BSMF | 17

Chapter 17

Meeting You Made Me Truly Happy

“What brings you here, Father?”

Hakjun, who received Sunshim’s polite nod, turned his eyes back to Woo-gun.

A rough sound came from his throat, like he was scratching it.

“Do I need a reason to enter my own house?”

Woo-gun didn’t respond; the question wasn’t meant to elicit an answer.

Since opening Pyeongchungwan, returning home had been a rare occasion.

Hakjun stayed at Pyeongchungwan for both living and working, so his return today was unexpected.

“And when did you arrive? You’ve been holed up at school all this time.”

Even though it had been almost a month since he last saw his son, the words that came out of his mouth were full of reproach from the very start.

A cold tension flowed between father and son.

Just sitting across from each other, the air was taut, threatening to snap at any moment.

“Oh… I should go trim some bean sprouts. Please rest.”

Sunshim quickly left, noticing the two men’s tense exchange.

“Please, go ahead. I’ll follow shortly.”

Woo-gun replied in a low tone, not exactly an answer but more an evasion.

“Next month.”

Hakjun’s heavy voice fell behind Woo-gun, stopping his steps.

“I heard you safely received the items from China and recently arrived in Incheon.”

“…….”

“The date for the plan has been moved earlier than initially scheduled. Be prepared.”

Date.

Even without asking, Woo-gun knew exactly what his father meant.

The conversation between them always revolved around a single topic: the upcoming operation.

Of course.

“Make sure the members’ lives are not wasted. You must plan it properly.”

Hakjun was the leader of the Han-Yeol Group.

Woo-gun felt his hand tighten around the cup and, this time, gave his father the answer he wanted.

“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure everything goes smoothly.”

Leaving only a brief response, he headed to his room.

He didn’t want to spend much time facing his father.

Thud.

Hakjun silently watched the door close firmly.

In his gaze at his son’s back, there was more contempt than disappointment, and deep within, a sense of denial that such circumstances were unavoidable.

“Weakling. How long will you remain trapped in the past? How dare you… in front of me…”

Words that could receive no answer vanished into emptiness.

Tsk. Hakjun clicked his tongue and turned to enter a room opposite Woo-gun’s.

The house sank back into silence.

It was a heavy night.

Late into autumn, deep at night.

In front of the back gate of Songil High School, Woo-gun stood with a man pulling a rickshaw.

The driver whispered something briefly in Woo-gun’s ear, then withdrew his hand.

“Then I’ll be going now, sir.”

“Take care. Watch out you’re not followed.”

“Don’t worry.”

Bowing, the driver hurried away from Songil High School.

Woo-gun silently watched him leave before returning to his laboratory.

Papers were stacked beside the typewriter, but his hands did not rise to them easily.

He knew very well that what he was about to do would be far from pleasant.

“Ha…”

He let out a helpless sigh and closed his eyes for a moment.

Rubbing his temples did little to ease the intense headache.

The pain always came when delivering instructions—especially for an operation.

How many comrades would die this time?

How many would be forced into exile? How many would never return to this land?

Every time, guilt overwhelmed him, but he could not avoid it.

That was the fate of a member of the Han-Yeol Group.

Some sacrificed their lives for independence, while others ensured that their comrades’ sacrifices were not in vain.

There had to be someone who would meticulously plan and send them off.

For that reason, those who risked their lives waited only for Woo-gun’s orders—the one word that could send them into danger.

“If I must send them… then I will.”

With my own hands, I will.

Woo-gun began correcting the Esperanto words in the parentheses of his article for the Songil Science Journal.

To an unknowing reader, they might seem like simple typos.

But for those who knew the code, these were crucial.

Every detail—date, time, route—was hidden in the article.

And at the very end, the one word that was never altered:

“Papilio.”

In Esperanto, it meant “butterfly.” To the members of the Han-Yeol Group, it signified “operation.”

Placed at the end of the article, it meant the final order had been given: the start of armed resistance.

Those who had received such instructions either died in the operation or fled—some to Shanghai, Manchuria, or even the U.S.

