Chapter Text
The snow was too white.
Nam-hae had never seen snow this soft, this wide, this quiet. It covered the ground like a blanket someone forgot to fold, and it didn't crunch when they walked — it swallowed sound. Even her breathing felt wrong. Too loud.
She was being carried — again.
The man holding her had never said his name. He wasn't her father. His hands were big and rough through worn gloves. His scarf was pulled so tight around his face that she couldn't even see his mouth move, but she could hear the way he breathed. Heavy. Fast.
She didn't know if he was scared, or just cold.
Nam-hae shifted in his arms, but didn't speak. She hadn't spoken since her mother stopped walking with them. She couldn't remember if it was yesterday, or the day before.
The last thing her mother had told her was:
"You'll eat. You'll sleep in a bed. Just be quiet, my dear. One day, you’ll spread your wings like a canary."
She was quiet.
So quiet that sometimes she couldn't even hear herself anymore.
They stopped at a tree line.
Beyond it stretched a black strip of frozen river, lying flat between two dark shores. Thin trees lined both sides like guards. The wind pulled at the man's coat as he adjusted her in his arms.
Nam-hae peeked up at his face. His eyes were narrowed. Watching. Listening.
He didn't speak.
He stepped forward.
The ice hissed under his boots — like it was angry. The snow didn't follow them onto the river. Here, everything was slick, cold, glass.
She tightened her fingers around the strap of his coat. Her own coat sleeves hung too long for her arms. They made her feel like a doll — soft and clumsy.
They moved slowly.
One step.
Another.
Nam-hae turned her head and looked behind them — into the trees.
She saw something move.
Then—
A gunshot.
It was so loud it split the sky.
The man dropped to one knee, shielding her with his body. Ice cracked under them like glass under a hammer.
Nam-hae didn't understand what had happened — only that something was wrong.
She tried to breathe.
And then her arm caught fire.
She screamed. Not a cry — a sharp, broken animal sound that tore from her throat before she even knew what she was feeling. The cold vanished. Everything was red.
She looked down and saw it — her coat ripped, her arm beneath it bleeding fast.
The man swore, stood, and ran.
Nam-hae's body swung wildly in his grip. Her blood hit the ice in red smears. She screamed again — louder this time — but no one came. No one called her name. No one said it was okay.
Another shot.
Close.
The ice cracked again, spiderwebbing around their boots.
They made it to the far side.
The man didn't stop. Through trees. Over snow. Up a ridge. Nam-hae's vision blurred — white and black and red and white again.
She couldn't feel her fingers anymore.
Her arm felt heavy. Wet. Distant.
There was a truck.
Big. Grey. Covered in snow. Engine already running.
The man shouted at someone. Another smuggler threw open the back. Tarps. Straw. A plastic jerry can sloshing with something dark.
He threw her in.
The cold metal bit her back. The impact knocked her breath from her lungs.
Her body curled instinctively.
She cried out, soft and short, like a hiccup — a kitten's mewl.
Someone climbed in after her. There were other kids. Quiet. Wide-eyed.
One boy maybe eight years old stared at her bleeding arm and turned away.
No one asked her name.
No one touched her.
The truck door slammed shut. Darkness. Movement. Heat from bodies, but no warmth. The engine groaned to life.
Nam-hae looked at her arm. Her coat was soaked through. It clung to her like wet paper. The pain throbbed deep now, slower, heavier.
Her fingers twitched once, and then stopped.
She wanted to cry for her mother.
But her throat didn't work anymore.
Her body didn't work.
She closed her eyes.
The hum of the truck swallowed her.
And everything she had been — the girl with a name, a home, a mother — faded into the white.
—
Nam-hae woke up under a light that buzzed like flies.
It was white. Too white. Like the snow, but harder. Brighter. Her eyes hurt.
She blinked. Her lashes stuck together. Something itched on her face. Something heavy was wrapped around her arm — not her coat. Bandages. Gauze.
She was in a bed. The sheets smelled like bleach. Cold. The pillow was flat. Her arm pulsed.
Where...?
She tried to sit up — pain sliced through her shoulder. She whimpered and fell back. The light above her flickered.
Someone spoke.
Not Korean.
