pull it away from here."

"Why do you have to be the one pulling it away?"

"Because I'm the one who brought it here." Only after the words were out did Kichan realize that was not something he should have said in front of them. His mother's eyes widened.

"Brought it here?" His father spoke quietly.

"This isn't the time to argue." It felt as though he was saying it not only to her, but to Kichan too. Taking one step closer, his father asked,"Where are you going?"

"Rome." His mother let out a disbelieving laugh.

"You got home a few hours ago and now you're going to Rome?"

"Yeah."

"Han Kichan. Are you kidding me?"

"I wish I was." A brief silence fell. The TV was off. Only the low hum of the refrigerator motor remained. The apartment was quiet enough that he could hear the second hand of the living room clock. That silence made Kichan more anxious. His mother stared at him, then finally pressed a hand to her forehead.

"This is unbelievable." And then she asked the practical question immediately.

"So when's the flight?"

"Before dawn."

"Which airport?"

"Incheon."

"Obviously Incheon. You're going to Rome, not Gimpo." Even then, Kichan almost laughed. His mother let out a long sigh and opened the refrigerator.

"Then don't go there and survive on bread again. At least take this."

"Mom."

"What."

"You're telling me to take a kimchi container to Rome?"

"Then should I make rice balls instead?"

"There's no time."

"That's exactly why this is making me angry." His father said,"Let's call a taxi." Kichan shook his head.

"No. I'll go on my own."

"Why?" Kichan glanced once toward the front door. There was a hallway beyond that single door. And somewhere at the end of that hallway, or in the parking lot, or inside the black sedan outside the complex, someone was there. If they already knew enough to wait, then sneaking out would not mean much. The opposite would be better.

"I'm just going to walk out."

"Just like that?" his mother repeated.

"Yeah. Right in front of them." His father understood first.

"So they'll follow you?" Kichan nodded.

"I need to pull them away from the house." His mother bit her lip.

"You're not saying that like it's a joke, are you?"

"This isn't a situation for jokes."

"True, but I like your expression even less." Kichan had a rough idea what kind of face he was making. A face that was scared, but had gone even drier because he didn't want to show it. His mother looked at him like that for a few seconds, then shook her head.

"You really do know how to wear people out." She turned, opened a drawer, and pulled out a plastic bag, a small bottle of water, and two chocolates, setting them on the table.

"Eat something before you get on the plane. And text me when you get there. No, don't text. Call. No, both."

"Okay."

"Don't end with okay."

"I'll call."

"And send me a photo when you get to Rome."

"I will." Without a word, his father went to the front door and picked up his car keys.

"I'll go downstairs with you."

"Dad, it's okay."

"When you say you're okay, I don't find that very convincing." Kichan had no answer to that.

Packing didn't take long. He had never really unpacked in the first place. Kichan zipped up the equipment bag and slung it over his shoulder. Inside his shirt pocket, Dust moved just a little. The metal plate and the storage device lay cold against the inside of his coat. Standing at the front door, the apartment looked sharper than before. His mother's slippers. His father's running shoes. The delivery boxes. The basket of house keys on top of the shoe cabinet. The little scratch below the door lock.

Nothing important. And yet all of them were things he wanted to still be there the next time he came back. His mother asked,"What if there really are people outside?" Kichan tugged at his shoelaces one last time.

"Then they need to see it."

"See what?"

"That I'm not sleeping here tonight." His mother looked at him as if he were unbelievable.

"Do you really have to take it that far?"

"Yeah." His father opened the door first. Air from the hallway flowed in. It smelled a little colder and a little drier than the warm air inside the apartment. Kichan stepped over the threshold wearing an expression of complete indifference. This time, for real. No one spoke while they waited for the elevator. The tiny red light of the CCTV camera at the end of the corridor was on. Kichan did not look up. The elevator doors opened, and the three of them got in.

In the mirror, his mother's face, his father's face, and his own face were reflected side by side. For a family portrait, all three looked far too tired. First floor. When the doors opened, dawn air rushed in. Outside the apartment entrance, under the complex streetlight, the man in the padded jacket was standing there. This time, he even had the phone up to his ear. But his mouth was not moving. Farther away, the black sedan was still parked beside the underground garage entrance.

There was someone in the driver's seat. Kichan did not stop. If anything, he walked even more straight-backed. His mother almost reached for his arm, then stopped herself. Kichan pushed through the automatic doors and stepped outside. The padded-jacket man's gaze lifted at once. They were not at a distance where pretending not to recognize each other would work. Good. That was enough. Kichan spoke to him first.

"Been waiting long?" The man did not answer. He wore the expression of someone pretending not to understand Korean. Kichan let out a short laugh.

