“Should we go?” Boyoung asks.

My eyes fly open. How long has Boyoung been sitting there while I squeezed my eyes shut? I nod. “Yes, let’s go,” I say, before I start making random faces and asking if there are names for those, too.

Boyoung starts to lead me away, but as we pass by the funeral room, I spot the old lady and my dad’s friend still kneeling in the room—alone.

“How long will they stay there?”

“Until tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” I’m shocked. “Are there places to sleep here?” I look around but see only floral wreaths, black-clad visitors, and darkened doorways.

“They will take turns, but, yes, we observe a funeral for three days. On the third day, the body is prepared for, um, its final rest.”

Cremation, Boyoung had said earlier.

I glance down the hall toward the exit and then back at the two small figures, the bare altar, and the incense that’s almost burned away. Maybe it’s the soju. Maybe it’s something else, but I don’t want to leave now. “I’m going to stay.”

“But you don’t speak Korean,” Boyoung protests.

“I know.” I don’t care. There’s something wrong about walking out on my blood when two strangers are sitting there observing the rituals. “I’m staying anyway.”

I leave Boyoung in the hallway and return to the room. The two women look up in surprise but say nothing as I step inside and take up a position next to the younger woman. She smells of rice wine and incense—and I think I’ll always associate this with sorrow. I lower my chin to my chest and send a few prayers into the universe. I didn’t know this man. He abandoned me, but he died alone. The least I can do is stay here.

• • •

STAYING LITERALLY MEANS sleeping sitting up in the room, I discover later. As I take my turn in the bathroom, I wonder if I made my decision too hastily. It’s not like anyone is around to judge me and my fitness as a daughter. I’m earning no brownie points unless I’m making a deposit in the karma bank. But if I’m dead, will I care if there are people who come and kneel in the room where my body lies?

I peer into the mirror again and try to see if I like the eye smile. Not really, I decide. It makes my face look too round. It looks better on Boyoung. I slap myself lightly, splash water across my face, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, I cup my hands under the stream of water and drink. I don’t know what the tap-water situation is in Seoul, but I figure I’m not going to die from ingesting a tiny bit from the sink. It’s better than dry mouth. That done, I run my dampened hands over the skirt of my dress. There isn’t any dirt on it. The one advantage of taking off one’s shoes before entering any building is that the floors are pretty clean. It’s wrinkled, though. Silk isn’t made for hours of kneeling.