Yoon Hee stayed with Park and his family in China's Zheijiang province, further away from the North Korean border.
"She was bright even though she suffered a lot," Park said, describing his first impressions of the orphan. "I was able to see her pains. She had gone through so many struggles even though she was very young and sometimes when we would pray for her, she wept."
By October 2010, Park had arranged for Yoon Hee to fly into South Korea.
'Part of the family'
In Seoul, Yoon Hee emerges from her bedroom in skinny jeans and a red, puffy vest, her nails painted bright pink. She slouches slightly, perked up by frequent texts on her yellow Samsung phone -- which is bigger than her hand.
With wide almond-shaped eyes, spotless porcelain skin and silky black hair, Yoon Hee has the kind of features highly coveted in South Korea, a country obsessed with beauty and youth.
At 19, she could easily be mistaken for a middle school student in Seoul. Yoon Hee stands less than 5 feet tall.
She lives with Park, his wife, their two sons, who are toddlers and four other North Korean children -- two boys and two girls.
Their permanent home in Seoul is humble. In the winter, bubble wrap is taped to the windows to keep the house warm.
The walls are scrawled with crayon doodles. Stuffed animals, toy ducks and books rest atop bookshelves and coffee tables. The children crawl over the taupe-colored sofa and scramble onto the living room table.
At times, Yoon Hee talks freely about her life. But there are some questions she'd rather not answer.
She seems more comfortable around the younger children.
And they flock to Yoon Hee as arbiter of all things toddler -- toy disputes and snack requests, cries for hugs and sibling rivalries. The other children squeal and scamper around the house, but Yoon Hee rarely raises her voice with them.
"When they make mistakes, I try to show ways to fix their thinking that they can be guided well," she said, "even though they don't have their moms."
Her kinship with the other orphans is forged out of hardship. Park's two toddler sons look up to her as "unni," or older sister.
"In this house, she's a part of us," Park said. "Part of the family."
When an older child steals a toy from his younger brother, Yoon Hee scolds him.
"It's not OK to steal your little brother's toy," she said. "Why did you do that?"
But as the older child sulks, Yoon Hee pulls him close and tickles him -- giving love and attention that she didn't have in her childhood.
Two years after her arrival in Seoul, Yoon Hee's days are busy from 8 a.m. to 10 p.m. with studies and a part-time job.
She sleeps on the floor inside a pristine wood-paneled room with a white teddy bear, lying next to the other North Korean girls on pink blankets.
Sometimes, she dreams of her mother even though she hasn't seen or talked to her in more than a decade.
"I would rather give her love than blame her," Yoon Hee said, "even though I wasn't loved."
In ways, her life has been shaped by her abandonment by those who were supposed to care for her. But Yoon Hee found a new family by abandoning the place that once was home -- but ultimately had nothing left to give.