Chapter 15 – “The Building Across”
Se-ri didn't blink.
She couldn't.
Her eyes remained fixed on the second-floor window of the building across the street—just across that narrow alley, half-shrouded in the reflection of Seoul's scattered streetlamps. But there it was. The unmistakable shape of a wall lined with photographs. Square-shaped, glinting dully in the light.
Polaroids.
Dozens of them.
Maybe more.
She could only make out fragments—tiny white borders, shadows of faces, the distinct glare that came from glossy paper under artificial lighting—but one thing was painfully, unmistakably clear:
They were all of her.
Her outside the building. Her entering. Her talking to Officer Oh. One that looked like her reaching up to pull the shutter closed. Another from earlier that morning, standing at the second-floor window, sipping coffee and staring down at the street.
Se-ri's fingers slowly curled into the fabric of her cardigan.
Joon-ho was at her side, silent. He followed her gaze across the street, into that single glowing window, into that room where someone had turned her life into a gallery.
His voice came low. Barely more than a whisper.
"They've been watching you for days."
She didn't answer.
Couldn't.
All she could hear was the shallow sound of her own breathing and the faint buzz of her phone screen dimming beside the Polaroid.
She looked at him. "I want to go over there."
He didn't move. "You're shaking."
She hadn't noticed.
Her arms were crossed tight now, elbows locked to her body, like she could somehow fold herself smaller than the danger pressing in.
"I don't care," she said. "I need to see it. Up close. I need to know what's there."
"It's not safe."
"I don't care."
"You should."
She turned to him.
Her voice was sharp, but quiet.
"You died chasing this. You died alone, and no one cared. I'm not going to be the second person buried by this story without knowing who wrote it."
He stared at her.
Something in his expression shifted. Softened.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
"I'll go with you."
She gave him a look. "You can't open doors."
"I can float through them. That counts for something."
A small, involuntary laugh puffed out of her nose. The first in what felt like hours.
"Fine," she said, gathering her phone, stuffing it in her jacket pocket. "But if you see anything first, tell me. I'd rather not scream like a horror movie extra tonight."
He lifted a hand in mock salute. "Scout's honor."
They descended the stairs slowly.
Every creak felt louder than usual. Every shadow sharper. By the time they reached the main door, Se-ri's chest was tight with adrenaline and dread, but she kept her pace steady. Deliberate.
The alley outside was still and cold.
The streetlights above buzzed faintly, casting long orange pools across the pavement. Trash bags leaned lazily against lampposts. A scooter sat abandoned near a drain. The city wasn't asleep—but this corner of it felt like it was holding its breath.
She crossed the street without hesitation, her footsteps echoing faintly in the narrow alley.
Joon-ho followed just behind, silent as fog.
The building across the way wasn't much different from hers. Narrow. Three floors. Rusted grates along the lower windows. No visible business signage, no doorman, no working intercom.
She reached the door.
Pressed her fingers against the metal handle.
Locked.
She turned to Joon-ho. "Can you—?"
He was already gone.
Phased through the door in a flicker of motion.
She waited.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
Then the lock clicked from inside.
The door cracked open.
She stepped inside fast, heart pounding.
The entryway was dark and cold. A tight corridor stretched ahead, stairs rising to the left, an old elevator that had long stopped functioning stood dead in the wall. The only light came from above—the faintest glow drifting down from the second floor.
She climbed.
One step at a time.
Her footsteps muffled by the worn carpet.
Joon-ho reappeared at the top of the stairs.
He looked different.
Paler.
Tense.
"There's no one here now," he said. "But someone left recently. Lights still warm."
"Which room?"
He gestured to the left.
She followed.
There it was.
The door was cracked.
Inside—faint golden light. A desk lamp. A standing floor lamp with a torn shade.
And beyond them, a room papered in Polaroids.
She stepped inside.
Her breath caught.
Hundreds of them.
Pinned to the wall. Taped to string. Some clipped in rows across old corkboard. All of her. Different angles. Different outfits. Different days.
She approached slowly, her footsteps lost in the thick carpet.
Each photo showed her doing something so ordinary it chilled her more than if they'd been posed. Tying her hair up in the mirror. Pouring water. Laughing on a call. Staring out the window in her T-shirt and slippers.
She stopped at one.
One she hadn't seen before.
It was her in the third-floor apartment, holding the tape recorder in her lap.
The photo was dated in red ink: 6:58 PM.
The exact moment she'd hit play.
She turned to Joon-ho.
"They were here. Watching. Recording everything."
He didn't respond.
She turned again.
There was a desk in the far corner. A small recorder. A stack of unused tapes. A logbook.
She moved toward it.
On top—an open Polaroid camera.
And beneath it—a file folder.
Her fingers hovered over it. Trembled.
Then slowly, she opened it.
Inside—documents.
Printouts. Photos.
One was her official birth certificate.
Another—her university ID, scanned and annotated.
And beneath that—
She froze.
A photo of her mother.
Young. Standing in front of a factory.
No smile. Just the same eyes.
Handwritten beneath it, in red marker:
"Yoo Mi-ran – 1984. Finance Dept."
Her mouth went dry.
She looked again.
It wasn't a mistake.
It was her mother.
Yoo Mi-ran.
Se-ri staggered back a step.
Joon-ho moved toward her, his voice low. Urgent.
"What is it?"
She held the photo up to him with trembling hands.
"She didn't just witness the fire," she whispered.
"She's not just a part of the case."
"She's my mother."