IRREVOCABLY AND IRRETRIEVABLY

Chapter Three: A Home Made of Her

The first leg of the flight had been long and silent. Fourteen hours of air thick with recycled breath, turbulence, and the hum of a machine that never truly slept. Haerim had drifted in and out of consciousness, lulled by the occasional announcement and the glow of backlit seat numbers. Her eyes burned from too little sleep and too much sterile light. Her limbs ached with stillness.

She'd woken up somewhere over the East China Sea, her cheek pressed against the scratchy airline pillow, the window beside her blurred with the shape of clouds that looked too soft to be real. The second leg of the journey—just under two hours—was quieter still. Haein had shifted just one seat over, still close enough that their shoulders nearly touched, but far enough to offer Haerim a moment's quiet.

Now, descending toward Jeju, Haerim sat with her forehead against the glass, trying to commit to memory the way the island coast crept into view. Sharp cliffs and dark rock, waters that shimmered like pewter beneath the early sun. A dense ribbon of forest marked the center, untamed even from this height.

It was beautiful. But it did not feel like a welcome.

"It always looks like it's hiding something, doesn't it?" Haein's voice came from just beside her, quiet and oddly well-timed.

Haerim didn't look away from the glass. "It looks tired."

Hae-in smiled faintly. "That too."

There was something comforting about Hae-in's presence, like an anchor cast somewhere beneath the waves—still unseen, but felt. She gently offered Haerim a half-wrapped rice ball. "For grounding. My grandmother says a full stomach protects against strange winds."

Haerim took it wordlessly, not hungry, but unwilling to reject the offering. She turned it over in her hands, the rice grains pressed imperfectly together, edges wrapped tight in seaweed. It reminded her of the way things held together when they had no choice.

The plane lurched with a jolt that yanked her out of thought. A hard, graceless landing that made her heart leap into her throat. Haein's knuckles brushed hers for a fleeting moment—accidental, perhaps, or quietly intentional.

Outside, the runway unfurled in shades of iron. Fog clung low, not drifting but clinging, as if exhaled by the island itself. The lights on the tarmac blinked like distant warnings.

Haerim closed her eyes.

For a heartbeat, she could've sworn the island had sighed. Not in relief. But in resignation.


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Immigration was uneventful, but it did little to soothe the disquiet that had gathered inside her like mist. Baggage claim felt like a slow echo chamber—voices muffled, footsteps stretched. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting shadows that didn't quite match the people beneath them, like the world was slightly misaligned.

Then—he stood out.

A tall man in a dark overcoat, stationed apart from the crowd, holding a single cardboard sign: Wolhwa-gotaek. Nothing else. No name. No instructions. Just that word in stark, deliberate ink.

He didn't speak. Just bowed—an economy of movement that felt old—and took Haerim's suitcase with an ease that unsettled her. Hae-in greeted him with a short nod, which he returned. No one introduced anyone. No names exchanged. The silence felt rehearsed.

Outside, the black SUV awaited. Its tinted windows reflected back only sky. When the doors closed behind them, the world felt abruptly removed. The engine purred with a mechanical stillness, too quiet for its size. As the airport gave way to winding roads, the landscape shifted.

Jeju was waking slowly. Hills pressed in on either side, heavy with pine and cedar. Pale light filtered through the branches, fragmented and uneasy. Haerim leaned her head against the cool glass, trying to anchor herself to something—anything—but the green blurred by too quickly.