7. Chapter Seven
Isit on the edge of another generic hotel bed, this one somewhere in Pohang, the lights of the city spilling through the gap in the curtains.
My wallet’s getting lighter every day. The academy’s being patient about my absence, but I can hear the impatience in the principal’s voice when she emails me asking when I’ll be back.
I keep saying soon, another week, just a little longer.
I open my laptop and stare at the screen, rubbing my eyes.
They’re dry and scratchy from too many hours on the road, too many nights sleeping badly in unfamiliar rooms. The envelope sits on the bedside table, propped against the lamp.
I look at it for the hundredth time this week, seeing both our names stamped on the front.
I pull up a search engine and type in reunite with old friends forum korea.
Several results pop up. I click through a few, scanning posts.
There are people looking for elementary school classmates, childhood neighbors, siblings separated by adoption.
Some of the stories make my chest tighten.
Long separations, desperate searches, a few happy endings scattered among the uncertainty.
I settle on one of the more active forums and create an account. The username field sits there blinking at me and I type in something generic, then navigate to the section for posting requests.
The cursor blinks in the empty post box.
I stare at it for a long moment, then pull out my phone again and scroll to the messages I exchanged with my mom days ago.
She sent me a photo of the picture from her living room, the one of Ryowoon and me at graduation.
I save it to my laptop and attach it to the post.
In the photo we’re both grinning like idiots, caps tilted back on our heads, arms slung around each other’s shoulders.
Ryowoon’s making a peace sign with his good hand, the other one tucked behind my back.
I’m holding our diplomas in one hand, caught mid-laugh at something he said right before the camera clicked.
I start typing.
Looking for old friend. Last seen in Haemok, Gyeongsang Province, 10 years ago.
Name: Cha Ryowoon. Would be 34 now. Approximately 185cm tall, black hair, likely speaks with Gyeongsando dialect.
Distinguishing features: scar at corner of mouth (left side), several scars on arms. May be working with cars or motorcycles.
Possibly located in Busan, Ulsan, Pohang, or surrounding areas.
If anyone has seen someone matching this description or has any information, please contact me. Any help appreciated.
I reread it twice, then hit post before I can second-guess myself.
The page refreshes. My post sits there at the top of the board, Ryowoon’s face staring out from the thumbnail image. I lean back against the headboard and close my eyes, suddenly exhausted.
This is a long shot. I know it. But I’ve seen those videos where people track down birth parents or childhood friends through forums like this. Strangers piecing together clues, sharing information, making connections across distances and decades. If it can work for them, maybe it can work for me.
I set the phone on the bedside table and stare at the ceiling.
Tomorrow I’ll head to another city, check more garages, ask more questions.
It’s an almost comforting cycle now. I’ll show Ryowoon’s description, watch faces go blank or thoughtful, get the same apologetic shakes of the head.
Sometimes I’ll get a maybe, someone who knew a guy who kind of fit that description but moved away years ago or stopped coming around. Always a dead end.
But tonight I’ve done something different. Cast a wider net. Put Ryowoon’s face out there for anyone to see.
I refresh the forum page. No responses yet. It’s only been five minutes.
I get up and head to the bathroom, splash water on my face. When I look in the mirror I barely recognize myself. There are circles under my eyes, my hair’s a mess, I need a shave. I look like someone who’s been living out of a suitcase for weeks.
A few days later I’m cross-legged on another hotel bed with a container of jajangmyeon balanced on my thigh, chopsticks in hand, watching a variety show where celebrities are trying to guess song titles while wearing noise-canceling headphones. It’s stupid enough to shut my brain off for a while.
My phone buzzes on the mattress beside me.
I glance at it, expecting another email from the academy or maybe my mom checking in. Instead I see a notification from the forum.
I set the container down and grab my phone, thumbprint unlocking the screen as I navigate to the post. There are maybe thirty comments now, a couple each day. I scroll through them quickly, skimming.
Saw someone like that in Ulsan maybe five years ago but lost track of him.
My cousin’s boyfriend has a scar like that but he’s from Daejeon.
