The Warmth of Pale Hands

“No one chooses to become a shaman. It’s not humans who choose the gods; it’s the gods who choose humans. We live this way because there’s no other choice. No matter how much you resist, no matter how much you suffer, in the end, you’ll understand—accepting the gods is the only way to survive.”

This was what Ye-kang’s grandmother had been told when she took her feverish, bedridden daughter to a shaman. Her mother, who had refused to become a shaman, suffered for an entire year. They visited major hospitals, sought out renowned herbalists, and even retreated to a secluded prayer house deep in the mountains—but nothing worked.

Even as her body wasted away, her mother adamantly rejected the calling, until she could no longer bear it. She finally accepted the gods, believing that her refusal was the cause of her family’s misfortunes.

Her grandmother’s chronic illness had worsened. Her father, a seasoned construction supervisor, had his leg crushed by falling timber. When the driver of the bus Ye-kang was on had a seizure and crashed into a telephone pole, her mother finally defied her family’s protests and sought out a master shaman to perform the naerimgut.

That day, Ye-kang witnessed her father break down in tears for the first time. He had always seemed like a pillar of strength to her, but in that moment, he looked small and powerless, incapable of alleviating his wife’s suffering.

“It started after my mother became a shaman. Strangers on the street would hear her blurt out things like, ‘You should take your wife to the hospital,’ with no explanation.”

Receiving the naerimgut didn’t automatically make her mother a practicing shaman. Her master emphasized the importance of prayer and devotion to the spirits that had chosen her. Only through continuous rituals and reverence could she deepen her connection with the divine.

Her mother frequently disappeared, traveling to mountains and valleys to pray. When she left, no one knew when she would return. Meanwhile, her father, who had already been drifting aimlessly since her mother’s illness began, could no longer cope with their new reality.

Drunk and unconscious at a local tavern—this became a regular occurrence. Once, he staggered home late at night and smashed the shrine her mother had meticulously prepared. Not long after, he was fired from the job he had held for over a decade for drinking on the clock.

“It’s the gods’ wrath,” her mother had said, her voice trembling but resolute. “We should be thankful it wasn’t worse.”

“Say one more word, and I swear I’ll kill you and myself,” he snarled.

Their arguments grew increasingly violent. Her father, who had once been so smitten with her mother, now spent more time intoxicated than sober and showed no interest in finding work.

At some point, visitors began to trickle into their home. It all started with her mother’s sudden comment to a woman sitting on a bench outside a corner store. “Your ancestors will help you,” she had said, seemingly out of nowhere. The woman, who had been considering selling her barren ancestral land, decided to wait—and six months later, the surrounding area was approved for urban development, sending property values skyrocketing.

The woman, who had been wearing shabby clothes during their first encounter, began visiting frequently, now clad in gaudy outfits. Soon, there were more than ten visitors a day seeking her mother’s counsel.

When that number became unmanageable, her mother rented a house on a small hill, with separate living quarters for the family and the shrine. She hung a sign outside reading Hae Gang Won. From that day, her mother became the breadwinner of the family.

They had nothing left after her mother’s illness drained their finances, but they had hoped her new role would provide some stability. They were wrong.

A month after disappearing, her father returned, dragged home by debt collectors, his face swollen with bruises. It was only then they learned he had taken up gambling.

Her mother, wearing an expression Ye-kang had never seen before, instructed her to stay hidden no matter what. Ye-kang obeyed, huddling in a cramped attic as she listened to the sounds of the house being ransacked and her father’s pitiful cries for mercy.

To pay off his debts, her mother emptied the family’s savings and even used her grandmother’s retirement fund. A week later, her father announced that he would be leaving to work on a fishing boat, catching mackerel on long-haul trips that would keep him away for months at a time. Her mother packed his belongings, insisting that he would need a home to return to when he disembarked.

Finding an affordable house was almost impossible, even in the cheapest neighborhoods. They couldn’t afford a place with separate spaces for the shrine and their living quarters. In the end, they moved to a shantytown where slate-roofed houses were crammed together.

The new home had an outdoor latrine with a rotting wooden floor, a kitchen with a cement floor where fat earthworms often appeared, and black burn marks on the linoleum from an old coal heater. It consisted of a shrine, two small rooms, and a shared yard, all connected in an L-shape. Only one of the rooms had heating.

