송, 여

“Now I let you go, and am left behind.”

This work began with a question: if we could meet a lover who has died, when would we be able to stop those meetings? Once a week, Jaehee meets Subin through a memory recreation service. Within it, the two people who once lived together can talk again, straighten a collar, and hold hands. But when the meeting ends, Jaehee must return to a home without Subin. The greater the joy of reunion, the more sharply the absence returns. The story follows the day she tries to end that repetition.

What mattered most was not making Jaehee look as though she were already saying goodbye from the start. Even after deciding this would be her last visit, her first response on seeing Subin had to be delight. The line “It’s yours” and the way she lifts her chin before a hand reaches her carry the time they spent living together. The small smile at the beginning is not replaced by a blank expression midway through; it becomes a smile that is increasingly difficult to sustain. Even as Jaehee says she will leave, her body and gaze remain turned toward Subin, and her grip on their joined hands tightens.

Subin’s feelings were not reduced to understanding and resignation either. Even when she understands Jaehee’s pain, hurt remains. Though she wants to hold on, her final words are “That looks good on you.” She has been hurt too, but the habit of caring for the other person does not disappear. Jaehee’s tears come after receiving that kindness. There is no relief in the final “No,” either. She declines another appointment, but her longing remains unresolved.

The space was distilled into a white stage without walls or doors. During revisions, the initial antique furniture and visible terminal gave way to futuristic furniture and spoken guidance. Only the two characters, a table, and chairs remained, so that small expressions and touches could become the center of each scene. The cool, steady guidance voice contrasts with their unsteady breathing. To the system, it is the next appointment; to Jaehee, it is another moment of letting her lover go.

Character consistency and spatial continuity were important production challenges. Character sheets fixed the faces and office attire, while a layout of color-coded mannequins specified the seats, table, and the direction of each body. The layout was a reference for position, not a reason to freeze the actors’ posture or emotion. For generation at 480p, distant two-shots were reduced in favor of facial close-ups, over-the-shoulder shots, and hand inserts. The main film was divided into three 30-second units. A segment ending on Jaehee’s face was revised to be picked up by Subin’s reaction, allowing editing to connect the boundaries between separately generated sequences.

Dialogue and performance directions initially written in English were changed to Korean. Short expressions such as “응,” “아니,” and “그러니까” needed to hold the relationship and hesitation between the two characters. Jaehee’s low, lightly husky voice, Subin’s clear, soft middle register, and the steady guidance voice were distinguished from one another. Emotion was designed to emerge through breathing and the silence between words rather than changes in vocal timbre. The music, centered on felt piano and delicate cello, left room for dialogue and breath rather than strongly heightening the emotion.

Touch is a recurring gesture that connects the whole work: a hand straightening a collar, hands clasped across a table, and a hand that never reaches a cheek. In an additional five-second ending that was designed, the eyes stay outside the frame, leaving only traces of wiped tears and a nosebleed, closed lips, and a sigh. Even after the words end, the body retains their traces. The title 〈送, 餘〉 places the act of sending someone away beside the state of being left behind. White strokes against black, as though scratched with a dry branch, follow the texture of that unfinished farewell. This is not a story of parting because love has ended, but of letting go while love remains.