七部小说 · Seven Novels

第 27 章

电话来在二〇二六年三月那个礼拜六下午三点十七分，北村大院中间那座韩屋的안방（内房）里，那张矮桌旁——paje一脉的长女、paje一脉的妹妹、北坡那只四尾的生灵、那只弘大调性的独脚鬼（dokkaebi），以及那一只自己四百年戒律已经终了的生灵——坐在矮桌边的礼拜六下午的第二个时辰里——在大田药师在晨九时矮松木门前的第一次诵读之后，在两点十七分五件乐器的编制变作六件之后——正喝着那两日断食后的第二盏大邱调性的보리차（麦茶）；那场两日断食，paje一脉的长女和那只自己四百年戒律已经终了的生灵，是在大田祖母的主持下、礼拜六下午两点钟，刚刚开戒的。

那部电话，藏在一只年长生灵——其自身四百年戒律已经终了——的炭灰色羊毛衫的内袋里，那件羊毛衫此刻在paje一脉的长女身上，在矮桌南侧的방석（方席）上，震动起来。

我把它取了出来。

我以paje一脉长女那种谨慎的朝鲜母亲式的动作，在二〇二六年三月那个礼拜六下午三点十七分、北村大院中间那座韩屋的안방的矮桌旁，把它取了出来。

我看了屏幕上的名字。

名字是：未知。

名字底下的号码是首尔的座机。

那个区号，依我自己作为侨胞（gyopo）在二〇二四年秋天、二十四岁返首尔时背熟的首尔区号之纪律来辨认，是中央首尔三清洞一带的一条私人专线。

我握着电话。

我握了三口气的工夫。

我呼吸。

我接了。

我以忠清道paje一脉长女的那种朝鲜母亲式的语法，在二〇二六年三月那个礼拜六下午三点十七分、北村大院中间那座韩屋的안방的矮桌旁，接了：

여보세요。

电话那一端，一个韩国男人的声音用一种四十一岁的韩国男人在二〇二六年三月那个礼拜六下午的朝鲜宫廷敬语说：

韩智元 씨。

他说：我是李韩赛。我是大韩民国总统府秘书长。我此刻是从三清洞青瓦台别馆给您打来的，二〇二六年三月某个礼拜六下午。我此刻是在下午三点十七分打来的。我用的是一条私人专线——是本府保安局长那一本台账里唯一不在台账上的那一条线，韩 씨。

我坐在矮桌南侧。

我没有，在矮桌旁，眨眼。

他说：韩 씨。我打来，是因为我在七个礼拜五的梦里，有那个我在七个礼拜五里都没有问过您的、唯一的一个问题，韩 씨。这唯一的一个问题，需要面对面的朝鲜宫廷韩语。这问题，依梦而论，不能在电话里问，韩 씨。我此刻是在电话里，以二〇二六年三月那个礼拜六下午一个四十一岁韩国男人的朝鲜宫廷韩语——询问电话那一端这一位韩国女性，是否愿意在礼拜六下午五时，来到三清洞青瓦台别馆，让我把那唯一的一个问题问出。

我坐在矮桌旁。

我看着北侧那只自己四百年戒律已经终了的生灵。

他看着我。

他的脸，在一手之距外，就是那张脸。

那张脸——经过礼拜四清晨七点十一分대청（大厅）折好的褥垫上的第二次入睡、经过四十八小时的断食、经过大田祖母在晨九时矮松木门前、经过两点十七分由五件乐器变作六件的编制——在礼拜六下午三点十七分，还没有再次入睡。

那是北村大院中间那座韩屋的안방矮桌北侧、那只自己四百年戒律已经终了的生灵的脸。

那张脸，在矮桌北侧，没有眨眼。

那是一只年长生灵的脸——这位生灵刚刚在矮桌旁、被大田祖母在晨九时矮松木门前的第一次诵读告知了那十七代paje一脉所承载的那一段；那段写在桑皮纸的背面，是我祖母在四天的口传里教我读出来的。

那张纸的背面上的那一段，就在矮桌上，正是那一段。

桑皮纸背面那一段，依四天的口传，写的是：

这通转呈过来的私人电话，依paje一脉十七代相传，是给西人派李焕的转世之人的那一通电话；这位转世之人，正是paje一脉长女在大韩民国某位总统在位第二年五月初七的早上，借三神奶奶之织机与四股编白麻丧服带，将把那四百〇三年里的那一份不饶恕给予的对象。

那四百〇三年的那一份不饶恕，依四天的口传，是我的。

那一份不饶恕——依桑皮纸的背面——并不是给那位朝鲜士子、西人派李焕的不饶恕。

那一份不饶恕，是欠给五月初七早上仁王山南径下祠那只雕木铃之器物的不饶恕——这件器物，依大田祖母在礼拜六上午矮松木门前在晨九时完成的十七代口传，正是东径山脚村屠夫摊上那只朝鲜宫廷一脉、四尾的生灵；这只自己戒律被亏欠的生灵，那份不饶恕，是经由铃、经由朝鲜士子李焕这件器物，转传过去的。

这份不饶恕，依四天的口传，将在五月初七的早上——也就是礼拜六下午起四天之后——被给予。

这份不饶恕，将在礼拜六下午三点十七分，借这通电话，提前被给予。

我看着矮桌北侧那只自己四百年戒律已经终了的生灵。

他看着我。

他垂首。

五度。

他呼气，在矮桌对面的北侧，以一只自己四百年戒律已经终了的生灵的、那种从容不迫的朝鲜士子的方式——这一口气，是他借着由五件乐器变作六件的编制、借着我自己右手里那部电话、借着矮桌正中那条四股编白麻丧服带，将以代替言语的方式给我的那一口气。

那口气，在矮桌上，是是的。

我说，以paje一脉长女那种谨慎的朝鲜母亲式的语法，在二〇二六年三月那个礼拜六下午三点十七分、北村大院中间那座韩屋的안방的矮桌旁，在电话里：

他说：我将在礼拜六下午五时，在三清洞青瓦台别馆南门，带着那七个礼拜五的皮面笔记本等着。我将由本府保安局长安排，一个人，韩 씨。我此刻是在电话里，以二〇二六年三月那个礼拜六下午一个四十一岁韩国男人那种谨慎的朝鲜宫廷韩语——询问电话那一端这一位韩国女性，是否愿意独自一人前来。

我坐在矮桌旁，近在咫尺。

我看着那只自己四百年戒律已经终了的生灵。

他看着我。

他垂首。

十五度。

他呼气，在矮桌北侧、一臂之距外，是那只自己四百年戒律已经终了的生灵，在礼拜六下午三点十七分的那一口气。

那口气，在矮桌上，是是的。

他说：谢谢您，韩 씨。

他挂了电话。

我把手机放在矮桌正中，离那张铺平的方形桑皮纸——上头放着四股编白麻丧服带——半步远，离他自己的两只手掌半步远，也离我自己的两只手掌半步远。

我呼吸。

我呼吸，缓而匀。

我说，以paje一脉长女那种克制的朝鲜母亲式的语法，在二〇二六年三月那个礼拜六下午三点十七分又四十分、北村大院中间那座韩屋的안방的矮桌旁：

사장님。

我说：我要去三清洞。

我说：我一个人去。

我说：那四百〇三年的那一份不饶恕，依定雪（定雪）、依四天的口传、依晨九时的矮松木门前、依由五件乐器变作六件的编制、依桑皮纸的背面——将在礼拜六下午五时，于三清洞青瓦台别馆，给予。

