The GPS signal blinks steadily on the screen, a tiny beacon of light in the heart of Busan. We've been tracking the letter's progress for hours now, watching as it made its way from Seoul to the bustling port city, passing through the hands of countless postal workers and delivery trucks along the way.
And now, as we sit in a nondescript van parked outside the Busan regional post office, we watch with bated breath as the signal moves once again, tracing a path through the winding streets of the city.
"It's heading for the address," one of my colleagues murmurs, his eyes glued to the screen. "The one Yuri gave us, the one she thought belonged to her brother."
We watch in tense silence as the blinking dot moves closer and closer to its destination, our hearts pounding with a mixture of anticipation and dread.