There was a guy working at a garage in Gwangju who looked similar but that was ages ago.
None of it helps. Most of these I’ve already read, people throwing out vague maybes that lead nowhere. I’m about to close the app when I see a new comment at the bottom, posted twenty minutes ago.
The username is bluecar_97 and the comment is longer than the others.
Holy shit, the guy in this picture looks EXACTLY like this older man who lives in the building next to mine.
Same face, same scar on his mouth and everything.
I’m talking identical, just older. He’s got tattoos now but otherwise it’s like looking at the same person.
I remember him because one time my card got declined at the convenience store between our buildings and he covered my kimbap and a couple drinks.
I thought he was really nice even though he looks kind of intimidating.
I always say hi when I see him now, he’s usually outside smoking on his balcony.
I stop breathing.
My hands are shaking as I read it again. Then a third time.
I fumble to type a reply, my fingers clumsy on the screen.
Do you know his address? Which unit he’s in?
I hit send and then sit there staring at my phone like I can will a response into existence.
The variety show keeps playing in the background, shrieking with laughter.
My phone buzzes.
I don’t know which unit sorry, but the building is in Sokcho, on the northeast coast. I can give you the address if that helps?
Sokcho.
Four hours north of here. A port town on the East Sea, tucked up near the border with the north. I’ve never been. It’s nowhere near Gyeongsang Province, nowhere near any of the places I’ve been searching. Completely off my radar.
I type back immediately.
Yes, please. Any information you have.
The reply comes fast.
It’s the Haneul Apartments, building B. It’s the one right next to mine on Jungang-ro. There’s a convenience store on the ground floor of my building and a fried chicken place on the ground floor of his. Hope that helps!
I screenshot the message. My heart’s hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.
This could be nothing. Another dead end. Some guy who just happens to look like Ryowoon did at eighteen.
But something in my gut tells me it’s not.
I shove the half-eaten jajangmyeon aside and pull my laptop over, already pulling up directions to Sokcho.
I wake up before my alarm, I shower, throw my stuff back in my bag, and check out before the sun’s up.
The drive north is long. Four hours if I don’t hit traffic, longer if I do.
I stop only when I have to, pulling into rest stops for the bathroom and grabbing whatever’s quick.
Triangle kimbap in plastic wrap, a can of coffee that tastes like burnt sugar.
I eat standing up, leaning against the hood of my car, watching trucks rumble past on the highway.
The landscape changes as I drive. The industrial sprawl of the southern coast gives way to mountains, then flattens out again as I get closer to the East Sea. By the time I cross into Gangwon Province the light’s sharper, the air cooler when I roll the windows down.
Sokcho appears in pieces. First the outskirts, then the denser clusters of buildings, then finally the harbor and the city proper spreading up into the hills. It’s bigger than Haemok but not by much, the same salt smell in the air, the same narrow streets winding upward from the water.
I follow the directions on my phone, navigating through intersections and side streets until I reach the base of a hill. The Haneul Apartments sit partway up, visible from where I park the car at the curb. I turn the engine off and sit there for a minute, hands still on the wheel.
This could be nothing. Some guy who happens to have a scar in the right place. A stranger who looks a little like someone I used to know.
But my hands are shaking when I get out of the car.
The walk up the hill takes a while. The streets are steep, winding, lined with older buildings and small shops. By the time I reach the address the sun’s sinking low, the sky turning pink and gold over the water. I stop at the base of the building and look up.
It’s exactly what the forum user described.
An older mid-rise apartment complex, nothing fancy.
A place where people live quietly, work their shifts, keep to themselves.
The units face outward with open walkways running along each floor.
I can see laundry hanging on some of the balconies, potted plants on others.
A few people moving behind windows, shadows against the light.
I stand there on the sidewalk, staring up at it. My chest feels tight again.
I don’t know which unit I’m looking for. The person who messaged me didn’t know either. Just that the guy lives here somewhere.
I chew on my lip, thinking. I could knock on doors, but that feels insane. Hi, I’m looking for someone I haven’t seen in ten years, does anyone here match this description?