我说：提前三天。

我说：*paje一脉的长女——依三点十七分的那通电话、依五月初七早上南径下祠那只雕木铃、依西人派朝鲜士子李焕这件器物——不必再等那三天。*

我说：五月初七早上登仁王山东肩——依礼拜六下午五时青瓦台别馆这一程、依那一份提前给予的不饶恕——前线少了一道。

我说：我会在晚上七时回北村大院。

我说：等我。

我以paje一脉长女那种克制的朝鲜母亲式的方式，从矮桌南侧的방석（方席）上，站起身。

我躬身四十五度。

我保持。

我直起身。

我说：사장님。민지야。姜社长。海莉 씨。

四位以由五件乐器变作六件的编制、那种谨慎的韩语，在礼拜六下午三点十七分又四十五分时，说：

是的，姐姐。／是的，韩 씨。

我说：等我。

我以paje一脉长女那种从容不迫的朝鲜母亲式的方式，走到东门旁那张矮松木椅前；礼拜六早上九点一刻，那件灰色 Theory 大衣就放在那张椅上。

我把那件灰色 Theory 大衣套在那只自己四百年戒律已经终了的年长生灵的炭灰色羊毛衫外面。

我从椅子上方那只矮松木架上，取下那只皮面钱夹——依大田祖母在晨九时矮松木门前的第一次诵读，里面装着paje一脉长女的身份证、我自己曾外祖母的paje一脉的굿（巫祭）盏、那位七十九岁大田药师的朱砂墨，还有那张桑皮纸；那张桑皮纸上，我曾在礼拜五下午五时、于凤鸣洞药草园矮松木抹楼上，以我母亲在二〇〇一年秋天加州库比蒂诺教我的那种清丽的朝鲜母亲式手书，写下了那四百〇三年里的那一份不饶恕。

那张桑皮纸，此刻就在那只灰色 Theory 大衣内袋南侧的钱夹里，正是那一张。

那一张，依四天的口传——正是paje一脉的长女，将在礼拜六下午五时、于三清洞青瓦台别馆所要动用的那件器物。

我穿过안방的东门。

我穿过中间那座韩屋的마루（抹楼）。

我穿过北村大院的内庭，在三点十七分又五十二分。

我穿过松木门。

我把松木门带上。

我没有，在带上时，把它栓上。

那一个不栓——依由五件乐器变作六件的编制、依三点十七分的那通电话、依钱夹里那张桑皮纸——是这一去的第一句话。

那句话说：这道门，在此一去上，并不是那戒律。

那句话说：这一去，在礼拜六下午五时，是我的。

我穿着那件套在那只自己四百年戒律已经终了的年长生灵的炭灰色羊毛衫外的灰色 Theory 大衣，走下北村山坡。

我走到安国站。

我搭三号线。

我从三号线坐到景福宫站。

我从景福宫站沿孝子路上行，于二〇二六年三月那个礼拜六下午五时又一分，走到三清洞青瓦台别馆的南门。

他在南门口。

他穿着那件深灰色羊毛大衣——那件大衣，自二〇二四年秋天起，我每个礼拜日早上七时，在梨泰院 officetel 里翻报纸时都看见过。

他左手里拿着，那一只四十一岁的韩国男人、电视主播之夫、七岁双胞胎之父，在二〇二六年三月那个礼拜六下午左手里，提着那七个礼拜五的皮面笔记本。

他一个人。

他在孝子路十四米外看见我。

他没动。

他立在三清洞青瓦台别馆南门口。

他躬身十五度。

我躬身十五度。

我走到一米之距。

他说，以二〇二六年三月那个礼拜六下午五时又三分、三清洞青瓦台别馆南门口一个四十一岁韩国男人那种平稳的朝鲜宫廷韩语：

韩 씨。

他说：请进。

我进去了。

---

三清洞青瓦台别馆，在礼拜六下午五时又五分，就是三清洞青瓦台别馆。

那里——在二〇二二年青瓦台主建筑群闭馆改作博物馆、二〇二四年新一届大韩民国中间偏左政府重新启用别馆翼楼之后——是唯一被重新启用的那一翼。

那被重新启用的一翼，有蓝瓦屋顶、花岗岩墙、黑沙岩地砖，是一座重新启用的朝鲜宫廷式建筑。

那被重新启用的一翼，在礼拜六下午五时又五分，里头没有别的人。

保安局长在礼拜五早上发出了停勤令，让两位下级军官休岗——秘书长则在礼拜六下午把别馆里那些没有挂牌的后勤人员都放了半天假。

青瓦台别馆，在礼拜六下午，是他的。

他以二〇二六年三月那个礼拜六下午一个四十一岁韩国男人、电视主播之夫、七岁双胞胎之父那种谨慎的方式，引我穿过花岗岩走廊，去秘书长办公室。

办公室里，北壁有一张矮松木书桌；南壁有一张矮松木长凳；正中有一张矮松木桌。

那张矮松木桌上有两张방석（方席），南侧一张，北侧一张，相距咫尺。

他伸手指向南侧那张。

我坐下。

他在北侧那张坐下。

他把那七个礼拜五的皮面笔记本放在矮松木桌正中，离自己的两只手掌半步远。

他把两只手掌平摊在桌上。

我把两只手掌平摊在桌上。

他呼吸。

他缓缓吸了一口气。

他说，以二〇二六年三月那个礼拜六下午五时又十分、三清洞青瓦台别馆秘书长办公室矮松木桌旁一个四十一岁韩国男人的朝鲜宫廷韩语：

韩 씨。

他说：韩 씨。那唯一的一个问题，韩 씨。那唯一的一个问题——经过勤政殿院子南缘那片柳林、东起第三株柳树下、一个穿灰麻저고리（短上衣）和灰麻치마（裙）的十六岁、最底层级别的厨房婢女、双腕上染着指甲花染、藏匿其间的韩国女子的、七个礼拜五的梦——是那唯一的一个问题。韩 씨。西人派朝鲜士子李焕，在仁祖元年五月初七的早上，依下院在六时四十三分签发的命令，正是那只生灵——他借西人派下级身躯之手，在仁王山东肩柳林之上坡处于十一时〇三分——下令处死忠清道paje一脉那位朝鲜宫廷巫女之女。我——经过二〇二六年三月每一个礼拜五早晨五时、我自家平仓洞안방里那七个礼拜五的梦——已经，在二〇二六年三月二十七日礼拜五早上四时二十七分、안방东壁的矮松木长凳上，成为二〇二六年那一只、其官僚的身躯已经在那七个礼拜五的皮面笔记本里、读到了第七个礼拜五那一页背面的四百〇三年那一段的生灵。韩 씨。那一段写的是：西人派朝鲜士子李焕，在五月初七的早上，依下院在六时四十三分签发的命令，正是一只年长生灵的器物；而下院在六时四十三分签发那一道命令，所凭依的戒律，正是这只年长生灵的戒律。第七个礼拜五那一页背面的那一段还说：在二〇二六年三月二十七日礼拜五早上、平仓洞안방矮松木长凳上的那个四十一岁韩国男人、电视主播之夫、七岁双胞胎之父——经过那七个礼拜五的梦——是二〇二六年那唯一一只读到它的生灵。您可愿，凭一个四十一岁韩国男人、电视主播之夫、七岁双胞胎之父在二〇二六年三月某个礼拜五早晨那七个礼拜五的梦——饶恕我。

