“You, old wooden box, might just change our lives today,” I say to the safe, and I feel something flutter inside my belly.

I take the tissue out of my pocket and unwrap Eomma’s lock of hair. The clipping is dark and curly and thick. Hattie gingerly passes the vial of tears to me.

“You ready?” I whisper, even though no one can hear us.

Hattie nods. “It’s now or never.”

I dip one end of the hair into the tears and use a matchstick to light the other end on fire. It catches easily, and I drop it into the vial. The flame goes out, but not before my nostrils are filled with a terrible stench.

“Ugh, that’s gross.” Hattie cringes.

I carefully spread the smoke from the vial over the full face of the safe, making sure to get all the edges and corners. Hattie passes me her phone and, looking down at the various passwords we’ve brainstormed, I start chanting them out loud, one by one.

“Gom, Gom, Gom.” (Way too obvious, but worth a try.)

“Gimchi jjigae. Gimchi jjigae. Gimchi jjigae.” (Eomma’s favorite food.)

“Mong. Mong. Mong.” (Eomma’s third child.)

“Jeju Island. Jeju Island. Jeju Island.” (Where Eomma was born.)

“Stairway to Heaven. Stairway to Heaven. Stairway to Heaven.” (Eomma’s favorite K-drama.)

I continue to chant the possible passwords—we even try our names—but my shoulders get tenser and my voice gets shakier with each unsuccessful attempt. Eventually, we run out of words and the safe remains closed.

“The smoke’s almost gone.” Hattie frowns. “What else could it be?”

“Hmm…” I feel frustration bubbling up my throat, but before I give in to it, I close my eyes and put myself in Eomma’s shoes. What would she consider strong and important enough to protect her safe? “What if it isn’t a word or name?” I think out loud. “What if it’s a saying? Like one of those motivational quotes people post on Insta?” It suddenly comes to me. “Wait, that’s it! The clan motto. It has to be.” It’s the phrase she lives by. “Okay, here goes nothing. Service and Sacrifice. Service and Sacrifice. Service and Sacrifice.”

There’s a wooden pop! from the safe, and suddenly, the intricate brass cutouts start to move as if they are doing a choreographed dance. We both gasp as the suns and moons twist and turn and rearrange themselves on the wooden face until, finally, all but four of the cutouts remain. They lock into vertical formation—moon, sun, sun, moon—completing the symbol of the gifted. Then the whole front side of the safe swings open like a door.

“Rye, we did it!” Hattie hugs me tight and grins. Or at least I’m pretty sure she grins. I can’t be certain, because tears have welled in my eyes, making everything blurry. And yes, happy tears are a thing.