Our parting from Hyŏngsŏk had not been memorable. There had not been as much as a farewell dinner. He had just gone off as casually as if he were going to Seoul. It occurred to me when I was a little older that had our mother been alive she would not have let his going abroad pass like this. That had now been ten years ago. In the early years he regularly wrote to father but his letters suddenly stopped. We made enquiries to his former college but they could not help us as to his present whereabouts. We had now been out of touch for some seven years. During this time the country had been through the Civil War and as a family we were having difficult times. Even if we had been in touch it would have been difficult for us to understand each other's situation but after seven years of no communication, he was felt in our heart like a legendary character, so vivid and at the same time so remote.

Sometimes, particularly when we were in difficulty, Sŏnhi and I missed him with aching hearts. When a tall young man of about thirty wearing dark-rimmed glasses passed by I felt like running after him calling out, ‘brother, Hyŏngsŏk!’ and holding onto his arm. Sŏnhi felt the same, she often told me so. Then one day, his image came close and helped me to get over the hurdles in the way of stepping over the threshold into a new era – was it yet another of fate's wiles?

After his confession Mr Kwŏn and I walked out of the Secret Gardens as if nothing at all had happened. Outside, dazzling sunlight poured down from a clear blue sky but it was dark to me. I felt as if the passers-by saw through our secretive selves and were regarding us with watchful eyes. I wanted to go straight home, but he took me into a nearby goldsmiths and bought me a gold ring as the token of our betrothal.