The next evening, Jiho got home from work, took Bomi into his arms, and came out to the consultation room. Minjeong came in with her employee ID hanging around her neck. She hadn't even managed to unbutton her coat. Doyoon followed behind, carrying the sleeping Uju. One of the child's sleeves had slipped down to his elbow.
Moon Haejin set out cups of water before exchanging greetings. While Minjeong took a sip, Doyoon sat down on the worn sofa. Uju was asleep, leaning sideways against his father's chest. His cheek was flattened against Doyoon's shirt.
Minjeong didn't remove her employee ID. In the dry voice of someone who had come straight from work, she said,
“I won't use it anymore.”
Moon Haejin nodded, then looked at Doyoon.
Supporting the back of Uju's head, Doyoon said,
“Me neither. I'm not just matching Minjeong because she's doing it. I want to stop here too.”
It had taken a long time for the two of them to sit in the same place and announce the same decision. Last night, they hadn't even been awake at the same time. Today, neither of them answered on the other's behalf.
Moon Haejin said,
“Future transactions can stop here.”
Minjeong asked,
“Then you're not taking anything else starting today, right?”
“No new transactions will be opened.”
Doyoon lifted his head.
“What about what's already gone?”
“I can't promise that it will be returned. We also can't determine yet why the copies are different or who should be held responsible.”
That was all. There was no promise to return anything or reveal the truth.
Minjeong stared down at her cup for a moment. Drops of water spread beneath her fingers.
“My mom's voice…”
The sentence stopped there. I waited for the next one. So did Moon Haejin.
“The old files are still on my phone. I won't delete them.”
Minjeong looked down at the phone in her hand but didn't turn on the screen.
“But I don't think I need to listen again. I don't have to keep testing whether I can understand it or whether I really don't remember.”
Doyoon lowered his gaze toward the sleeping child.
“I won't play it first and tell you to try to remember anymore.”
Instead of answering, Minjeong took another sip of water.
Doyoon added quietly,
“It felt like it would really disappear if I didn't play it.”
“The file is still there. It won't disappear just because I don't listen to it today.”
Doyoon didn't touch Minjeong's phone.
I didn't ask them to play the file for me. I didn't suggest listening one more time to see what would come back, either. It seemed that while a person repeatedly played a voice they couldn't remember, they might lose things that existed outside the file too.
Doyoon pulled Uju's sleeve back up. The child didn't wake and instead buried his face deeper against Doyoon's chest. Moon Haejin moved the cup on the table a little farther away, out of Uju's reach.
Minjeong played the new bedtime sound from her phone at the lowest volume. Between the rice cooker's long exhale and the low hum of the exhaust fan, their two voices came through one after the other.
Mommy's here.
Daddy's holding you.
Uju didn't move. Minjeong lowered the volume even more so the child wouldn't wake, then stopped the playback when it ended.
“I couldn't decide on a name. Yesterday, I just labeled it ‘new sound.’”
Doyoon said,
“If we called it someone's lullaby, it would feel like one of us was standing in for the other again.”
“What if we add yesterday's date?” I said.
Minjeong looked at me.
“Just the two of your names after the date.”
Looking at her phone, Minjeong said,
“Minjeong, Doyoon.”
Doyoon nodded too.
“Because it's both our voices.”
In the phone's list, his mother's old file and the new file marked with yesterday's date appeared on separate lines. Minjeong added both names after the date on the new file. The evening that had really happened and the two voices from that day remained together on a single line.
Uju hadn't woken once during all that. Doyoon leaned back against the sofa and supported the child's back with his whole arm. The white-noise machine in the consultation room hummed softly, and the wheels of a cart passed through the hallway outside once.
Uju's sleep hadn't lasted some miraculously long time. It had been one ordinary stretch of sleep—just long enough for his parents to straighten their backs for a moment, drink some water, and exchange a few words.
His feet moved first. His socked feet kicked twice beneath Doyoon's arm. Then his face crumpled. The moment Uju opened his eyes, he began to fuss in a low voice.
Doyoon sat up and held the child upright. Uju pushed at his shoulder and arched his back. Minjeong played the new sound again. Their voices flowed softly, but the child didn't fall back asleep right away. He glanced toward the sound for a moment, then cried even louder.
Minjeong stopped the playback.
“He must be thirsty.”
Doyoon didn't hand Uju over. He supported the child's bottom with one arm and wrapped his other hand around his back. Minjeong brought over the cup and held it to his lips. At first, Uju turned his head away. The second time, he bit the rim of the cup. When Minjeong tilted it slightly, water ran down his chin.
“Slowly. I'm right here.”
Uju looked up at Minjeong's mouth for a moment, then took another sip from the cup.
Even after a few sips, Uju didn't fall asleep. He simply stopped arching his back so forcefully. Resting his chin on Doyoon's shoulder, he whined briefly with wet lips.
His outer clothes had bunched up beneath his waist. Minjeong found one sleeve and guided Uju's hand into it. Without changing how he held the child, Doyoon lifted Uju's other arm slightly. The two of them pulled the sleeve cuffs into place and straightened the front. While Minjeong buttoned the coat, Doyoon slipped one finger beneath Uju's chin so his collar wouldn't press against it.
Minjeong's employee ID touched Uju's knee. The child gripped the edge of the plastic card with the photograph for a moment. Before the strap could wind around his wrist, Minjeong took the ID off her neck and put it in her coat pocket. Uju's hand dropped onto his bare knee.
“He'll wake up again when we get home.”
Doyoon said it.
“Probably.”
Minjeong fastened the last button.
“But don't be the only one holding him tonight. I'll give him water.”
Doyoon gave a short laugh.
“Like right now?”
“Yeah. Like right now.”
Minjeong wiped Uju's wet chin with the end of her sleeve.
“When we get home, you shower first.”
“What about Uju?”
“I'll hold him. We'll switch when you come out.”
This time, Doyoon didn't insist that he was fine.
Uju never fell asleep again. Doyoon headed for the entrance with the child in his arms, and Minjeong walked beside him carrying the cup of water. Neither of them left the awakened child in the other's arms and stepped away.
At the entrance, Minjeong turned toward me. Uju was still in Doyoon's arms.
“You can both look at the copy and the records here. Just check where they're different.”
Moon Haejin looked at Doyoon.
Adjusting his hold on the child, Doyoon said clearly,
“You can look at my copy too. Just the two of you.”
Minjeong set the cup down on the small table beside the door and opened it. Her coat sleeve brushed lightly against the handle. Uju gripped the outer sleeve between them. Doyoon went out first with the child in his arms, and Minjeong followed after making sure the water hadn't spilled from the cup.
After the door closed, the consultation room suddenly looked much larger.
A round ring from the cup remained on the table. A small loose thread, seemingly shed from Uju's outer clothes, clung to the armrest of the sofa. I pulled it off and dropped it into the trash. The ring from the cup hadn't dried yet.
Moon Haejin opened the internal screen. As we followed the records laid out beside Doyoon's copy, two timestamps caught my eye before the sections where the contents diverged.
Memory fragment stored 21:46.
Initial contract received 22:00.
My gaze moved from the number above to the one below, then rose again. The edge of the water ring was slowly drying.
Moon Haejin's hand paused for a moment. He closed the screen.
“We can't decide anything based on what we just saw.”
I didn't ask. Even after the screen disappeared, the two lines remained vivid.
Exactly fourteen minutes lay between the two timestamps.