Chapter 16 – “The Woman in the Photograph”

She stood frozen, the photograph trembling in her hand.

The image was small—Polaroid-sized, like the others. Faded at the edges, the colors washed with age. But the face was unmistakable. Her hair was longer then, darker. Her lips thinner. Her posture straighter.

But the eyes—those were the same. Unmistakably.

Her mother.

In a factory lot. Wind tugging at her blouse. Her hand shielding her face from the sun.

The handwritten caption beneath it sliced through Se-ri like cold water:

Yoo Mi-ran – 1984. Finance Dept.

Her throat felt too tight.

She stared at the image as if it might start speaking. As if her mother—the woman who raised her on stories of justice, of never looking away from the truth—might suddenly explain why her name had been buried inside a file connected to murder and silence.

Why she had stood at the edge of a crime scene and said nothing.

Why she had watched Se-ri step into the jaws of this story—and never said a word.

Behind her, the room was still. Only the faint hum of the desk lamp filled the air.

Joon-ho remained beside the cork wall, where hundreds of her own images stared back like silent ghosts.

He didn't speak yet.

Didn't move.

Se-ri's hand dropped slowly, the photograph still held between her fingers like a broken wing.

"She lied to me," she whispered.

Joon-ho turned.

Her voice cracked.

"All those nights—when I'd come home after failing a mock trial, or when I didn't make the cut at law school, and she'd say 'You're strong, Se-ri. You're brave. You're meant to fight for people'—she was hiding this."

Joon-ho stepped forward, careful not to speak too soon.

"She didn't just know about the fire," Se-ri said, breathless now. "She worked there. She was part of it. She was in the same building as Choi. She was in that courtroom. And she knew who you were."

She staggered back a step, pressing her hand against the nearest wall to steady herself. Her knees felt weak, as if the truth had drained something vital from her bones.

"She knew," she whispered.

Joon-ho approached her slowly. He couldn't touch her, but he stood close enough that she could feel the change in air pressure, the way his presence curved toward her like warmth.

"You don't know everything yet," he said softly.

"Don't defend her."

"I'm not," he said. "I'm saying this doesn't end with that photo."

She turned sharply to him. "Then where does it end, huh? When I find out she helped cover up your death? That she buried evidence? That she's the reason I inherited this mess in the first place?"

Her voice rose slightly, and her eyes welled.

"She made me believe this was my fight," she said, voice shaking. "She made me believe I chose this. But maybe it was never about me at all. Maybe I was just a replacement."

Silence.

Joon-ho stood still, his gaze steady.

Then, quietly—

"You're not a replacement."

Se-ri closed her eyes.

Her hands trembled.

When she opened them again, they were glossy with tears she hadn't wanted to shed. Not here. Not like this.

Joon-ho's voice dropped again. "Sit."

She looked at him.

"I'll talk," he said. "You listen."

She didn't argue.

She sat slowly on the edge of the desk, the photo still cradled in her lap like a wound.

Joon-ho remained standing in front of her.

"I remember seeing her," he said. "At the back of the courtroom. Quiet. Never spoke to anyone. Never looked directly at the judge. But she never missed a day."

He looked toward the wall, where a few photographs included wide shots of the courtroom gallery.

"I thought she was someone's wife," he admitted. "Or a secretary. But she kept coming back. Until the day I died."

Se-ri stared at the photo. "She watched you fall."

"She watched the trial fall apart," he corrected gently. "And maybe she thought it was too late to do anything."

"She still could've told me."

"She probably wanted to."

"That's not good enough."

He didn't respond.

She wiped her cheek quickly with the back of her hand, her jaw tight.

"Why does this hurt so much?" she whispered.

"Because the people who raise us shape the rules we live by," he said. "And when they break them—everything feels fake."

She didn't speak.

He added, "She might have done it to protect you."

"She lied to me."

He nodded. "Maybe she thought silence was safer than telling you how deep it goes."

Se-ri looked up at him, finally meeting his eyes.

And then something shifted.

In her. In the room. In the space between them.

Like a thread had pulled tighter.

Or snapped.

Because in that moment, she felt it—his grief and hers were no longer separate. His unfinished story, and hers, had fused into something fragile but real. A bond neither of them had asked for, but now neither of them could deny.

A long silence passed.

Then Joon-ho glanced at the desk. "There's more."

She looked up.

He gestured toward the drawer on the left.

She stood and moved toward it slowly. Her hands hovered for a moment, then gripped the brass handle and pulled.

Inside—

Another stack of Polaroids.

These were older.

And underneath them—another folder.

She opened it.

The first page was an employee log.

But her mother's name wasn't just listed.

It was circled.

Finance Admin. Restricted Access. Level 2.

Her fingers tightened.

Joon-ho stepped closer. "What does that mean?"

Se-ri flipped the page.

There was a list of project codes. One stood out.

FT-K2: Financial Transfer – Internal Routing Clearance.

Beside it, in red:

Supervisor: Yoo Mi-ran.

Se-ri's voice was flat. "She managed the payroll."

Joon-ho nodded.

"And you said the company was bribing witnesses."

He inhaled sharply.

She looked at him.

"She wasn't just watching," she said. "She was processing the payments."

Silence.

The room went cold again.

She closed the folder slowly.

Set it down.

"I need to talk to her."

"You're not ready."

"She's my mother, Joon-ho."

"I know," he said. "That's exactly why you're not ready."

She stared at him.

There was no judgment in his voice. Just truth.

And it stung more than any accusation.

She turned away from him.

Took a deep breath.

And froze.

Her gaze landed on a photo near the far end of the cork wall. One that hadn't been taken from the outside. Or of her.

This one—

Was inside a courtroom.

A wide shot.

Third row.

The gallery.

But something about it was wrong.

Very wrong.

She stepped closer.

Her breath hitched.

There—seated beside Officer Oh—was Yoo Mi-ran.

Smiling.

Leaning toward someone just out of frame.

And tucked into her blazer pocket, barely visible—

Was a lanyard.

Defense access badge.

Se-ri's heart stopped.

She reached up and pulled the photo free.

Joon-ho moved to her side. "What is it?"

She turned the photo toward him.

His eyes narrowed.

And then widened.

He looked up at her.

And said only one word:

"…No."