The words were sharp. Fast. Loud. Like glass clinking in a drawer.
Nam-hae turned her head and saw a woman in blue standing over her. A mask covered the woman's face, but her eyes looked tired. She was holding a clipboard. She said something again — louder.
Nam-hae didn't answer.
She didn't understand.
The woman stared for a moment, then sighed and wrote something down. She left. The door swung shut behind her with a clack.
Nam-hae stared at the ceiling.
Her arm hurt. Her body felt like it wasn't hers. Her mouth was dry. Her stomach was empty.
She didn't ask for food.
She didn't ask for water.
She didn't say anything.
She was alone.
—
The next time someone came in, they tried to touch her arm.
Nam-hae screamed.
She kicked, flailed — the pain made her dizzy, but she fought anyway. The nurse backed off, startled. More shouting. More strangers. A man in a white coat said something to her like a question.
She just stared at him.
He crouched next to her and said another sentence. Slowly.
She didn't understand that one either.
He repeated it. Pointed to her. Then gestured a large circle with both hands — maybe asking about her age.
Nam-hae opened her mouth.
"...Nam-hae," she whispered.
It was the first time she'd said her name since the river.
The man paused.
He looked at her like she was glass. Then nodded. He said something soft to the nurse. They left again.
Nam-hae lay back.
Her name felt too small for the room.
Time passed. Or maybe it didn't.
Someone brought food she couldn't eat. Someone else changed her bandages while she cried and shook and bit her tongue to stay silent.
She saw other children through the window of the hallway — none of them looked at her. None of them spoke Korean. Sometimes she heard them laughing. Sometimes she heard them cry.
No one ever said her name the way her mother did.
One night, Nam-hae curled into herself. Her arm ached. Her throat was dry. She tucked her good hand under the pillow, feeling something scratchy.
A small cloth bear. Stuffed. Old. One button eye missing.
She didn't know who left it.
But she pulled it to her chest and held it until morning.
—
The hospital smelled like something sharp.
Not like blood. Not like her mother's cooking. Not like snow or coal. It was like the smell of her father's old toolbox — metal and alcohol, cold and strange.
Nam-hae lay still in the bed. She didn't move unless someone made her.
The light above her buzzed every few seconds. A flicker. A sound like something dying in the ceiling. It made her flinch at first. She didn't flinch anymore.
Her arm was wrapped in layers of something white and stiff. It hurt, but in a faraway kind of way — like it wasn't hers. Like she'd left her arm somewhere back in the snow and this one belonged to someone else now.
She didn't understand anything.
People came in and out of her room. They spoke too fast. Their words clinked like dishes in a sink — sharp, slippery, overlapping. She didn't even know what language it was. Not Korean. Not anything she'd heard before.
One of them was always wearing a mask. Another was bald with square glasses and a folder he kept checking. Once, they brought a woman who tried speaking to her very slowly, drawing out each word, pointing to her own body as if that would help.
Nam-hae just stared.
The woman tried to smile.
Nam-hae didn't smile back.
On the third day, someone tried to touch her arm again.
Nam-hae screamed.
It wasn't a loud scream. Just a hoarse, broken sound like a crushed bird. Her voice cracked halfway through. She clawed at the sheets and kicked, twisting her body away. She hit the side of the bed and fell onto the floor.
The nurse yelled. Another one ran in. She was lifted back up, gently, but not softly. Her body felt like paper. She cried without realizing she was crying.
She didn't know how to say stop.
She didn't know how to say don't touch me.
She only knew how to curl up and wait for the noise to stop.
—
She didn't eat much.
Someone brought rice and soup in a covered tray every day. She would pick at it, but it didn't taste like food. She waited until it went cold. Then pushed it away. Once, she threw up after a few bites and refused to touch anything after that.
They tried coaxing her. Gestures. Smiles. Treats.
None of it worked.
On the fifth day, a nurse left a small cloth bear on her bed. One eye missing. Threadbare. The fabric smelled clean — too clean — like it had been scrubbed just for her.
Nam-hae stared at it for hours.
She didn't pick it up until the lights went out.
On the sixth day, a man came with a translator.
The translator looked nervous. He crouched beside her bed and spoke in halting Korean.
