For days, I drifted in and out of consciousness, burning with fever.
When my mind briefly surfaced, I realized I was no longer in the Russian mountains but had somehow arrived in a country called Korea.
I was seven years old.
I learned later that a broker—someone who specialized in moving children like me—had smuggled me out of Russia across the border into China, then carried me into Korea through a small southern port.
Because I was small, because my fever left me limp and unconscious, stuffing me into a bag or a box must not have been difficult.
While my body was being carried across countries, my mind fought against the vast black lake that had swallowed me the day the sow died.
Ever since that moment, the lake behaved like a living creature—spreading through my consciousness, claiming territory, ready to devour the rest of me.
It became a place with no escape: a cramped inner space where the warm spring days and the sweet smell of flowers had vanished, replaced by dark still water.
When I was young, my brother thought my symptoms were developmental issues. That's what child-development specialists and psychiatrists diagnosed me with.
They were right, in a way. Something deep inside my mind—no, inside my heart—had been damaged beyond growth.
I waited for someone. Constantly. But no one ever came to rescue me from the edge of that cold, black lake.
If I relaxed even a little, the lake mocked me, tugging at my wrists and ankles, trying to drag me under.
So I braced my entire body, desperate to stay upright.
My eyes were open, I ate food, I breathed…but every nerve I had was fixed on that black lake.Just to survive.
It was colder and more agonizing than the winters I survived in the Caucasus, clinging to the sow for warmth—an endlessly slow, merciless time.
I turned ten.
One spring day, my special-education teacher took me to a ballet competition. Exposure to new environments was part of therapy, so she brought me to the theater.
And that was the day I saw her.
A small girl in a red costume, holding a tambourine, dancing as if she carried the music in her body itself.
Balancing on one foot, lifting the other high with fearless precision, she struck the tambourine in perfect rhythm—so spirited, so full of life that the air around her seemed to bloom like flowers.
The flowers didn't smell like the ones I remembered in the Caucasus, but something about her performance reminded me of that single, overwhelming floral scent I had once known.
I couldn't take my eyes off her.
As the music climbed toward its climax, her tambourine struck faster, and she stepped toward me.
Come here. Don't just stand there. Dance with me.
The voice was imaginary—my mind's creation.
But it was the first voice that had ever pierced my broken consciousness.
Instinctively, I tried to take a step forward.
But my legs were anchored—locked in place by the black lake.
The girl's expression shifted with the music; she seemed to call to me again.
You have to come to me. I can't go to you.
In despair, I screamed back in my mind:
I can't! I can't move from here! You have to come to me!
But the girl simply smiled—radiant—and kept dancing.
She spun twice and a half, her stiff red tutu blooming around her, turning the world dizzy.
And I wanted—desperately—to spin with her.
I clenched my fists so tightly that half-moon marks formed on my palms. But I couldn't move.
All I could do was watch.
When she finished, she bowed gracefully and left the stage.
Everything I had witnessed felt like a dream. I only blinked in confusion.
Then suddenly, my hearing snapped back.The applause, the cheers—all of it crashed into me at once.The overwhelming sensation made me clap along awkwardly.
That moment was the first time I had reacted to anything—music, movement, color, sound—during all my years of therapy.
My teacher, a woman in her thirties, nearly burst into tears.
"Dongha! Dongha, did you like it? Was it good?"
For the first time, I turned my gaze from the stage and looked at her.I nodded.
Tears welled in her eyes. She clapped with me, as if she didn't know whether she was cheering for the girl… or for me.
Then she thrust the competition pamphlet into my hands, too excited to speak calmly.
"Dongha, that dance you saw—it's ballet! The piece was Esmeralda!"
I looked down at the pamphlet.
And there, next to the title, was her name—Han Yoojin.
That was the day I first met you.
You were the first person who ever spoke to me—even if it was only in my mind.
And I answered you.
From that day, whenever the lake rippled beneath my feet, I whispered your name again.
Han Yoojin.
I remembered your dance, your bright red tutu and the way you looked at the world.
The first time I ever spoke to my brother was also the day I first saw you.
"I want to do ballet."
I said it without thinking.
You did ballet—so I wanted to do it too.
My brother, always gentle with me, raised his voice for the first time.
But he was still smiling, so I knew he wasn't truly angry.
And so I began ballet.
Through music, I learned how to express myself.
And slowly, I found myself looking outward instead of inward.
Stretching classes were repetitive.
Technique classes were boring.
But because I believed doing them might bring me closer to you one day, I didn't mind.
I kept attending competitions—hoping to see you again.
But you didn't appear at every event.
At first, I felt irrationally hurt, even upset.
Later, I learned to check the program first.
If your name was printed there, I spent the entire month waiting for the day with a fluttering chest.
Anticipation felt like the dandelion seeds I used to watch drift through the air—soft, weightless, comforting.
On competition days, I watched you nervously step onstage.
But the moment the music began, you danced as if the world had melted away.
All of you—every gesture, every turn—was something I wanted to memorize.
You always won first place.
Your parents came onstage with flowers, and you smiled as they hugged you.
I memorized the red flowers in your arms and searched a plant encyclopedia for the name.
Dahlia.
Even if the scent wasn't truly the one I remembered, the flower reminded me of you.
Eventually, anything resembling a dahlia reminded me of you.
And I liked that.
You always tied your hair in a neat bun, bowed gracefully, and disappeared backstage.
And I waited until the awards ceremony to see you one last time.
The last competition I went to for you was in sixth grade—the Summer Ballet Competition hosted by the Gangrim Cultural Foundation.
It was my first time attending alone.
I spent a month anxiously waiting.
It had been half a year since I last saw you, so I wondered how much you had changed.
Your dance was still beautiful.
But you didn't speak to me—not even in my mind.
Since the Esmeralda performance, you never spoke to me again.
As the silence grew, I realized—
If you won't come to me, I have to go to you.
If I ever learned how to cross that lake, I would go to you.
You won gold with a breathtaking solo from Giselle.
"The winner of the sixth-grade gold medal, Han Yoojin, will enter Gangrim Arts Middle School as a scholarship student. Congratulations."
When the chairwoman, Hong In-hee, announced it, you walked across the stage like a true ballerina.
And just like that, I made up my mind.
Gangrim Arts Middle School.That was where I needed to be—not a place to study, but a place where I could exist in the same space as you.
"What? Gangrim Arts? Why there?"
My brother was startled—because Gangrim Group was Samho Group's competitor.
"Dongha, our family already supports another arts school. You could go there."
But I stayed silent.I didn't know how to explain.Should I start with the black lake?Would he even believe me?
When I didn't answer, my brother sighed.
"Fine. If you get in, you can go."
That winter, I passed the entrance exam for Gangrim Arts Middle School, Department of Dance, Ballet Major.