我坐在矮松木桌南侧，近在咫尺。

我呼吸。

我吸了一口，又把它放出去。

我没有，在矮松木桌旁，落泪。

那一份克制——从盘浦大桥下的滩堤、从安国站站台、从梨泰院 officetel 那张窗边矮松木椅、从麻浦区敏智的那间一居、从 JL 大楼周二周四的排练室、从北村大院中间那座韩屋的안방、从凤鸣洞药草园矮松木抹楼、从柿子树之家、从礼拜六早上晨九时的矮松木门前、从开戒的两盏보리차而来——靠那张桑皮纸，握住了；那张桑皮纸，此刻在那只自己四百年戒律已经终了的年长生灵的炭灰色羊毛衫外的灰色 Theory 大衣的内袋钱夹里。

我说，以二〇二六年三月那个礼拜六下午五时又十三分、三清洞青瓦台别馆秘书长办公室矮松木桌旁、paje一脉长女的朝鲜母亲式语法：

事室长님。

我说：在paje一脉的定雪把那由五件乐器变作六件的编制交付出去、让我在凤鸣洞尹奶奶药草园的矮松木抹楼上学习其文法的四天里，于礼拜五下午五时，我已经在一张桑皮纸上写下了那四百〇三年里的那一份不饶恕。

我说：那一份不饶恕——依paje一脉十七代的口传——并不是，在礼拜六下午五时又十四分，那一份要给四十一岁的韩国男人、电视主播之夫、七岁双胞胎之父——在礼拜五早上四时二十七分平仓洞안방矮松木长凳上那个人——的不饶恕。

我说：那一份不饶恕——依忠清道paje一脉那位朝鲜宫廷书家李时律，在仁祖元年三月定雪第三天、在路旁小祠的桑皮纸背面所留下的字、以及大田祖母在凤鸣洞药草园矮松木抹楼上四天的口传——是那一份欠给某只生灵的不饶恕；西人派朝鲜士子李焕，在五月初七的早上，正是这只生灵的器物。

我说：那只生灵，在五月初七的早上，就是北汉山山神（Bukhansan-sanshin）。

我说：那只生灵——依五月初七早上仁王山南径下祠那只雕木铃——正是东径山脚村屠夫摊上那只朝鲜宫廷一脉、四尾的生灵；下院六时四十三分签出的那道命令，所凭依的戒律，正是这只生灵在北汉山山神七十年教导之下所成的戒律。

我说：而那件器物的器物——依二〇二六年北汉山北坡那一具朝鲜宫廷一脉的身躯——在二〇二六年三月那个礼拜六下午五时又十六分，正坐在北村大院中间那座韩屋的안방矮桌东北角的방석（方席）上，穿着一件 JL 大楼周二上午声乐学员的黑色羽绒服，怀着一只四尾生灵那种克制的戒律——这只四尾生灵在北坡那一百一十一年的戒律，已经在二〇二六年二月二十一日礼拜六早晨 B3 第二根柱旁七时十六分的那个私密时辰里，决定要做paje一脉的器物。

我说：那一份不饶恕——依凤鸣洞药草园矮松木抹楼上四天的口传——在礼拜六下午五时又十七分，不会给您。

他坐在矮松木桌北侧。

他没有，在矮松木桌旁，落泪。

他说：韩 씨。我此刻，在二〇二六年三月那个礼拜六下午五时又十八分、三清洞青瓦台别馆秘书长办公室矮松木桌北侧——凭那七个礼拜五——求您给予。

我说：我——依四天的口传、依二〇二六年三月某个礼拜二下午四时三十四分北村大院中间那座韩屋的안방矮桌正中那条四股编白麻丧服带、依礼拜五下午五时凤鸣洞药草园的矮松木抹楼——要给您的是另一样东西。

我说：我要给您的，是那段记忆。

他说：关于。

我说：关于仁祖元年五月初七、仁王山东肩柳林之上坡处、十一时〇三分那个早上。

他说：我愿，凭那七个礼拜五——接受，韩 씨。这段记忆，凭那七个礼拜五的皮面笔记本，会把我击碎我接受这场击碎。

我在矮松木桌南侧的방석上躬身四十五度。

我保持。

我直起身。

我从那只自己四百年戒律已经终了的年长生灵的炭灰色羊毛衫外的灰色 Theory 大衣的内袋里，取出那只皮面钱夹。

我从钱夹里取出我自己曾外祖母的paje一脉굿盏、那位七十九岁大田药师的朱砂墨，以及那张桑皮纸——那张桑皮纸上，我曾在礼拜五下午五时、于凤鸣洞药草园矮松木抹楼上，以我母亲在二〇〇一年秋天加州库比蒂诺教我的那种安静的朝鲜母亲式手书，写下了那四百〇三年里的那一份不饶恕。

我把paje一脉的굿盏放在矮松木桌正中，离他自己的两只手掌半步远，离我自己的两只手掌半步远。

我把朱砂墨放在离굿盏半步远的地方。

我把那张桑皮纸，正面朝上、上头那一份不饶恕朝上，放在矮松木桌上离朱砂墨半步远的地方。

我呼吸。

我把这口气稳住。

我倒水。

我把굿盏倒满清水——清水是从一只锡水罐里取出的；那只锡水罐，他刚才以二〇二六年三月那个礼拜六下午一个四十一岁韩国男人、电视主播之夫、七岁双胞胎之父那种安静的方式，搁在办公室南壁的矮松木长凳上。

我把那盏水的굿盏托在身近。

我托住。

我呼吸。

我说，以paje一脉长女那种朴素的朝鲜母亲式语法，在二〇二六年三月那个礼拜六下午五时又二十三分、三清洞青瓦台别馆秘书长办公室矮松木桌旁，说出大田祖母在礼拜五下午五时、于凤鸣洞药草园矮松木抹楼上教我的paje一脉거리（巫祭段次）的第一句：

关于仁祖元年五月初七早上十一时〇三分、仁王山东肩柳林之上坡处的那段记忆——此刻在二〇二六年三月那个礼拜六下午五时又二十四分、三清洞青瓦台别馆秘书长办公室矮松木桌上的这盏굿水里、借三神奶奶之织机、借四股编白麻丧服带、借桑皮纸的背面、借大田祖母——给予。

我喝下了这盏굿水。

我以paje一脉长女那种从容郑重的朝鲜母亲式动作，在二〇二六年三月那个礼拜六下午五时又二十五分，于矮松木桌旁，把它喝下。

我饮下，在굿盏里，仁祖元年五月初七的那个早上——仁王山东肩柳林之上坡处于十一时〇三分；那把缺口位置不对的村屠夫之刀、刀尖往内八毫米处缺了一块、握在西人派下级身躯一只不对的手中，凭借的是李焕这位朝鲜士子在下院六时四十三分签出的命令；颈左侧那道深四十一毫米、宽二十二厘米的口子——那是忠清道paje一脉那位朝鲜宫廷巫女之女、尹达恩的脖颈；那一口扁平、无元音的气息；她自己左腕上那条四股编白麻丧服带。我把这四百〇三年作一口气饮下。