"Little one... can you tell us your name?"
She didn't answer.
"Where are your parents?"
Silence.
"Do you know where you're from? What city?"
She blinked slowly. Her fingers tightened around the cloth bear.
The translator looked at the man and shook his head. They left after that.
No one called her by name.
No one even tried to.
But sometimes, in the dark, curled under the blanket with her bear and her arm throbbing beneath the bandages, she whispered it to herself.
Nam-hae.
Nam-hae.
Nam-hae.
So she wouldn't forget.
On the seventh day, the hospital made a call to the local orphanage.
A child with no name.
No parents.
No language.
No papers.
The van that picked her up was grey, like the hospital walls.
Nam-hae sat in the back, her knees pressed together, her cloth bear clutched in her lap. The man driving said something into a walkie-talkie. She didn't know what. She didn't look at him.
The city outside the window moved like a dream — too fast, too bright, too busy. She'd never seen so many cars. So many lights. She wondered if her mother was in one of them.
Her bandaged arm lay useless against her coat. The bear sat between her hands like a secret.
The orphanage was a big, square building. Three floors. Faded red bricks. The sign out front had writing she couldn't read. Not Korean.
Someone opened the door. A woman with short hair and kind eyes. She smiled when she saw Nam-hae. Spoke gently. Reached out.
Nam-hae flinched back.
The woman's smile didn't fade, but her eyes changed — just a little. She stepped aside and waved her in.
Inside, the air was warmer, but the floor was cold. A hundred smells hit her at once — food, sweat, plastic toys, damp blankets.
Children's voices echoed through the halls. Laughter. Crying. Footsteps. None of them in Korean.
Nam-hae followed the woman down the hall. Past doors. Past rooms. Past staring eyes.
Her room was small. Two beds. A shared dresser. One window.
A girl a little older than her — maybe six or seven — sat on the other bed. She had long hair and wide eyes and said something in a high voice. Nam-hae didn't reply.
The girl tried again. Then frowned. Then kept talking like Nam-hae would magically understand if she just said it louder.
She didn't.
Eventually the girl gave up, climbed into her own bed, and faced the wall.
Nam-hae sat on her bed and held the bear close to her chest. She didn't put her bag down. She didn't take off her coat.
She didn't speak.
The next few days passed like shadows.
She was taken to a room with other kids to eat, but she didn't finish her food. She was given a small towel and led to a washroom, but she didn't let anyone help her. She was given clean clothes — too big, sleeves hanging — and told something she didn't understand. She wore them anyway.
The other children tried talking to her. A few laughed. One boy pointed to her bandages and said something with a smirk.
Nam-hae turned away.
That night, she cried into the bear.
She did it quietly. She was used to being quiet.
No one heard her.
On the eighth day, one of the staff tried using gestures to ask her name. They pointed at her, then at themselves, then mimed writing.
Nam-hae hesitated.
Then whispered:
"Nam-hae."
The woman blinked. Repeated it, badly:
"Naa... mey?"
Nam-hae said nothing more.
They wrote it down anyway — just as it sounded to them. Na-Mei. That was how her file would read from now on.
But she didn't correct them.
Because no one had said her real name right since her mother.
The days blurred.
Children were adopted. New ones came in.
Some stayed for years. Some for weeks.
Nam-hae stayed silent.
The bear lost more of its stuffing. Her coat sleeves got shorter.
Her bandages came off. The scar remained.
But she didn't speak more than a word at a time.
Not until someone far away decided she wasn't meant to stay here.
They had done all they could.
—-
"She can't stay here."
The words echoed in the office like a decision already made.
Ms. Zhang stood with her arms crossed, a worn folder tucked under one elbow. The man across the desk — district child welfare liaison — looked half asleep, his tie crooked and his tea untouched.
"Her injury's healed, hasn't it?" he asked, already flipping through the file. "Why not place her locally?"
Zhang didn't sit. She had stopped trying to explain things nicely.
"She doesn't speak Mandarin. Not even a few words. She hasn't bonded with anyone here. She barely responds to gestures, and she cries at night without making a sound. I don't think she's Chinese."
The man clicked his tongue. "You're guessing she's North Korean?"