The survivors prepared for the next battle, risking their lives again, either returning or perishing.

This process repeated relentlessly until the goal was achieved.

Independence.

A heavy, yet radiant, singular desire.

“…….”

The typing, sharp like gunfire, ceased abruptly.

A moment of silence. A fleeting inner conflict.

Decision made.

Woo-gun, staring at the paper dangling from the typewriter, pulled the return lever to complete it.

After reviewing the final article, he sealed it in an envelope.

It felt hollow, exhausting, as though a storm had passed.

“Ha…”

Removing his glasses, Woo-gun wiped his weary face.

Looking out the window, dawn was breaking.

A strange feeling washed over him as daylight pushed the darkness aside.

He hoped that nights spent awake with guilt rather than research, unable to greet the day with bright eyes, would end today.

But his hope, like darkness fleeing light, vanished into the shadows.

Always had.

“Good morning, sir.”

A student from the academic department entered his lab just then.

As always, Woo-gun handed over the manuscript.

“This month’s article. Deliver it to the journal team.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll take it right away.”

Just as the student was about to leave, Woo-gun called him back urgently.

“Wait a moment.”

“What is it, sir?”

“I need to check one last thing.”

The student watched curiously as Woo-gun examined the manuscript, seeming conflicted.

After some time, Woo-gun handed it back.

“…Done. Take it.”

The student left with the manuscript. Woo-gun tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

Once more, several lives were sent to their deaths.

If all survived to complete their mission, it would be ideal—but that would be like saying independence would come tomorrow.

Woo-gun stepped outside with a heavy heart.

The early morning air brushed his face, leaving a cool sensation.

He lit a cigarette and let out a long sigh.

The smoke, left untended, burned like incense before vanishing.

At the modern café waiting room, So-hye exhaled softly.

In her hands, hidden behind her back, were a painting and a letter for Kyung-rim.

She had drawn them some time ago, intending to give them now in line with the date—she had never delivered them before.

“I hope she likes it…”

A little nervous, she knocked on the door.

“Um, sister.”

Kyung-rim peeked through the door and flinched, quickly putting something back into a drawer.

What was she hiding? A letter from a customer?

“Come in, or go back out.”

Sensing Kyung-rim’s tense voice, So-hye quickly explained,

“I, uh… have something to give you.”

“What is it?”

She hesitated before handing over the gift.

Kyung-rim looked at the rolled tube of paper, then back at So-hye, questioning silently.

“It’s your birthday present. Your birthday’s tomorrow.”

Kyung-rim’s surprised expression suggested she hadn’t expected anyone to remember.

Since adopting the stage name Natasha, her relationships with other dancers had become strained, so her reaction was understandable.

Moreover, there had been the recent fight with Cho-ok…

Scratching her forehead, So-hye smiled awkwardly.

“I knew the date, so I couldn’t just let it pass. It’s nothing special, but please accept it.”

Kyung-rim looked at both the rolled drawing and So-hye, finally taking it.

Inside was a depiction of her standing in a magnificent pose, wearing a dazzling costume on stage.

“I saw a photo of Choi Seung-hee performing in a magazine and drew it while imagining you performing someday. I hope you become famous and take the stage like that…”

Kyung-rim silently studied the painting, her expression unreadable.

It was as if she were drawn into the image.

So-hye hesitated, then softly called,

“Sister…?”

Finally, Kyung-rim blinked rapidly and returned to reality.

“Well drawn.”

“Really?”

“It’s beautiful. So well done. I’d believe it was a photograph.”

So-hye blinked in surprise. Receiving such praise from this sisterly figure felt like the sun had risen in the west.

Kyung-rim then read the letter. It wasn’t anything special, just a few lines.

Yet she lingered over it, making So-hye feel awkward.

After some time, Kyung-rim looked up at So-hye.

“……So-hye.”

So-hye froze, words caught in her throat.

“Meeting you here… I’m truly glad.”

Kyung-rim’s eyes glistened with tears.

Tears that seemed ready to fall at any moment.