我把这口气屏住三息。

我吐出。

我把这口气，在굿盏里吐出，吐进半步外的朱砂墨里。

那朱砂墨，在五时又二十七分的矮松木桌上——经过第一个거리——就成了柳林上坡那个早晨的墨。

我以那种谨慎的朝鲜母亲式手势，把那张正面写有那一份不饶恕的桑皮纸，浸入朱砂墨中。

那墨把那一份不饶恕吸了进去。

那四百〇三年里的那一份不饶恕，在五时又二十八分的朱砂墨里，化作了墨。

我把那张桑皮纸从墨里提起。

我把它托在一手之距。

我呼吸。

我说，以paje一脉长女那种安静的朝鲜母亲式语法，在二〇二六年三月那个礼拜六下午五时又二十九分、三清洞青瓦台别馆秘书长办公室矮松木桌旁，说出paje一脉거리的第二句：

事室长님。我借这第一段거리要给您的——借仁祖元年五月初七早上十一时〇三分、仁王山东肩柳林之上坡处那个早晨的朱砂墨——是这段记忆。

我说：张开您的手。

他张开了双手。

他在五时又三十分的矮松木桌上，把两手手掌都向上摊开。

我以那种安静的朝鲜母亲式动作，把那张承载着那一份不饶恕的桑皮纸放在他左手张开的掌心上。

我把我自己的两只手掌覆在他的手掌上。

我借这第一段거리，合上他的双手，把那张纸合在里头。

那朱砂墨，在五时又三十一分、合在他手中的那张纸上——借这第一段거리、借那两只手掌、借二〇二六年三月那个礼拜六下午一个四十一岁韩国男人、电视主播之夫、七岁双胞胎之父合上的双手——化作了那段记忆。

那段记忆进入了他。

他坐在矮松木桌北侧，对面相隔咫尺。

他没有，在矮松木桌上，眨眼。

他没有，在矮松木桌上，呼吸。

他屏住——凭着这第一段거리——七息之久。

他呼吸。

到第七口气时，他领受。

他以一个四十一岁韩国男人那种庄重的朝鲜母亲式方式，在二〇二六年三月那个礼拜六下午五时又三十二分、三清洞青瓦台别馆秘书长办公室矮松木桌旁，领受了仁祖元年五月初七早上十一时〇三分、仁王山东肩柳林之上坡处的那段记忆。

他领受了刀尖向内八毫米处那块不对的缺口。

他领受了那道深四十一毫米、宽二十二厘米的口子。

他领受了那口扁平、无元音的气息。

他领受了四月初四凌晨第二个时辰、禅岩（Seonbawi）花岗岩岩冠之上那条四股编白麻丧服带。

他领受了那四百〇三年。

他领受。

他碎了。

他在二〇二六年三月那个礼拜六下午五时又三十三分、三清洞青瓦台别馆秘书长办公室的矮松木桌旁，碎了。

他哭了。

他以二〇二六年三月那个礼拜六下午一个四十一岁韩国男人、电视主播之夫、七岁双胞胎之父那种克制的朝鲜宫廷方式，在矮松木桌旁、近在咫尺，哭了。

他哭了七息之久。

他呼吸。

他把那张承载着那一份不饶恕的桑皮纸，放在矮松木桌上离他自己两只手掌半步远的地方，正面朝上。

那张纸，借这第一段거리，是干净的。

那四百〇三年里的那一份不饶恕——借paje一脉的第一段거리——已经在他里头。

那张桑皮纸，在五时又三十五分的矮松木桌上，就是那一张纸。

我在방석上躬身四十五度。

我保持了片刻。

我直起身。

我说：这一份不饶恕——借这第一段거리——已经给予。

我说：那只生灵——五月初七早上仁王山南径下祠那只雕木铃所凭依的戒律，下院六时四十三分签出的那道命令所凭依的戒律——北汉山山神——将在大韩民国总统在位第二年五月初七的早上、距今三天之后，在仁王山东肩。

我说：在五月初七早上登仁王山东肩的那一程上，第二份不饶恕——借paje一脉六件乐器的编制——将被给予。

我说：借这第一段거리，在礼拜六下午五时又三十六分，大韩民国总统的秘书长——在第一卷的两道前线里——不再是其中一道。

我说：回家。

我说：睡觉。

我说：等到二〇二六年三月的礼拜天早上，那场梦没有来时——把您夫人叫进您的办公室，以二〇二六年三月某个礼拜天早上一个四十一岁韩国男人、电视主播之夫那种平稳的朝鲜宫廷韩语，告诉她：那个曾在二〇二六年三月每个礼拜五早晨五时来过的梦——已经在二〇二六年三月那个礼拜六下午五时又三十七分、三清洞青瓦台别馆秘书长办公室的矮松木桌旁，借这第一段거리，散了。

我说：不要追来。

我以paje一脉长女那种沉稳的朝鲜母亲式方式，在二〇二六年三月那个礼拜六下午五时又三十八分、三清洞青瓦台别馆秘书长办公室的矮松木桌旁，从矮松木桌南侧的방석上站起身。

我躬身四十五度。

我把这一礼保持了片刻。

我直起身。

我以paje一脉长女那种耐心的朝鲜母亲式方式，在二〇二六年三月那个礼拜六下午五时又三十九分，走出三清洞青瓦台别馆的秘书长办公室。

我走过那条花岗岩走廊。

我走出南门。

我沿孝子路走到景福宫站。

我搭三号线坐到安国站。

我走上北村山坡，于二〇二六年三月那个礼拜六下午七时又三分，回到北村大院的松木门前。

松木门开着。

他在中间那座韩屋的마루（抹楼）上。

他站起身。

他躬身十五度。

我躬身十五度。

他说：那一份不饶恕已经给予 请进。

我进去了。

北村大院在二〇二六年三月那个礼拜六傍晚七时又五分，就是北村大院。

paje一脉那六件乐器的编制，在礼拜六傍晚，就是那六件乐器的编制。

第一卷的两道前线，借这第一段거리，化作了一道前线。

那一道前线，在距礼拜六傍晚三天之后的大韩民国总统在位第二年五月初七的早上，在仁王山东肩。

他舌下那块大理石稳沉的暖意，在礼拜六下午七时又六分中间那座韩屋的마루上，与我自己锁骨之下因这第一段거리而来的稳沉暖意——是这两份暖。

那三份暖之数，还没有，在마루上，齐。

那三份暖之数，在礼拜六傍晚七时又七分，还在三天之外。

他以一只自己四百年戒律已经终了的生灵那种从容不迫的朝鲜士子的方式，把我引进了안방。

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The phone call came at seventeen minutes past the third hour of the afternoon of Saturday in March of 2026, in the anbang of the middle hanok of the Bukchon compound, where the paje-line elder daughter and the paje-line younger sister and the four-tailed creature of the north slope and the Hongdae-coded dokkaebi and the one creature whose own four-hundred-year discipline had ended were, at the low table, in the second hour of the Saturday afternoon — after the first reading by the Daejeon herbalist at the low pine gate at the ninth hour of the morning, and the five-instrument arrangement become six at seventeen minutes past the second hour — at the second cup of the Daegu-coded boricha of the two-day fast which the paje-line elder daughter and the one creature whose own four-hundred-year discipline had ended had — by the grandmother in Daejeon — just, at the second hour of the Saturday afternoon, broken.

The phone, in the interior pocket of the charcoal-grey wool sweater of an older creature whose own four-hundred-year discipline had ended on the body of the paje-line elder daughter at the bangseok cushion at the south side of the low table, vibrated.

I took it out.

I took it out in the careful Joseon-mother way of a paje-line elder daughter at the low table of the anbang of the middle hanok of the Bukchon compound at seventeen minutes past the third hour of the afternoon of Saturday in March of 2026.