"I'm not guessing." Zhang put the folder on the table and tapped the child's intake form — the one labeled "Na-Mei." "She was found near the Yalu River with a gunshot wound. She says Nam-hae when you ask her name. It's Korean. The dialect's not southern."
The man sighed.
"She's about four, yes?"
"Closer to five, probably. Small for her age. Malnourished."
"Still no ID?"
"No. Nothing." Zhang hesitated, then added, "She won't even say where her parents are. I don't think she knows."
A pause stretched between them.
Then: "We can't keep her."
Zhang already knew that. It just hurt more hearing it said aloud.
—
Nam-hae sat in the corner of the hallway, one knee drawn up, the other stretched awkwardly to avoid pulling at her shoulder. Her arm wasn't bandaged anymore, but it still felt strange. Like something that belonged to someone else.
She held the cloth bear in her lap, its one button eye pressed against her thumb.
Behind the office door, voices rose and fell. She didn't understand the words, but the rhythm was familiar: clipped, frustrated, tired. Grown-up talk. Grown-up decisions.
She watched dust float in the sunlight that streamed through the window. Somewhere down the hall, a baby cried. Someone laughed. Footsteps passed. The world moved without her.
The hallway was cold.
She didn't know what she was waiting for.
—
The child was quiet when they took her photo.
The social worker from the international placement agency arrived two days after the call. She had a clipboard, a translator, and eyes that never looked at Nam-hae for more than two seconds at a time.
"She'll be processed as South Korean," the translator explained. "It's easier that way. North Korea isn't... diplomatically convenient."
Zhang wanted to argue, but she didn't. She just nodded.
The child stood still for the picture. She didn't smile. Her coat was too big. Her bear was in her arms.
The translator crouched down and said something soft in Korean: "Can you smile for the photo?"
Nam-hae blinked once.
She didn't smile.
The translator looked at Zhang. Zhang shook her head.
—
They gave her a clean jacket.
Not warm like her old one. Not patched by her mother's hands. Just new, stiff, with the tag still on it. They didn't take the bear. She kept her fingers wrapped tight around it the whole time.
The adults packed her things — a tiny backpack with nothing in it but a change of clothes and a child's travel form she couldn't read.
They gave her a piece of bread before they left. She held it but didn't eat.
The van that came to pick her up was quiet. The woman who drove smiled a lot. The man next to her didn't smile at all.
Nam-hae watched the buildings pass through the window. She didn't ask where they were going.
She didn't know what to ask anymore.
—
The airport was the biggest place she had ever seen.
So many people. So many lights. Machines that beeped. Suitcases rolling on wheels. Children crying. Announcements over loudspeakers. None of it in Korean.
She gripped the bear until her fingers hurt.
The woman guiding her held her hand, but it didn't feel like a hand. It felt like a rope. Something she had to follow or be lost again.
They walked through security, gave her a passport — a South Korean one with a name she didn't know how to read. The picture was hers. But the name underneath it wasn't Nam-hae.
She didn't understand what was happening. Just that she was going somewhere. Far.
When they boarded the plane, she was buckled in by a flight attendant. The woman sat next to her, smiling, humming something under her breath.
Nam-hae stared at the seat in front of her.
The bear sat on her lap.
The plane shook as it lifted. Her ears popped. She didn't cry.
Below them, the clouds covered the world like snow.
She didn't know where she was going.
She didn't even know what Japan meant.
But she knew:
Her name was not Na-Mei.
Her name was Kim Nam-hae.
And no one was going to say it again.
—
She doesn't speak.
She doesn't understand.
And no one knows what to do with her.
The woman at the orphanage smiled as she bent down.
"Hey there..."
Nam-hae didn't respond.
She stood beside the social worker, small and stiff in her too-new jacket, her eyes wide but dull. Her fingers twisted into the fabric of her bear. She didn't bow. She didn't nod. She just stared.
The woman smiled again, slower this time. "You're safe here."
The translator behind her added, "She's been through a lot. She doesn't speak Japanese."
The orphanage director nodded gently. "That's alright. She'll learn eventually."
But Nam-hae didn't look like a girl who was going to learn anything.
She looked like she was still somewhere else.
