Ji-ho’s shift at the bookstore should have ended twenty minutes ago. But he hasn’t moved.

He sits behind the counter, his fingers curled around the edge of his phone. The text is still there. The one that called him Soo-min.

He should delete it. He should pretend it never happened.

But his hand is trembling.

His chest is tight.

Somewhere, in the space between his ribs, something is cracking.

“You’ve played the part well—lived their life, walked their streets, worn their name. But it’s time to stop pretending. Come home. Where you belong.”

Ji-ho swallows, throat dry. The words rattle in his head, loud and insistent.

This is a mistake. Someone is playing a sick joke.

Then why does his stomach churn with recognition?

His hands move before his brain catches up. The bookstore is quiet, the only sound the soft hum of jazz playing through the speakers. His fingers open the browser.

Jung Soo-min.

The search loads.

The same missing poster appears.

The same face. A child. A child he shouldn’t know.

But it feels like he does.

His breath is uneven. His hands are sweating. His chest is a battlefield of emotions he doesn’t have the language for.

Ji-ho stands abruptly, nearly knocking his chair over. His coworker looks up from where she’s sorting books at the back.

“You okay?”

Ji-ho forces a nod. “Yeah. I just—I need to step out for a bit.”

She barely glances at him. He doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse.

The world outside feels wrong. The streets are too bright, the people too loud. His heartbeat is too fast.

He starts walking. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but his body does.

The Stranger She Almost Remembers

Seo Yoon is walking home when she sees him.

She almost doesn’t recognise him at first. Not because he looks unfamiliar, but because he doesn’t belong here.

Yoon Ji-ho.

Except that’s not his name.

She doesn’t know that.

But she stops walking.

She watches him.

He’s standing across the street, staring at his phone like it’s something dangerous. Like it’s something he doesn’t want to hold, but can’t let go of.

Then, slowly, he looks up.

And their eyes meet.

For a split second, the world stops moving.

A strange, suffocating familiarity crawls up Seo Yoon’s spine. She recognises him. Not from work. Not from passing in the streets.

From somewhere else.

Somewhere worse.

Ji-ho’s face shifts.

Like he feels it too.

But then—his entire body tenses. His hands tighten around the phone. His jaw clenches.

And then, he turns and walks away.

Seo Yoon exhales. She doesn’t know why her hands are shaking.

She doesn’t know why she wants to run after him.

But she doesn’t.

She stands there. Watching him disappear into the crowd.

And the moment he’s gone, a voice hums behind her.

“Kkogkkog sumeora, meolikarag bolla.”

Seo Yoon whirls around.

The street is full of people. But no one is singing.

She doesn’t go home that night.

Jung Hyun-seok has seen too many faces.

For years, he has stood in the same place, held the same sign, screamed the same words.

Today is no different.

People pass him like he is invisible.

But today, one person stops.

A woman. Elderly. Well-dressed. The kind of woman who walks past people like him without a second glance.

And yet, she stops.

Jung Hyun-seok barely registers her at first. His hands tighten around the sign, his throat raw from calling out the same plea over and over again.

“Ahjumma, Have you seen him?”

The woman tilts her head. She looks at the sign for a long time, eyes scanning the words. Her expression doesn’t shift—not in surprise, not in concern. Instead, her lips press together in something that almost looks like disappointment.

Then, softly, she clicks her tongue.

“Aigoo… jeolmeun saram.” (Young man…) She exhales, shaking her head. Not in mockery, but in that gentle, weary way.

“You’re still out here?” Her tone is smooth, calm—a kind of tired patience, as if she’s seen this too many times before. She sighs, as though the sight of him standing here pains her. “All these years, and you’re still looking for someone who’s long gone?”

Hyun-seok stiffens.

She doesn’t stop.

“Ani…” She gestures to the sign, not unkindly, but firmly. “Why are you doing this to yourself? He’s been gone for so long. Even if he was out there somewhere…” She trails off, shaking her head again, “You’re only hurting yourself, neh?”

Her voice isn’t cruel. It isn’t mocking.

It’s worse.

It’s pity.

Hyun-seok’s breath hitches. His grip on the sign tightens. His chest feels too tight, like something is pressing against his ribs.

The woman softens her expression. “You should go home. Rest.” Her voice lowers, almost coaxing. “You’re not young anymore. How many more years will you waste chasing after a shadow?”

She looks at him then—really looks at him. His unkempt hair, the lines carved into his face from years of grief, the deep bags under his eyes. She sees all of it.

And yet, she still doesn’t understand.

Hyun-seok swallows hard. His voice wavers—not just with anger, but with something deeper.

“Ahjumma…” The word comes out low, shaken. Respectful, but hurt.

“Why would you say something like that?”

She smiles. Not cruelly, not mockingly.

She reaches out, lightly touching his forearm, as if she believes she’s comforting him.

Then—she turns and walks away.

Hyun-seok doesn’t move.

His body feels cold. His sign shakes in his hands.

Another hurtful yet somewhat truthfully unpleasant moment he felt the true, suffocation and fear creeping up his spine.

The house is silent, save for the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.