I read the name on the screen.

The name was: Unknown.

The number under the name was a Seoul landline.

The area code was, by my own gyopo discipline of memorizing Seoul codes when I had, in the autumn of two thousand and twenty-four, returned to Seoul at twenty-four, a private number in the Samcheong-dong neighborhood of central Seoul.

I held the phone.

I held the phone for the count of three breaths.

I breathed.

I answered.

I answered in the Joseon-mother grammar of a paje-line elder daughter of Chungcheong-do at the low table of the anbang of the middle hanok of the Bukchon compound at seventeen minutes past the third hour of the afternoon of Saturday in March of 2026:

Yeoboseyo.

A Korean man's voice on the other end said, in the Joseon-court jondaetmal of a forty-one-year-old Korean man on a Saturday afternoon in March of 2026:

Han Ji-won-ssi.

He said: I am Yi Han-saem. I am the Chief of Staff of the office of the President of the Republic of Korea. I am calling from the Cheong Wa Dae annex in Samcheong-dong on a Saturday afternoon in March of 2026. I am calling at seventeen minutes past the third hour. I am calling on a private line — the one line not, by the Director of the Security Bureau of my own office, on the Bureau ledger.

I sat at the south side of the low table.

I did not, at the low table, blink.

He said: Han-ssi. I am calling because I have, in seven Fridays of a dream, the one question I have not, in seven Fridays, asked you Han-ssi. The one question requires the Joseon-court Korean of a face-to-face meeting. It cannot, by the dream, be asked on a phone Han-ssi. I am, on the phone, asking — in the Joseon-court Korean of a forty-one-year-old Korean man on a Saturday afternoon in March of 2026 — whether the one Korean woman on the phone is willing to come to the Cheong Wa Dae annex in Samcheong-dong at the fifth hour of the Saturday afternoon to be asked the one question.

I sat at the low table.

I looked at the one creature whose own four-hundred-year discipline had ended at the north side of the low table.

He looked at me.

His face, a hand-span away, was the face.

The face had — by the second sleep of the Thursday morning at seven-eleven on the folded futon of the daecheong, and the forty-eight-hour fast, and the grandmother in Daejeon at the low pine gate at the ninth hour, and the five-instrument arrangement become six at seventeen minutes past the second hour — not yet, at seventeen minutes past the third hour of the Saturday afternoon, slept again.

It was the face of the one creature in the anbang of the middle hanok of the Bukchon compound at the north side of the low table whose own four-hundred-year discipline had ended.

It did not, at the north side of the low table, blink.

It was the face of an older creature who had — by the grandmother in Daejeon's first reading at the low pine gate at the ninth hour — just been told, on the low table, the piece of seventeen generations of the paje-line carried by the back of the mulberry paper my grandmother had — in the four days of teaching — taught me to read.

The piece of the back was, on the low table, the piece.

The piece on the back, by the four days of teaching, said:

The private call carried forward is, by seventeen generations of the paje-line, the call to the reincarnated Yi Hwan of the Westerners' faction to whom the paje-line elder daughter, on the morning of the seventh of the fifth month of the second year of a president of the Republic of Korea, is going — by the loom of Samshin halmoni and the braided four-strand white linen mourning ribbon — to give the one not-forgiving of the four hundred and three years.

The one not-forgiving of the four hundred and three years was, by the four days of teaching, mine.

The one not-forgiving was — by the back of the mulberry paper — not the not-forgiving of the Joseon scholar Yi Hwan of the Westerners' faction.

The one not-forgiving was the not-forgiving owed to the instrument of the carved wooden bell at the lower shrine of the south path of Inwangsan on the morning of the seventh of the fifth month — which, by seventeen generations of teaching that the grandmother in Daejeon had — at the low pine gate at the ninth hour of the morning of Saturday — completed, was the four-tailed creature of the Joseon-court line at the village butcher's stall at the foot of the east path of Inwangsan, the creature whose own discipline the not-forgiving was owed, channeled through the bell and through the instrument of the Joseon scholar Yi Hwan.

The not-forgiving was, by the four days of teaching, going to be — on the morning of the seventh of the fifth month, four days from the Saturday afternoon — given.

The not-forgiving was, on the Saturday afternoon at seventeen minutes past the third hour, by the phone, going to be given early.

I looked at the one creature whose own four-hundred-year discipline had ended at the north side of the low table.

He looked at me.

He inclined his head.

Five degrees.

He breathed, at the north side of the low table across the table, in the unhurried Joseon-scholar way of a creature whose own four-hundred-year discipline had ended — the one breath he was, by the five-instrument arrangement become six and the phone in my own right hand and the braided four-strand white linen mourning ribbon at the center of the low table, going to give me instead of the word.

The breath was, on the low table, yes.

I said, in the careful Joseon-mother grammar of a paje-line elder daughter at the low table of the anbang of the middle hanok of the Bukchon compound at seventeen minutes past the third hour of the afternoon of Saturday in March of 2026, on the phone:

He said: I will, at the fifth hour of the Saturday afternoon at the Cheong Wa Dae annex in Samcheong-dong, be at the south entrance with the leather notebook of seven Fridays. I will, by the Director of the Security Bureau of my own office, be alone Han-ssi. I am, on the phone, asking — in the careful Joseon-court Korean of a forty-one-year-old Korean man on a Saturday afternoon in March of 2026 — whether the one Korean woman on the phone is willing to come alone.

I sat at the low table at close range.

I looked at the one creature whose own four-hundred-year discipline had ended.

He looked at me.

He inclined his head.

Fifteen degrees.

He breathed, at the north side of the low table an arm’s length off, the one breath of the one creature whose own four-hundred-year discipline had ended on the Saturday afternoon at seventeen minutes past the third hour.

The breath was, on the low table, yes.

He said: Thank you, Han-ssi.

He hung up.

I set the phone down on the low table at the center, a half-step from the clear square of mulberry paper with the braided four-strand white linen mourning ribbon, a half-step from his own two palms and a half-step from my own two palms.

I breathed.

I breathed, slow and even.

I said, in the measured Joseon-mother grammar of a paje-line elder daughter at the low table of the anbang of the middle hanok of the Bukchon compound at seventeen minutes past the third hour and the fortieth minute of the afternoon of Saturday in March of 2026:

Sajangnim.

I said: I am going to Samcheong-dong.

I said: I am going alone.

I said: The one not-forgiving of the four hundred and three years is — by the jeong-seol and the four days of teaching and the low pine gate at the ninth hour and the five-instrument arrangement become six and the back of the mulberry paper — going to be given on the Saturday afternoon at the fifth hour at the Cheong Wa Dae annex in Samcheong-dong.

I said: Three days early.

I said: The paje-line elder daughter does not — by the phone at seventeen minutes past the third hour, and the carved wooden bell at the lower shrine of the south path on the morning of the seventh of the fifth month, and the instrument of the Joseon scholar Yi Hwan of the Westerners' faction — need to wait the three days.

I said: The ascent of the east shoulder of Inwangsan on the morning of the seventh of the fifth month is — by the Saturday afternoon at the fifth hour at the Cheong Wa Dae annex, and the one not-forgiving given early — clearer by one front.

I said: I will return to the Bukchon compound at the seventh hour.

I said: Wait.

I stood, in the measured Joseon-mother way of a paje-line elder daughter, from the bangseok cushion at the south side of the low table.