—
The First Month:
They placed her in a small shared room with two other girls. The futon closest to the window became hers. The bear never left her side, not even at bath time.
She didn't cry at night, but she didn't sleep either. Her eyes stayed open long after the others turned over.
When spoken to, she would only blink.
Sometimes a whisper. Sometimes nothing.
The caretakers began speaking more slowly around her, pointing to objects as they named them.
"Mizu." Water.
"Tabemono." Food.
"Inai inai baa." Peekaboo.
The children tried too — once. A few asked her to play. One girl tried to share a snack. A boy knocked her bear out of her hand one afternoon, and she didn't move to pick it up — just stared at it until a staff member retrieved it for her.
She never said a word in front of the other children.
—
Six Months Later:
She had learned the words for "yes" and "no."
She sometimes said "hungry."
She could nod.
She still never spoke unless prompted, and only in short, careful replies. Sometimes not even words — just tiny sounds. A hum. A quiet mm.
Her name was written on a cubby: なめい (Namei) — a Japanese phonetic guess at the Chinese name guessed from her Korean name.
But she never responded to it. Only when someone called softly — "You" or "ko-chan" — did she look up.
She had no friends.
She didn't seek touch.
She flinched from kindness more than cruelty.
—
Year Two
The caretakers stopped trying to teach her long sentences. They focused instead on things she could repeat. Simple words. Objects. Feelings.
She could now say things like "Ame." Rain.
"Oishii." Tasty.
"Kowai." Scary.
"Iya." I don't want to.
Sometimes even, "Mou ii." Enough.
But she never spoke first.
She never asked for things.
She never laughed.
The bear, once bright yellow, had faded into a dull beige. Its seams were fraying. Its eye was gone. But she still kept it in her arms like it was her lifeline.
The staff wrote reports every month for her case file.
"Minimal improvement in language use. Appears developmentally delayed, possibly trauma-related. No significant bonds formed. Rarely expresses emotion. Still refuses group play."
One of them asked, in a meeting, "What do we do if she never speaks?"
The director only said, "Then we'll keep listening anyway."
Those two years passed like winter. Cold and unmoving.
Until one spring morning, a couple arrived.
And asked to see the girl with no name.
The orphanage staff told her to wear the blue cardigan today.
They brushed her hair — not roughly, but not gently either — and cleaned the bear's face with a wet towel. They didn't explain why. Just said, "Be neat."
She didn't ask why. She never asked anything.
She sat stiffly on the bench outside the office, feet not touching the floor. Her legs swung slightly, back and forth. She kept the bear cradled in her lap. Its threadbare ear tickled her wrist. She held on tighter.
The door opened.
Two people walked in.
A man and a woman.
The man was tall, with dark green hair—almost black hair that curled slightly over his ears. His posture was straight, but his smile was gentle. He wore a soft gray sweater. His hands were empty.
The woman beside him had a warm face and soft makeup, her long skirt brushing her ankles as she stepped forward. She held something in her arms — a small bag, maybe. Inside it, Nam-hae could see the corner of a box wrapped in paper.
They stopped a few feet away.
The woman crouched down, slowly. Eye level.
"Hello."
Nam-hae looked down.
The bear's paw was pressed against her wrist like a shield.
The woman glanced at the man, then tried again.
Still no answer.
Nam-hae didn't move. Her face was blank, but her shoulders were tight.
"What's your name?" the man asked, voice quieter.
A pause.
Then, soft — almost inaudible:
"...Nam...hae..."
It was the first time she'd said it in months.
The man blinked. The woman's eyes softened.
The social worker whispered, "It's Korean. Kim Nam-hae. But legally she's been entered as South Korean, with a temporary alias — Namei-chan."
The couple didn't say anything for a moment.
Then the woman asked gently, "Is it okay... if we call you Nene? Nene-chan?"
Nam-hae didn't answer.
But she didn't shake her head either.
She only looked at them — really looked at them — for the first time.
—
Later That Day
She sat at the low table in the meeting room, across from the Kusanagis—whom she learned. The woman had placed the gift bag in front of her.
"From us," she said.
Nam-hae hesitated, then opened it with one hand — the other still clinging to her bear.
Inside was a tiny white rabbit plush. Softer than her bear. New.
