The bus is half-empty when Boyoung reaches up and presses a button to signal the driver to stop. There’s something comforting about the universality of buses and subways. Swipe the card upon boarding. Press a button to get off. At least I’ll be able to navigate my way around the city.

We walk down a paved street with tall buildings on either side. The sidewalks are narrow with barely room for two people to walk next to each other. Several times, I have to step off the sidewalk to make way for oncoming traffic. People do not move for us. Boyoung mutters something under her breath and I assume she’s irritated. I don’t really care. It’s not as if I’m in a hurry to reach my destination. No matter how slow I walk, though, I end up at a gated entrance. Beyond the iron fence is a plain midsize glass-and-concrete structure and behind that looms a much larger building that sports a green plus symbol next to a few Hangul characters in black. The symbol tickles my memory bank but I can’t quite make the connection. My efforts to decipher the meaning are interrupted when a camera crew nearly knocks the two of us over. There’s a flurry of bowing and apologies before the crew rushes off into a van idling down the street that I hadn’t noticed before.

“What’s that about?” I ask.

“I don’t know. Perhaps there must be a celebrity who is having a funeral. This is a funeral hall”—Boyoung gestures with her hand toward the shorter building—“and behind it is the hospital. Many people hold their funerals here, in separate rooms. There isn’t one room, not like in America.”

Boyoung buys two white flowers from a vendor situated just to the left of the entrance. She hands one flower to me along with a thin rectangular white envelope. It’s exactly the same as the one she’d given me at my father’s funeral—my other father’s funeral. It’s a money envelope.

I fish out cash and tuck several Korean won inside. When I’m done, Boyoung leads me inside. The hallway is thick with black-clad people. Boyoung wasn’t kidding when she said many people were having funerals here. Some have armbands around their suit sleeves. Others are carrying flowers similar to the ones Boyoung bought outside. A profusion of wreaths with long silk banners dangling to the ground lines the hallways.

“Oh, it’s them,” Boyoung says, stopping before one of the rooms. The camera crew that almost ran into us is setting up.

“Who?” I ask.

Boyoung drags me away before she explains quietly, “There was an article trending today. There was a couple from the same clan who fell in love. It’s not against the law, but their families must’ve been very traditional. Most Koreans won’t marry someone within their same clan. It’s . . . inappropriate. These two jumped off the Mapo Bridge into the Han River together. They were twenty-two.”

I can’t hold in my gasp. “They were so young.”