I bowed Forty-five degrees.

I held the bow.

I straightened.

I said: Sajangnim. Min-ji-ya. Mr. Kang. Hae-ri-ssi.

The four said, in the careful Korean of the five-instrument arrangement become six on the Saturday afternoon at seventeen minutes past the third hour and the forty-fifth minute:

Yes, unnie. / Yes, Han-ssi.

I said: Wait.

I walked, in the unhurried Joseon-mother way of a paje-line elder daughter, to the low pine chair by the east door, where the gray Theory coat had been laid on the Saturday morning at quarter past the ninth hour.

I put on the gray Theory coat over the charcoal-grey wool sweater of an older creature whose own four-hundred-year discipline had ended.

I took, from the low pine shelf above the chair, the leather wallet that — by the grandmother in Daejeon's first reading at the low pine gate at the ninth hour — held the paje-line elder daughter identification card and the paje-line gut-cup of my own great-great-grandmother and the cinnabar ink of the Daejeon herbalist of seventy-nine years and the sheet of mulberry paper on which I had — on the low pine maru of the herb garden in Bong-myeong-dong on the Friday afternoon at the fifth hour — written, in the clear Joseon-mother hand my mother had taught me in the autumn of two thousand and one in Cupertino California, the one not-forgiving of the four hundred and three years.

The sheet of mulberry paper was, in the wallet at the south side of the interior pocket of the gray Theory coat, the sheet.

The sheet was — by the four days of teaching — the instrument the paje-line elder daughter, on the Saturday afternoon at the fifth hour at the Cheong Wa Dae annex in Samcheong-dong, was going to use.

I walked through the east door of the anbang.

I walked across the maru of the middle hanok.

I walked across the inner courtyard of the Bukchon compound at seventeen minutes past the third hour and the fifty-second minute.

I walked through the pine gate.

I closed the pine gate behind me.

I did not, in the closing, latch it.

The not-latching was — by the five-instrument arrangement become six and the phone at seventeen minutes past the third hour and the sheet of mulberry paper in the wallet — the first sentence of the going.

The sentence said: The gate, on the going, is not the discipline.

The sentence said: The going is, on the Saturday afternoon at the fifth hour, mine.

I walked down the Bukchon hill in the gray Theory coat over the charcoal-grey wool sweater of an older creature whose own four-hundred-year discipline had ended.

I walked to Anguk station.

I took Line 3.

I rode Line 3 to Gyeongbokgung station.

I walked from Gyeongbokgung station up the Hyoja-ro to the south entrance of the Cheong Wa Dae annex in Samcheong-dong at the fifth hour and the first minute of the afternoon of Saturday in March of 2026.

He was at the south entrance.

He was in the dark grey wool overcoat I had seen in the newspaper at the seventh hour of the morning of every Sunday since the autumn of two thousand and twenty-four in the Itaewon officetel.

He was holding, in the left hand of a forty-one-year-old husband of a TV anchor and the father of twin sons of seven years on a Saturday afternoon in March of 2026, the leather notebook of seven Fridays.

He was alone.

He saw me at the fourteen-meter distance up the Hyoja-ro.

He did not move.

He stood at the south entrance of the Cheong Wa Dae annex.

He bowed Fifteen degrees.

I bowed Fifteen degrees.

I walked up to the one-meter distance.

He said, in the level Joseon-court Korean of a forty-one-year-old Korean man at the south entrance of the Cheong Wa Dae annex in Samcheong-dong on a Saturday afternoon in March of 2026 at the fifth hour and the third minute:

Han-ssi.

He said: Come in.

I came in.

---

The Cheong Wa Dae annex in Samcheong-dong was, on the Saturday afternoon at the fifth hour and the fifth minute, the Cheong Wa Dae annex.

It was — after the closing-to-museum of the main Cheong Wa Dae complex in 2022 and the re-occupation of the annex wing in 2024 under the new center-left presidential administration of the Republic of Korea — the one re-occupied wing.

The re-occupied wing had the blue-tiled roof and the granite walls and the black sandstone tiles of a re-occupied Joseon-court building.

The re-occupied wing had, on the Saturday afternoon at the fifth hour and the fifth minute, no other people in it.

The Director of the Security Bureau had, by the Friday-morning stand-down, stood the two junior officers down — and the Chief of Staff had, on the Saturday afternoon, sent the unmarked support staff of the annex on a half-day off.

The Cheong Wa Dae annex was, on the Saturday afternoon, his.

He led me, in the careful way of a forty-one-year-old husband of a TV anchor and the father of twin sons of seven years, down the granite corridor to the Chief of Staff's office.

The office had, at the north wall, a low pine desk; at the south wall, a low pine bench; at its center, a low pine table.

The low pine table had two bangseok cushions, at the south side and the north side, the short distance between us.

He gestured to the cushion at the south side.

I sat.

He sat at the cushion at the north side.

He set the leather notebook of seven Fridays at the center of the low pine table, a half-step from his own two palms.

He set both palms flat on the table.

I set both palms flat on the table.

He breathed.

He took a slow breath.

He said, in the Joseon-court Korean of a forty-one-year-old Korean man at the low pine table of the Chief of Staff's office of the Cheong Wa Dae annex in Samcheong-dong on a Saturday afternoon in March of 2026 at the fifth hour and the tenth minute:

Han-ssi.

He said: Han-ssi. The one question Han-ssi. The one question is — by seven Fridays of a dream of a willow grove on the south rim of the Geunjeongjeon courtyard, and a Korean woman in a grey hemp jeogori and a grey hemp chima of a kitchen-girl of sixteen years of the lowest rank at the third willow from the east, hennaed at the wrists, hiding — the one question. Han-ssi. The Joseon scholar Yi Hwan of the Westerners' faction was, on the morning of the seventh of the fifth month of the first year of King Injo's reign, on the order signed at the lower court at six-forty-three, the creature who — by the wrong junior body of the Westerners' faction at the slope above the willow grove of the east shoulder of Inwangsan at eleven-oh-three — ordered the death of the Joseon-court mudang's daughter of the paje line of Chungcheong-do. I have — by seven Fridays of a dream in the Pyeongchang-dong anbang of my own house at the fifth hour of the morning of every Friday in March of 2026 — become, on the low pine bench at the eastern wall of the anbang on the morning of Friday the twenty-seventh of March of 2026 at the fourth hour and the twenty-seventh minute, the one creature in 2026 whose own bureaucratic body has read, in the leather notebook of seven Fridays, the piece of the four hundred and three years on the back of the page of the seventh Friday. Han-ssi. The piece is that the Joseon scholar Yi Hwan of the Westerners' faction was, on the morning of the seventh of the fifth month, on the order signed at the lower court at six-forty-three, the instrument of an older creature whose own discipline had been the discipline by which the order was — at the lower court at six-forty-three — given. And the piece on the back of the page of the seventh Friday is that the forty-one-year-old husband of a TV anchor and the father of twin sons of seven years on the low pine bench of the Pyeongchang-dong anbang on the morning of Friday the twenty-seventh of March of 2026 is — by seven Fridays of a dream — the one creature in 2026 who has read it. Will you, on seven Fridays of the dream of a forty-one-year-old husband of a TV anchor and the father of twin sons of seven years on a Friday morning in March of 2026, forgive me.

I sat at the south side of the low pine table near at hand.

I breathed.

I breathed once and let it out.

I did not, at the low pine table, weep.