“This place went on the market after a tragic accident,” the landlord had explained. “That’s why it’s so cheap. Honestly, you’re lucky to get a house with three rooms for this price—especially a shaman’s house. You should count your blessings.”

The real estate agent had proudly introduced them to the house, casually mentioning that the previous tenants had died from carbon monoxide poisoning. Her mother clasped Ye-kang’s tightly clenched hand, bowing repeatedly as she murmured apologies and gratitude to the woman.

“I’m sorry, Ye-kang.”

Ye-kang knew, logically, that none of this was her mother’s fault.

But logic alone couldn’t bridge the gap to her heart. It didn’t stop her from feeling that all their misfortunes had started the moment her mother became a shaman, not the other way around.

Her once-devoted father, who couldn’t stop doting on his wife, had become a stranger. Their modest but happy household had fallen apart. Even her friends, once close, had drifted away, as if her mother’s path had tainted everything around her.

The crossing gate at the railroad tracks began to clang.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

In the distance, the long blare of a train horn echoed. The ground trembled beneath her as the train roared past, the wind whipping her hair. For a fleeting moment, Ye-kang wanted to escape, to go somewhere no one knew her.

Starting fresh in a place where no one knew her story sounded appealing. Or, like something out of a movie, she imagined waking up from an accident with no memory of her past.

Anything, she thought, would be better than this.

* * *

During the break after the second period, someone slid into Chang-min’s empty seat.

“Want one?”

The unexpected visitor was Sang-mi.

“Uh… thanks.”

Ye-kang hesitated but eventually took one of the seashell-shaped chocolates. She bit into it, and the sweet, creamy flavor spread through her mouth. She hadn’t realized how delicious something so simple could be.

As Ye-kang enjoyed the treat, Sang-mi asked again, “Where do you live?”

“Why?”

Ye-kang cautiously countered, unsure of the intent behind the question. Sang-mi shrugged, her trademark braided pigtails swaying as a pleasant fragrance wafted from her hair.

“If it’s close, you can ride in our van.”

“Oh, no, I’m fine. I just take the bus.”

“A bus? A senior riding the bus? Is that normal in Seoul?”

Sang-mi looked incredulous. Ye-kang forced a vague smile. She understood the reaction perfectly well.

The city bus to school passed by two public middle schools, and the schedule was notoriously unreliable. The bus was always overcrowded, packed so tightly with students that today she’d felt like a bean in a pressure cooker.

“I can even recommend a cram school,” Sang-mi offered. “Our teacher said you’re good at studying. She pulled Je-ha and me aside during study hall yesterday and warned us to keep up.” She smirked but quickly returned to her original question. “So where do you live?”

Ye-kang wasn’t surprised that Sang-mi’s initial impression of her wasn’t great. The fiasco Je-ha had caused yesterday with the seat-switching joke had likely left a sour taste.

Still, Sang-mi’s sudden friendliness felt more like a calculated invitation to join her circle than genuine warmth. There was an undertone of condescension in her “generosity.”

“Where, exactly? San-1-dong? Near the underpass?”

When Ye-kang confirmed with a small nod, Sang-mi’s expression turned sharp. Her tone grew louder, drawing a few curious glances from nearby students.

“Figures…”

Sang-mi muttered, her eyes scanning Ye-kang from head to toe. In that fleeting moment, her face shifted, a mixture of triumph and faint disdain flashing across her features.

Ye-kang’s mother had chosen their new neighborhood for its reputation—known for good schools and affluent residents. She had said that wealthy clients were more predictable, more comfortable to deal with. Her mother understood that good schools attract money and, by extension, opportunities.

But within this well-off district lay an undeveloped hillside, home to a shantytown. For Ye-kang’s mother, it had been the only viable option. For Ye-kang, it had never been a choice at all.

Despite her best efforts to appear unfazed, Ye-kang could feel her face flush with heat. Poverty wasn’t just inconvenient—it was humiliating. Especially for a girl her age.

“Then you can ride in my van,” a voice interrupted.

Ye-kang turned to see Je-ha removing an earbud and slipping into the conversation as smoothly as if he’d been invited.