“I know my personality is like this. Forgive me for not being warmer to you.”

Her hand reached out to caress So-hye’s head.

She was crying over a gift, and her words sounded like a final farewell.

A sense of unease washed over So-hye.

Her own eyes glistened as she replied,

“Why… why do you say that? You sound like you’re leaving…”

Kyung-rim smiled faintly.

It was not the dazzling smile of Natasha, but a simple, modest smile of Kyung-rim herself.

“Yes. I’ll be leaving soon.”

“What?”

So-hye’s eyes widened. Kyung-rim was leaving the modern café?

She was earning a fortune as Natasha; Man-seok wouldn’t let her go so easily.

Kyung-rim seemed to read So-hye’s thoughts and snorted lightly, shaking her head.

“Even if someone stops me, it won’t matter. You saw that day. You know what I do when I get really angry.”

If I stay here, everyone could be in danger.

She swallowed the rest of her words, laughing lightly as if joking.

But So-hye felt only confusion.

Why this sudden farewell?

Was it the loneliness of someone leaving who shared her hardships?

Or had she grown to like and rely on Kyung-rim more than she realized?

The surge of frustration made her speak, almost resentfully,

“Do you really have to go?”

Kyung-rim stood, embracing her.

“I’m really glad I got to meet you here.”

Her low voice seemed to convey more than the words themselves.

“I couldn’t always show it, but… I truly liked you.”

“…….”

“Stay healthy. Live boldly, like you are now.”

Kyung-rim gently stroked So-hye’s shoulder.

Tears threatened to overflow, and So-hye couldn’t speak.

She had met many staff at the café before and parted ways countless times, but never had it felt this sad.

Why did her heart feel so tight?

Why did she want to hold her so badly?

Overwhelmed by an unexplainable fear, So-hye gripped Kyung-rim’s coat tightly.

“Please keep it a secret that I’m leaving. I just wanted to say goodbye to you in advance.”

Kyung-rim placed her hand on So-hye’s tear-streaked cheek.

A gentle touch, urging her not to cry.

Yet, for the hands of Natasha, used to flamboyant performances, they were unusually rough.

“Thank you for the gift. Truly… really.”

The rough hands hinted at her past deeds, unknown to anyone.

Just as So-hye was about to plead with her not to leave,

“Come on, it’s almost opening time. Everyone, rehearse! Where are the dancers?”

Man-seok’s voice called from outside.

Kyung-rim tucked the drawing and letter into her bag and rose.

The tears and sorrow vanished as if they had never been.

“Let’s go.”

Her smile stretched across her face.

Did it feel like the last smile? Or was So-hye imagining it?

So-hye glanced at Kyung-rim’s back, then at the slightly open drawer.

She noticed familiar letters.

Songil Science Journal…

The only item inside was a copy of the journal Kyung-rim had just hidden.

“Why… why is she hiding this?”

An utterly unrelated connection—it gave So-hye another unsettling feeling.

“Baek So-hye, where are you! Come out quickly!”

The dancers called from outside.

So-hye reluctantly closed the drawer and went out to the waiting room.

Late at night, a man sat in the corner of a tea house, reading something.

It was a copy of the Songil Science Journal, opened to Woo-gun’s article.

He already had half his face hidden under a cap, which he pressed deeper as he read.

He tapped randomly on certain parts of the page.

From a distance, it seemed meaningless, just a habit.

After a long while, as night fully fell, the man rose.

He glanced around cautiously, walking as if extremely careful.

Eventually, he disappeared into a dark alley.

Old men sat around small fires, drinking cheap rice wine.

He adjusted his hat and walked through them.

Clang! Whoosh!

“Oi!”

“What is this?”

Suddenly, a book flew into the fire, startling the old men.

The book was swallowed by the flames.

“Hey, hey…!”

The old men clicked their tongues, scolding the man who threw the book.

He paid them no mind and disappeared quietly.

That night, five copies of the Songil Science Journal that had been taken outside were simultaneously reduced to ashes.

“Phew…”

Even the one that burned in Kyung-rim’s cigarette was among them.