The reservation — from the strip under the Banpo Bridge and the Anguk station platform and the low pine chair by the window of the Itaewon officetel and the one-room of Min-ji in Mapo-gu and the Tuesday-Thursday rehearsal room of the JL building and the anbang of the middle hanok of the Bukchon compound and the low pine maru of the herb garden in Bong-myeong-dong and the persimmon-tree house and the Saturday morning at the low pine gate at the ninth hour and the two cups of boricha of the breaking-of-the-fast — was, by the sheet of mulberry paper in the wallet in the interior pocket of the gray Theory coat over the charcoal-grey wool sweater of an older creature whose own four-hundred-year discipline had ended, held.

I said, in the Joseon-mother grammar of a paje-line elder daughter at the low pine table of the Chief of Staff's office of the Cheong Wa Dae annex in Samcheong-dong on a Saturday afternoon in March of 2026 at the fifth hour and the thirteenth minute:

Sasil-jang-nim.

I said: I have — on the four days the jeong-seol of the paje-line gave the five-instrument arrangement become six to learn the grammar in Bong-myeong-dong at the low pine maru of the herb garden of Halmoni Yun, on the Friday afternoon at the fifth hour — written the one not-forgiving of the four hundred and three years on a sheet of mulberry paper.

I said: The not-forgiving is — by seventeen generations of teaching of the paje-line — not, on the Saturday afternoon at the fifth hour and the fourteenth minute, the not-forgiving of the forty-one-year-old husband of a TV anchor and the father of twin sons of seven years on the low pine bench of the Pyeongchang-dong anbang on the Friday morning at the fourth hour and the twenty-seventh minute.

I said: The not-forgiving is — by the back of the mulberry paper of the Joseon-court calligrapher Lee Si-yul of the paje line of Chungcheong-do at the wayside shrine on the morning of the third day of the jeong-seol of the third month of the first year of King Injo's reign, and the four days of teaching of the grandmother in Daejeon at the low pine maru of the herb garden in Bong-myeong-dong — the not-forgiving owed to the creature the Joseon scholar Yi Hwan of the Westerners' faction was, on the morning of the seventh of the fifth month, the instrument of.

I said: That creature was, on the morning of the seventh of the fifth month, Bukhansan-sanshin.

I said: That creature was — by the carved wooden bell at the lower shrine of the south path of Inwangsan on the morning of the seventh of the fifth month — the four-tailed creature of the Joseon-court line at the village butcher's stall at the foot of the east path of Inwangsan, whose own discipline was the discipline by which the order at the lower court at six-forty-three was, by seventy years of Bukhansan-sanshin's instruction, given.

I said: And the instrument of that instrument is — by the 2026 body of the Joseon-court line at the north slope of Bukhansan — at the bangseok cushion at the north-east corner of the low table of the anbang of the middle hanok of the Bukchon compound on the Saturday afternoon of March 2026 at the fifth hour and the sixteenth minute, in the black down jacket of a Tuesday-morning vocal trainee of the JL building, in the measured discipline of a four-tailed creature whose own one-hundred-and-eleven-year discipline at the north slope had — by the private hour at the second pillar of B3 at seven-sixteen on Saturday morning the twenty-first of February of 2026 — decided to be the instrument of the paje-line.

I said: The not-forgiving is — by the four days of teaching at the low pine maru of the herb garden in Bong-myeong-dong — not, on the Saturday afternoon at the fifth hour and the seventeenth minute, going to be given to you.

He sat at the north side of the low pine table.

He did not, on the low pine table, weep.

He said: Han-ssi. I am, at the north side of the low pine table of the Chief of Staff's office of the Cheong Wa Dae annex in Samcheong-dong on a Saturday afternoon in March of 2026 at the fifth hour and the eighteenth minute, asking — by seven Fridays — to be given.

I said: I am — by the four days of teaching, and the braided four-strand white linen mourning ribbon at the center of the low table of the anbang of the middle hanok of the Bukchon compound at four-thirty-four on Tuesday afternoon of March of 2026, and the low pine maru of the herb garden in Bong-myeong-dong on the Friday afternoon at the fifth hour — going to give you a different thing.

I said: I am going to give you the memory.

He said: The memory Of.

I said: Of the morning of the seventh of the fifth month of the first year of King Injo's reign at the slope above the willow grove of the east shoulder of Inwangsan at eleven-oh-three.

He said: I will, by seven Fridays — receive Han-ssi. The memory is, by the leather notebook of seven Fridays, going to break me I accept the breaking.

I bowed Forty-five degrees, from the bangseok cushion at the south side of the low pine table.

I held it.

I straightened.

I took, from the interior pocket of the gray Theory coat over the charcoal-grey wool sweater of an older creature whose own four-hundred-year discipline had ended, the leather wallet.

I took, from the wallet, the paje-line gut-cup of my own great-great-grandmother and the cinnabar ink of the Daejeon herbalist of seventy-nine years and the sheet of mulberry paper on which I had — on the low pine maru of the herb garden in Bong-myeong-dong on the Friday afternoon at the fifth hour — written, in the quiet Joseon-mother hand my mother had taught me in the autumn of two thousand and one in Cupertino California, the one not-forgiving of the four hundred and three years.

I set the paje-line gut-cup at the center of the low pine table, a half-step from his own two palms and a half-step from my own.

I set the cinnabar ink a half-step from the gut-cup.

I set the sheet of mulberry paper, the one not-forgiving on its face, face-up on the table a half-step from the cinnabar ink.

I breathed.

I steadied the breath.

I poured.

I poured the gut-cup with water from the pewter pitcher he had — in the quiet way of a forty-one-year-old husband of a TV anchor and the father of twin sons of seven years on a Saturday afternoon in March of 2026 — set, at the south wall of the office, on the low pine bench.

I held the gut-cup of water close by.

I held.

I breathed.

I said, in the plain Joseon-mother grammar of a paje-line elder daughter at the low pine table of the Chief of Staff's office of the Cheong Wa Dae annex in Samcheong-dong on a Saturday afternoon in March of 2026 at the fifth hour and the twenty-third minute, the first sentence of the geori of the paje-line my grandmother in Daejeon had — on the Friday afternoon at the fifth hour at the low pine maru of the herb garden in Bong-myeong-dong — taught me to say:

The memory of the slope above the willow grove of the east shoulder of Inwangsan at eleven-oh-three on the morning of the seventh of the fifth month of the first year of King Injo's reign is — on the gut-cup of water at the low pine table of the Chief of Staff's office of the Cheong Wa Dae annex in Samcheong-dong on the Saturday afternoon at the fifth hour and the twenty-fourth minute, by the loom of Samshin halmoni and the braided four-strand white linen mourning ribbon and the back of the mulberry paper and the grandmother in Daejeon — given.

I drank the gut-cup.

I drank in the deliberate Joseon-mother way of a paje-line elder daughter at the low pine table on a Saturday afternoon in March of 2026 at the fifth hour and the twenty-fifth minute.

I drank, on the gut-cup, the morning of the seventh of the fifth month of the first year of King Injo's reign — the slope above the willow grove of the east shoulder of Inwangsan at eleven-oh-three; the village butcher's knife of the wrong notch at the eight-millimeter point from the tip, in the wrong hand of the junior body of the Westerners' faction, on the order signed at the lower court at six-forty-three by the Joseon scholar Yi Hwan; the slit at the depth of forty-one millimeters and the width of twenty-two centimeters on the left side of the neck of the Joseon-court mudang's daughter Yun Da-eun of the paje line of Chungcheong-do; the flat un-vowelled breath; the braided four-strand white linen mourning ribbon at her own left wrist. I drank the four hundred and three years of it as one breath.