Jang Min-jae sits by the window, polishing the frame of his glasses with slow, methodical strokes. The movement is almost meditative, a ritual performed not out of necessity, but out of habit. Across from him, Eun Hye-won is adjusting a vase of fresh lilies, tilting them just slightly to the right, then back again.

Neither of them speaks for a long time. They don’t need to.

The air between them is steady, comfortable in its quiet understanding.

Min-jae sets his glasses down with precision, the thin frames gleaming under the warm glow of the chandelier. He finally looks at Hye-won, his gaze soft. “Yeobo (Honey)..you’re restless today.”

She hums, smoothing down the folds of her dress. “Am I?”

He studies her for a moment, then gestures toward the lilies. “You only do that when you’re thinking about something.”

Hye-won exhales lightly, brushing a petal between her fingers. “It’s the children.”

Min-jae raises a brow. “Which one?”

She tilts her head slightly, considering. “All of them, I suppose. They’ve been difficult lately.”

Min-jae chuckles. “They always are at some point.”

Hye-won turns, her expression unreadable. “I don’t understand why they fight it.”

Min-jae leans back in his chair, lacing his fingers together. “Because they don’t know what’s good for them.”

“They never do,” Hye-won agrees, voice light, almost amused. She steps away from the vase, gliding toward the liquor cabinet. The sound of glass clinking against glass fills the space as she pours herself a small amount of wine. “They don’t appreciate what’s we’ve given to them. The safety. The order. The family.”

Min-jae watches her closely. “It’s always the same. They come in afraid, resistant. Then, in time, they learn.”

Hye-won swirls the wine in her glass, staring into the deep red liquid. “Some of them never do.”

Min-jae hums. “The ungrateful ones.”

She sips, the wine coating her tongue with warmth. “Do you think we’ve been too lenient?”

Min-jae’s lips curl at the edges. “Possibly.”

Hye-won sighs, walking back toward him, her movements slow and deliberate. “I don’t want to be harsh. I really don’t. But they force our hand.”

Min-jae gestures for her to sit, and she does, settling beside him with the grace of someone who has never rushed a day in her life. “Yeobo, discipline is not cruelty.”

“I know.” She traces the rim of her glass with one finger. “But they see it that way, don’t they?”

Min-jae scoffs, shaking his head. “They’re children. Even the grown ones. None of them understand the world. What it’s like out there. What we saved them from.”

Hye-won smiles at that, tilting her head against the back of the chair. “They think they were taken.”

Min-jae lets out a low chuckle. “As if they had anything to be taken from.”

The laughter lingers between them, warm and easy, as if they were discussing nothing more than a silly misunderstanding.

Hye-won sets her glass down, turning toward her husband fully now. “I just worry. We give them everything. A home. A purpose. And yet, there’s always a few who resist.”

Min-jae nods in understanding. “They forget too quickly. That’s the problem. They forget where they were before.”

Hye-won exhales. “Do you remember that girl?”

Min-jae raises a brow. “Which one?”

“The one last winter.”

Min-jae hums in thought before recognition flickers across his features. “Ah. The one who cried all night.”

Hye-won nods. “She was convinced her mother would come for her.”

Min-jae snorts. “Didn’t she say she was from a good home?”

Hye-won lets out a soft, mocking laugh. “Yes. That’s what they all say.”

Min-jae shakes his head, stretching his arms lazily against the armrest. “It’s fascinating, really. The way they lie to themselves. How they cling to the past like it was something worth remembering.”

Hye-won hums in agreement. “I used to think it was fear. That they held onto those memories because they were scared of letting go. But now I realise… it’s arrogance.”

Min-jae looks at her with quiet curiosity. “Arrogance?”

Hye-won nods. “They think they deserve more.” She leans forward, resting her chin against her palm. “We took them from nothing. We gave them everything. And still, they resist. Not because they’re afraid, but because they refuse to accept they were never meant to be anything else.”

Min-jae chuckles. “A harsh truth.”

Hye-won shrugs. “A necessary one.”

A comfortable silence settles between them again.

After a moment, Min-jae taps his fingers against the armrest. “And yet, you’re restless.”

Hye-won sighs, swirling the remaining wine in her glass. “Because some of them… are slipping.”

Min-jae watches her closely, his expression unreadable. “You mean the boy.”

Hye-won tilts her head slightly. “He was always one of the good ones.”

Min-jae exhales through his nose. “Until he out of nowhere stopped listening.”

Hye-won frowns. “That’s not fair. It’s not his fault.”

Min-jae chuckles darkly. “It never is, is it?”

She stares at him for a long moment before setting her glass aside and smoothing out her dress. “We’ll have to remind them.”

Min-jae nods. “Of course.”

Hye-won reaches for his hand, lacing her fingers through his with slow, deliberate intent. “We’ll remind all of them.”

Min-jae squeezes her hand gently, a small, affectionate smile curling at his lips. “Jagiya (darling), I always do love it when you take charge.”

Hye-won smiles back.

Outside, the city moves on.

Inside the house, they prepare to remind their children why they should be grateful.