The ladies with the big voluminous skirts of the hanboks have the right idea. You could hide a lot under that fabric—a basket of fruit, a Thanksgiving turkey, a few Oompa Loompas from Willie Wonka’s chocolate factory. A giggle bubbles in my throat. I choke it down. It’s one of those hysterical laughs that want to burst out at the most inappropriate times. Like now. At a funeral—I search for the right word—hotel with a bunch of strangers who speak an entirely different language and have different customs. Now is not the time to lose control, Hara, I order.

I grab the edge of the stone countertop and remind myself to breathe—that it’s one inhale and one exhale—and I concentrate on those, counting each one individually until the sudden hysteria passes. Once I’ve regained my composure, I return to the room and settle into place beside the landlady, who reaches out and pats my hand. I try to return the gesture but end with our fingers entangled, and that’s how I spend the rest of the night, with my hand clasped around that of a strange woman. The only thing we share is the man that we’re mourning.

At some point the next morning, two men dressed in black suits with white armbands around their biceps arrive to remove the body. The ladies rise from their kneeling position, pulling me with them. I hobble out into the hall, feeling about as nimble as the landlady. My knees ache and my back feels like it might crack in two if I move wrong. The silk of the dress is crushed. I hope that this wasn’t some favorite outfit that Boyoung sacrificed for this event because I don’t think a cleaning will fix it. Some of the creases seem permanent.

The two women either have experience in doing this or are far more limber than me. Maybe it’s both. The sunlight feels odd on my face, and as I shield my eyes with my hand, I think of the black-hatted lady. She was onto something. The older woman at my side says something that, of course, I don’t understand, but my companions know this by now. They figured it out last night and we’ve been able to have limited exchanges through hand gestures. It’s rudimentary but has worked so far. The landlady grabs my hand again. I don’t protest. I belong with these women now. They lead me to a bus stop and through hand motions ask if I have a pass. I show them the card that Boyoung gave me yesterday and they nod with approval.

Verbal communication is overrated, although I admit I’m curious as to what the two talk about. They’ve spoken to each other in Korean, and for all I know, they’re spilling all kinds of secrets about Lee Jonghyung. I want to know about him. The longer I knelt in that room, the more I wondered about the man in the picture. I wondered about small things like how tall was he or what was his favorite food. I wondered about big things like where was his own family and then really big things like who is my mother.