I held the breath for the count of three breaths.

I breathed out.

I breathed out, on the gut-cup, the breath into the cinnabar ink a half-step from it.

The cinnabar ink, on the low pine table at the fifth hour and the twenty-seventh minute, became — by the first geori — the ink of that morning on the slope above the willow grove.

I dipped, in the careful Joseon-mother way, the sheet of mulberry paper with the one not-forgiving written on its face into the cinnabar ink.

The ink absorbed the one not-forgiving.

The one not-forgiving of the four hundred and three years was, on the cinnabar ink at the fifth hour and the twenty-eighth minute, ink.

I lifted the sheet of mulberry paper from the ink.

I held it a hand-span away.

I breathed.

I said, in the quiet Joseon-mother grammar of a paje-line elder daughter at the low pine table of the Chief of Staff's office of the Cheong Wa Dae annex in Samcheong-dong on a Saturday afternoon in March of 2026 at the fifth hour and the twenty-ninth minute, the second sentence of the geori of the paje-line:

Sasil-jang-nim. The thing I am giving you, by the first geori, is — by the cinnabar ink of that morning on the slope above the willow grove of the east shoulder of Inwangsan at eleven-oh-three on the morning of the seventh of the fifth month of the first year of King Injo's reign — the memory.

I said: Open your hands.

He opened his hands.

He opened, on the low pine table at the fifth hour and the thirtieth minute, both palms upward.

I placed, in the quiet Joseon-mother way, the sheet of mulberry paper of the one not-forgiving on the open palm of his left hand.

I placed both my own palms on his palms.

I closed, by the first geori, his hands around the sheet.

The cinnabar ink, on the sheet in his closed hands at the fifth hour and the thirty-first minute, became — by the first geori and the two palms and the closed hands of a forty-one-year-old husband of a TV anchor and the father of twin sons of seven years on a Saturday afternoon in March of 2026 — the memory.

The memory entered him.

He sat at the north side of the low pine table across the table.

He did not, on the low pine table, blink.

He did not, on the low pine table, breathe.

He held — by the first geori — for the count of seven breaths.

He breathed.

On the seventh breath he received.

He received, in the grave Joseon-mother way of a forty-one-year-old Korean man at the low pine table of the Chief of Staff's office of the Cheong Wa Dae annex in Samcheong-dong on a Saturday afternoon in March of 2026 at the fifth hour and the thirty-second minute, the memory of the slope above the willow grove of the east shoulder of Inwangsan at eleven-oh-three on the morning of the seventh of the fifth month of the first year of King Injo's reign.

He received the wrong notch at the eight-millimeter point from the tip.

He received the slit at the depth of forty-one millimeters and the width of twenty-two centimeters.

He received the flat un-vowelled breath.

He received the braided four-strand white linen mourning ribbon at the granite cap of the Seonbawi rocks at the second hour of the fourth morning of the fourth month.

He received the four hundred and three years.

He received.

He broke.

He broke at the low pine table of the Chief of Staff's office of the Cheong Wa Dae annex in Samcheong-dong on a Saturday afternoon in March of 2026 at the fifth hour and the thirty-third minute.

He wept.

He wept in the measured Joseon-court way of a forty-one-year-old husband of a TV anchor and the father of twin sons of seven years on a Saturday afternoon in March of 2026, at the low pine table at close range.

He wept for the count of seven breaths.

He breathed.

He set the sheet of mulberry paper of the one not-forgiving, on the low pine table a half-step from his own two palms, face up.

The sheet was, by the first geori, clean.

The one not-forgiving of the four hundred and three years was, by the first geori of the paje-line, in him.

The sheet of mulberry paper, on the low pine table at the fifth hour and the thirty-fifth minute, was the sheet.

I bowed Forty-five degrees, on the bangseok cushion.

I kept it a moment.

I straightened.

I said: The one not-forgiving is, by the first geori, given.

I said: The creature whose own discipline of the carved wooden bell at the lower shrine of the south path of Inwangsan on the morning of the seventh of the fifth month was the discipline by which the order at the lower court at six-forty-three was given — Bukhansan-sanshin — is, on the morning of the seventh of the fifth month of the second year of the president of the Republic of Korea, three days from the Saturday afternoon, at the east shoulder of Inwangsan.

I said: On the ascent of the east shoulder on the morning of the seventh of the fifth month, the second not-forgiving will be — by the six-instrument arrangement of the paje-line — given.

I said: By the first geori at the Saturday afternoon at the fifth hour and the thirty-sixth minute, the Chief of Staff of the president of the Republic of Korea is — of the two fronts of Book 1 — no longer one of them.

I said: Go home.

I said: Sleep.

I said: On the morning of Sunday in March of 2026, when the dream does not come — call your wife in to your office and tell her, in the even Joseon-court Korean of a forty-one-year-old husband of a TV anchor on a Sunday morning in March of 2026, that the dream that has been at the fifth hour of every Friday morning in March of 2026 has, by the first geori at the low pine table of the Chief of Staff's office of the Cheong Wa Dae annex in Samcheong-dong on the Saturday afternoon at the fifth hour and the thirty-seventh minute, lifted.

I said: Don't follow.

I stood, in the steady Joseon-mother way of a paje-line elder daughter at the low pine table of the Chief of Staff's office of the Cheong Wa Dae annex in Samcheong-dong on a Saturday afternoon in March of 2026 at the fifth hour and the thirty-eighth minute, from the bangseok cushion at the south side of the low pine table.

I bowed Forty-five degrees.

I held the bow a moment.

I straightened.

I walked, in the patient Joseon-mother way of a paje-line elder daughter, out of the Chief of Staff's office of the Cheong Wa Dae annex in Samcheong-dong on a Saturday afternoon in March of 2026 at the fifth hour and the thirty-ninth minute.

I walked down the granite corridor.

I walked out the south entrance.

I walked down the Hyoja-ro to Gyeongbokgung station.

I rode Line 3 to Anguk station.

I walked up the Bukchon hill to the pine gate of the Bukchon compound at the seventh hour and the third minute of the afternoon of Saturday in March of 2026.

The pine gate was open.

He was on the maru of the middle hanok.

He stood up.

He bowed Fifteen degrees.

I bowed Fifteen degrees.

He said: The one not-forgiving Given Come in.

I came in.

The Bukchon compound was, on the Saturday evening at the seventh hour and the fifth minute of the afternoon of Saturday in March of 2026, the Bukchon compound.

The six-instrument arrangement of the paje-line was, on the Saturday evening, the six-instrument arrangement.

The two fronts of Book 1 were, by the first geori, one front.

The one front was, on the morning of the seventh of the fifth month of the second year of the president of the Republic of Korea three days from the Saturday evening, at the east shoulder of Inwangsan.

The steady warm of the marble under his tongue, on the maru of the middle hanok at the seventh hour and the sixth minute of the afternoon of Saturday in March of 2026, was — by the steady warm under my own collarbone of the first geori — the two warms.

The count of three warms was not yet, on the maru, in.

The count of three warms was, on the Saturday evening at the seventh hour and the seventh minute, three days away.

He led me, in the unhurried Joseon-scholar way of a creature whose own four-hundred-year discipline had ended, into the anbang.