She blinked at it.
The man smiled. "We thought maybe... your bear needed a friend."
She didn't respond.
But she didn't push it away.
—
That Night
She sat in bed, holding both the old bear and the new rabbit. She hadn't named either.
She hadn't said anything after that one, soft "Nam-hae."
But her fingers had brushed the rabbit's ears a few times.
Like she was thinking.
—
A Week Later
They came again. And again. They didn't rush. They didn't ask her to talk.
They brought puzzles. Picture books. Little snacks. Sometimes they just sat with her and didn't say much at all.
The woman would brush a hand over her hair sometimes, slow and careful. Not enough to startle. Just enough to be known.
The man told her that their home had a garden. And a room. And a little bookshelf just for her if she wanted it.
No questions. No demands.
Just an offer.
Two months after they first met, the paperwork went through.
They were officially her parents.
Her name — on paper — was changed to Kusanagi Nene.
Her place of birth: South Korea.
Her nationality: South Korean.
Her age: Six.
Her date of birth: July 20th.
July 20th. The same day they officially adopted her.
The file didn't say "Kim Nam-hae."
It didn't say "gunshot wound."
It didn't say "North Korea."
But when they brought her home — really home — she held their hands for the first time.
One hand in the mother's.
One hand in the father's.
And her bear tucked into her new backpack.
She didn't say a word.
But she didn't let go.
—
Home.
They pulled into a driveway.
The house was small, two-story, painted soft cream with wooden trim. There was a mailbox with the name Kusanagi on it in clean, simple characters.
Before Nam-hae—Nene could fully take it in, the front door next door creaked open.
A little boy with bright lavender hair and blue streaks poked his head out, blinked at them—
—and yelled, "Okā-san! The new people are here!!"
Another voice shouted back, "Be polite, Rui-kun!"
"I am!"
The boy darted across the walkway in his socks, eyes wide with curiosity. He stopped at the edge of the Kusanagis' lawn and stared straight at Nene like she was a UFO landing.
Nene froze.
He had no volume control. None. Just: "Are you the kid they adopted?"
Mrs. Kusanagi smiled. "Yes, this is Nene."
Nene clutched her bear tighter. She didn't respond.
Rui tilted his head. "You're kinda small."
Mr. Kusanagi gave him a look.
He immediately said, "Not in a bad way! I was small once too!"
Then he looked at Nene again, leaned in conspiratorially, and whispered, "You're weird. I like that."
Nene didn't know what that meant. But it didn't feel... bad.
It just felt loud.
A moment later, the Kamishiros themselves came out — Mr. Kamishiro in slacks and a cardigan, Mrs. Kamishiro with her hair pinned back, holding a small gift box.
"Congratulations," she said warmly, bowing. "We heard the news. She's adorable."
Mrs. Kusanagi returned the bow. "Thank you. We're very lucky."
"She's your first?" Mr. Kamishiro asked kindly.
"Yes. And she's... very special to us already."
Nene didn't understand every word, but she heard the tone. Soft. Proud.
She glanced up at Mrs. Kusanagi.
And for a brief second — just one — she felt something strange stir in her chest.
They said she belonged here.
And no one took it back.
Inside, the Kusanagi home smelled like warm wood and clean linen.
Her room was small, with soft green curtains, a bookshelf with only a few picture books so far, and a folded futon already made.
They let her explore.
They didn't force her to speak.
Mr. Kusanagi showed her how to turn the lights on and off.
Mrs. Kusanagi opened a drawer and pulled out a small box.
Inside was a name tag. Painted gently, by hand.
ねね
Nene.
No other name. No surname. Just Nene.
"Is this okay?" Mrs. Kusanagi asked, holding it out. "You don't have to use it yet. We just thought... maybe it could feel like yours."
Nene stared at it.
She didn't reach for it. But she didn't look away.
Her old name — Nam-hae — had always felt like a memory someone else owned.
But this one...
This one felt like an unopened door.
That night, she sat on her futon with the name tag on the table beside her. The rabbit and bear were tucked under her arm.
She didn't cry.
But she stared at the name until her eyes grew heavy.
And when the lights went out, she whispered — barely — just loud enough to hear herself say it for the first time:
"...Nene."