"Then watch carefully." He raised his voice on purpose.

"I'm headed to Incheon Airport, so move aside." His mother made a small sound under her breath as if to stop him, but it was already too late. The man's expression stiffened just a little. It was the face of someone passing an immediate signal to the person on the other end of the phone. The black sedan's taillights came on. Good. Hooked. When his father tried to show him a taxi app on his screen, Kichan shook his head.

"Not a taxi. I'll walk to the airport bus stop." His mother stared at him in disbelief.

"Do you really have time for an airport bus right now?"

"I don't, which is why I'm doing it." If a car followed behind him while he walked, that would make it a clearer marker. His parents would see it too. He would not have to leave the threat vague. Kichan turned to his parents.

"Go back inside from here." His mother said firmly,"No."

"Mom."

"I don't care if you're going to Rome or the moon. We're at least staying until you're on the bus." His father nodded too.

"We're going with you." At times like this, Kichan knew better than to argue. It would not work. In the end, all three of them walked out of the complex together. Their shadows stretched long under the streetlights. Behind them, the black sedan moved very slowly. It was so obvious it felt shameless. Kichan did not turn around. Instead, he watched the reflections in convenience store windows and parked car glass.

The man in the padded jacket kept a steady distance behind them, and the sedan followed at a crawl one block back. It was real. They had come all the way to Seoul. Right up to the front of his home. He should have been angry, but strangely, his mind only grew colder. A few people were already waiting at the airport bus stop for the first bus before dawn.

One man in a suit who looked headed on a business trip, two college students with rolling suitcases, one older man with a large bag who might have been going fishing. Standing among ordinary people only made Kichan look more suspicious instead. The equipment bag. The sleepless face. And the black sedan following him for no good reason. His mother asked one last time,"Should we call the police even now?" Kichan shook his head.

"Not yet. Go straight back home. As soon as you see me get on the bus."

"Call me."

"I will."

"Seeing one text doesn't count as receiving it." The absurdity of hearing that line again in a moment like this made Kichan laugh for real.

"Got it." His father patted him once on the shoulder.

"Take care of yourself."

"Yeah."

"Even if that's the thing you're worst at." The bus pulled in. Kichan did not put the equipment bag in the luggage compartment. He carried it on board. The driver gave him one look, but at that hour, airport bus drivers had probably seen everything. Once he sat by the window, he could see outside at a glance. His mother and father did not step back from the stop. They stood there until the bus doors closed. And beyond them, the man in the padded jacket lifted his head with the phone still at his ear.

The black sedan slid slowly into the lane behind the bus. Kichan watched them without leaning his forehead against the glass. As the bus pulled away, his mother lifted her phone and waved it, which clearly meant call me. Kichan lifted one hand briefly in return. After that, all he could see was the man in the padded jacket. Good. Then follow me. You saw London, and you saw New York, so if you've seen Seoul too, then come all the way to Rome while you're at it. Kichan settled back into the seat.

His heart was still racing, but his direction was set now. Inside his shirt, Dust shifted very slightly. This time, he had no intention of leaving it at home.

Incheon Airport was just as bright as it had been a few hours earlier. Except this time, he was not alone. While standing in the security line, while pretending to buy coffee, while pretending to look out through the departure terminal glass at the runway, the man in the padded jacket remained in sight the entire time. At some point, another man from the black sedan had joined him. Kichan ignored them. More precisely, he made a point of not showing that he knew. That annoyed people more.

After checking his boarding pass, he deliberately cast one glance their way while buying a bottle of water. Then, very slowly—really very slowly—he looked up at the sign pointing toward the Rome gate. The padded-jacket man's hand moved inside his pocket. He was reporting it. Good. So they would not lose his trail, Kichan did not hide at all this time. He did not wander through the duty-free shops or check any bathroom emergency exits. He simply went to the gate. Blatantly.

If they wanted to follow, they could follow. As he sat waiting for boarding to begin, his phone vibrated. It was his mother. `If you got on the bus, you should've said so. ` Another message was already underneath it. `Did you get to the airport? Did you eat? ` Kichan stared at the screen for a while, then typed back. `I got here. ` After a moment's hesitation, he added one more line. `I'll call after I get on the plane. ` The reply came back immediately. `And don't live on bread again.

` Kichan smiled with a tired face. Beyond the glass outside the gate, the lights of the plane glimmered. Rome was still far away. But he had to go. Home was warm, and because of that, it had become a place where he could not stay long. Kichan turned off his phone screen and looked up. From a seat some distance away, the man in the padded jacket was watching him. Kichan did not look away. This time, he was the one who let the corner of his mouth lift first. This was getting seriously annoying.

With that thought, the boarding announcement began.