Flag Episode 21
“Ah…”
It felt like the first time in nearly a month she’d slept this deeply. Her mind was clear, yet her body, wrapped tight in blankets, felt stifling. She sat dazed on the sofa, taking in the quiet house. No housekeeper, no man in sight.
Beyond her gaze, the gentle flames of the electric fireplace flickered. She let her eyes close again, lulled by the drowsy warmth—until a sudden jolt snapped them open. The sofa was dangerously comfortable.
But hadn’t Sa Hee-eon been here? He’d stayed by the guest house all night, watching her eat, shower, and drift off to white noise.
This place was strange. It kept her on edge while simultaneously unraveling her. Everything felt suspicious, yet as transparent as a cloudless sky. At other moments, she felt trapped in a twilight sky, dim as dawn—and whenever that happened, Sa Hee-eon was always there.
“What time is it…”
She checked the clock and couldn’t believe it. She’d thought the dusk outside the window meant evening, but it was actually early morning, the darkness receding. Embarrassed, she stretched and trudged to the bathroom, where she showered with a heavy heart. She remembered nothing but falling asleep right after eating. No wonder her face was puffy—like a grumpy pufferfish.
Wait a minute… I think I messed up yesterday.
After a quick makeup routine, she dabbed a touch more red on her lips, then wiped it off. There was no need to deliberately act cheap. From the first night she’d arrived, the main house’s lights had stayed on late, signaling the family’s keen interest in her. Today, someone would surely come looking for her.
Yeon-jae would use them to uncover what Kim Ui-jae was searching for—or where Sa Hee-eon stood in this household.
The air was damp. The weather had shifted unmistakably from yesterday, winter bleeding into spring. The sky hung overcast, as if snow or hail might fall at any moment.
Strange… I slept so well.
She poured the warm coffee from the pot into a mug and settled into the window-side armchair. Waking from deep sleep, drifting through dreams back to reality, the anxiety she’d felt yesterday felt like a lie. Except for that nagging sense of having forgotten something.
She stared at the Glass House atop the hill, brightly lit even in the early dawn. Sa Hee-eon was there.
Stronger than Kim Ui-jae. Stronger than the men who’d hurt her.
Sipping her coffee, she toyed with her earlobe, thinking of the single earbud she’d dropped in the woods. Odds were, the man had it. She only had one left—if she hadn’t lost it in the forest, it must be in his pocket.
How did this happen…
She bit her nails and smiled faintly. Right. If you take someone’s thing, you pay for it.
It was probably trash to him, already tossed out. But just in case…
“Yeon-jae, they say if you wear these, you won’t hear other sounds.”
Was it the early hour? The unfamiliar silence? Suddenly, a voice she missed surfaced.
“How’s it? Really can’t hear anything?”
“…Huh? Huh? Really can’t hear!”
“It’s your college acceptance gift. Your brother-in-law and I picked it out. Send a thank-you text.”
“Of course! Thanks so much!”
Her sister, who’d bought her noise-canceling headphones for her sensitive ears, was gone now. And the girl who’d cried tears of gratitude over the gift was gone too.
Life could vanish in an instant. Hearts could cool in a heartbeat.
All that remained was a sordid love-hate tangle, stubborn endurance, and the fear of loss.
There was no love in it.
Like the red scar on her white ankle, it was etched in ugliness.
***
For days, the sky stayed overcast.
On days like this, pottery often failed. Too dry, too humid—neither was good.
The wheel spun, a thick lump of clay rising as the man’s fingertips coaxed the mass into shape. With steady pressure and delicate balance, he shaped the thickness and form until the intended beauty emerged.
In a black short-sleeved shirt, apron, and work cargo pants, he radiated a vibe 180 degrees from his suit-clad self. His eyes burned with intensity, a childlike curiosity lighting his lips.
He wasn’t sure he’d like the piece, but he hadn’t worked this fast in ages.
When handling clay, no thoughts were needed—only focus on the hands’ sensations, pouring energy into the desired form.
As the wheel turned, waterlogged clay oozed between his fingers like soft skin, smoothing into shape. He pressed the center flat, raised the walls, repeated. The stubborn clay gradually surrendered to his control. Too little pressure, and it’d collapse; too much, and it’d tear.
When that precarious balance achieved symmetry, he lifted his foot from the wheel. The spin slowed. Mud splattered his apron and bangs after hours of repetition—nothing unusual.
After the final shaping, he exhaled, let his arms hang limp, and scanned the piece for cracks with deepening eyes.
Seventy points so far. His standards were high, but he preferred pieces that improved after firing.
Satisfied, he lifted the clay onto the drying rack and studied it. Wet now, it’d shrink in the kiln once dry. No turning back then. Maybe now was the last chance to tear it apart and start over.
Cracks always came without warning. All he could do was monitor temperature and humidity, giving the piece the best conditions.
Fill in what’s lacking, remove what’s excess, and watch.
Like the woman in the guest house.
“What do you think?”
He asked the empty air. Beside the electric kiln, a shadow stirred. A man in an immaculate black suit and neat pompadour stood there, out of place in the pottery studio.
His name was Jang Han. Hee-eon’s bodyguard, secretary, and only friend.
The man looked at Hee-eon and formed words with his hands near his face.
- The young master must like it.
Hee-eon nodded slowly, then let out a quiet laugh.
“Not bad so far.”
- Shall I keep an eye on it?
“No. You watch something else.”
- That woman?
Hee-eon glanced toward the guest house. A bead of sweat rolled down his bangs, tracing his sharp nose to his philtrum.
“That one’s mine. You need to watch this.”
He gestured to the drying rack. Jang Han smiled and nodded.
Hee-eon straightened, slouching against a nearby table. As he clenched his fist, the smooth clay in his palm hardened, crumbling to dust.
Four days now. The woman hadn’t left the guest house, seemingly uninterested in retrieving her lost earbud.
And every day, he watched from this spot, waiting to see who’d break the tension first. It was a thrilling game.
“Han, do you think that woman resembles Yoon Jun-hee?”