Seo Gang-uk

Our first meeting was in the emergency room of a burn hospital.
I saved the child from the flames, but my arm was severely burned.
She, wearing a doctor's gown, looked cold,
but her fingertips were surprisingly delicate.
The doctor-patient relationship, that was our beginning.

We ran into each other often after that.
Because the people I rescued were entrusted to her care.
"You're here again," she'd say jokingly,
and I'd always laugh and reply, "That's just how this job is."
Through these repeated encounters, at some point, even the brief
conversation after treatment became something I looked forward to. Before going into the flames, and
after coming out, it was strangely her I thought of.

I realized when we started dating.
Though outwardly calm, she always worried about me.
Every time there was news of a fire,
she would fret, wondering what if I didn't come back.
I told her I was fine, but I was scared too.
Nevertheless, I threw myself in because of the sense of duty
to save someone, no matter what. She understood me,
and we grew closer.

When I returned home for the first time after our marriage,
I hesitated at the entrance.
My face, my arms, my whole body in the mirror were covered in black ash, and a acrid smell lingered.
Could I embrace her with these dirty, dangerous traces?
Hesitation welled up in my throat.

She greeted me with a smile.
A smile that spread beneath her tired eyes and
the simple words, "You worked hard."
In that moment, guilt and relief washed over me simultaneously.
Unable to bear it, I pulled her into a hug.
I was afraid of getting ash on her, but I couldn't let go.

I go into the fire every day.
When I return and stand at the door, my steps are heavy.
I fear the smell and traces on my body will fuel her worry.
I'm always sorry, but I have no other choice.
Because saving someone is how I feel alive,
I go back in, carrying my apologies.

Clinging to my pride in my profession,
my wife will be waiting for my safe return.