Chapter 12

“Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul

And sings the tune without the words

And never stops at all.”

― Emily Dickinson

The air surrounding her smelled of coffee beans and freshly baked pastries. She inhaled deeply and smiled to herself as she tied her apron to her waist. Wonyoung’s morning routine no longer consisted of prayers and communal tasks. It was, nonetheless, still a sacred moment. She had gotten used to arriving before dawn, opening the door while the city still slept, switching on lights to warm up the still empty café. 

She filled the machines, wiped down tables with a rag, and arranged the pastries that had just been delivered. Most tasks didn’t require much from her, and that was partly why she liked the job so much. Her mind could drift away while her hands moved through the familiar tasks. 

It had been fourteen months since she had crossed the iron gates of the convent, stumbling onto a street that she couldn’t even recognize with her belongings scattered at her feet. She pressed her fingers to her throat in remembrance, still able to feel the ghost of Jimin’s name she had screamed so loudly. 

The first week had been the worst. Going back to her parents’ place after all that happened had almost felt like walking back into hell. Her mother had cried and her father had looked at her with nothing more than disgust. She had locked herself in her childhood bedroom and stared at the white ceiling surrounded by her old plushies. She had wondered how she was supposed to breathe and stay alive when she had left her heart in a basement cell she had never even entered. 

Her heart, Jimin. 

So far away from her, trapped inside that cold stoney cage. 

During the following weeks, she had tried to find out what had happened to her. She had called the convent until one of the nuns threatened her over the line. She had written letters that had been sent back unopened. She had even considered showing up at the gates to demand answers but her mother had begged her not to, had said “please, we’ve been through enough, just let it go.” 

But how could she let go of the only thing that had ever made her feel whole? How could she abandon Jimin knowing that she was probably dying of sorrow? How could she even taste freedom when her love was hidden in a basement?

The following thoughts kept circling back to her mind. Is she alright? Are they hurting her? Are they feeding her? Did they even give her a blanket? Does she think I abandoned her? Does she hate me for not fighting harder? 

Not knowing had been its own kind of torture. In a way, it was worse than when they had been torn apart. Now she was left with silence, with the possibility that something had happened and that she would never know. 

Of course, she had stopped praying. How could it have been of any use to her to pray to a God who had never shown her any kindness? A God that had only participated in her agony? 

Nevertheless, it felt strange to her to replace her old habits with new ones.

Work had given Wonyoung an opportunity to put grief away for a few hours, to forget about the convent’s stone walls and the way Jimin had looked at her that last morning. 

After a few weeks of suffering at her parents’ place, she had moved into a small studio. It was small enough for her to afford on her café salary and had a window that overlooked a park. She had only bought minimal furniture: a mattress, a lamp, and a chair. Her first real purchase had been a radio, she had turned it on one evening and music had filled the empty living room. 

She had stood in the apartment and cried, because she could now. She was allowed to listen to whatever she wanted, to feel whatever she wanted, and to exist without asking for permission to breathe. 

Her healing journey had been a rollercoaster of emotions. Some days she had woken up, made coffee, rode the bus, chatted with customers about the weather or their days, ate lunch in the park and read novels she had missed so much. But other days, she had frozen because a customer’s laugh sounded like Jimin’s, because she had passed a woman with dark hair in the street and her heart had stopped. And during those gloomy days, she remembered that her Jimin was gone, that she might never be able to see her again. 

Whenever it happened, she would go through her shift on autopilot; faking smiles, pretending that everything was fine, and then she would go home and sit in the dark for hours, sobbing until she had no tears left to cry. 

Her therapist taught her grief came in waves and that she had to let herself feel. So that’s what she did. She learned to acknowledge that yes, she missed Jimin with an intensity that sometimes made it hard for her to breathe but that it wouldn’t go away and that she would most likely survive. 

She had made a friend, Gaeul, who worked at the bakery next door. Gaeul had no interest in religion and would drag Wonyoung for drinks sometimes, insisting that staying alone in her apartment wasn’t healthy. 

“You need to live,” Gaeul would say. “I don’t know what happened to you before, and you don’t have to tell me don’t worry. But I can see that you’re hurting and I know that hiding from the world won’t make it hurt less.” 

Wonyoung had taken her advice and joined her on adventures. Gaeul introduced her to other people, other women even, though the mere thought of being close to anyone who wasn’t Jimin made her stomach twist uncomfortably. Slowly, she began to think that there was hope, somewhere. 

She journaled often, writing letters to Jimin, telling her about her days, her recovery. She often apologized, told her how much she loved and missed her. And she also wrote entries to herself, writing down her thoughts and feelings.