The first time Jung Hyun-seok walks into the bookstore, he doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. The chime above the door rings as it always does, soft and forgettable. Yoon Ji-ho, sorting a pile of receipts behind the counter, glances up with the detached politeness of someone who’s spent too long dealing with strangers. His eyes sweep across the man standing near the entrance. The face doesn’t register. Just another customer. He looks away.

But Hyun-seok lingers.

He doesn’t browse like the others. He walks through the aisles like he’s been here before. Like he knows the layout of the shelves better than he should. His eyes skim the rows of spines but never truly read them. They flick to the corners, the windows, the exit. Always searching. Always cataloguing. Ji-ho notices, but he doesn’t react. Not on the surface.

He doesn’t remember the man. He doesn’t recognise him. But something about his presence feels oddly... familiar. Not intrusive. Not alarming. Just—familiar. And that familiarity bothers him. Not enough to question it. Just enough to file it away in the back of his mind like a strange footnote.

The second time Hyun-seok visits, he buys a book. It’s an older edition, something from a forgotten philosophy section. He barely looks at it before placing it on the counter.

Ji-ho rings it up. Their eyes meet for a moment.

“I used to read this one to my son,” Hyun-seok says, voice low, conversational.

Ji-ho nods politely. “It’s a good read.”

But something in his chest flinches. He doesn’t know why. Like a memory brushing past him with a scent he can’t name. When Hyun-seok leaves, the book still in his hand, Ji-ho’s fingers remain curled around the edge of the counter longer than necessary. He doesn’t understand the tension in his shoulders. Or the way his mind replays the man’s words long after he’s gone.

The third time, Ji-ho remembers his face. The One-Man Protestor. He looks up when the bell chimes and thinks, There he is again. Before realising he never learned the man’s name. Before realising he never meant to remember him.

Hyun-seok doesn’t speak this time. He offers a small nod, then quietly disappears into the shelves. Ji-ho watches him go.

There’s something steady about the man’s presence. Something grounding. Ji-ho doesn’t like strangers. He doesn’t enjoy small talk. But he finds himself waiting for the man to return each day. Not with anticipation. Not with excitement. Just... with a strange kind of stillness.

He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t want to know why. He tells himself it’s coincidence. That’s all.

Hyun-seok never asks questions. He never lingers too long. But Ji-ho begins to notice the pattern. The man always appears near the end of his shift. Always glances his way. Never buys more than one book at a time. And never looks at the books when he leaves. Always alone. Always quiet.

One evening, as Ji-ho is closing up, he steps outside and finds Hyun-seok waiting by the street. Not watching him. Not even facing him. Just... standing.

The air between them hangs heavy.

“Jung sonsaengnim gwaenchaneuseyo?" ("Mr Jung , Are you alright?”) 

Ji-ho asks without thinking.

Hyun-seok turns, eyes soft. “Just taking a breath.”

There’s silence. Then, unexpectedly—

“You remind me of someone.”

Ji-ho hesitates. “Your son?”

A pause. “Yes.”

The answer is too simple. Too honest.

Ji-ho shifts. He doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know why the words hit him harder than they should. Something settles deep in his stomach. A weight. A question.

Hyun-seok smiles faintly. “You don’t have to say anything. Just reminded me, that’s all.”

And he walks away.

Ji-ho doesn’t sleep that night. He tells himself it’s nothing. That he’s reading too much into it. That his mind is tired. That the silence of the night makes everything heavier.

But the man’s voice echoes in his mind. That look in his eyes—like he had been searching for him. Like Ji-ho had once belonged to a place he no longer remembers.

The next day, Hyun-seok is there again.

This time, Ji-ho doesn’t pretend he isn’t glad.

They start to talk. Nothing deep. Just small exchanges. Comments about the weather. Observations about quiet customers. Ji-ho begins to expect it. That low, calm voice. The way the man never rushes.

Ji-ho doesn’t talk to people. But with Hyun-seok, it’s different.

He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t want to know why. It feels like familiarity. It feels like... home.

And that terrifies him. Because he doesn’t know what home is supposed to feel like. Sometimes, Ji-ho catches himself watching the man leave. Other times, he realises they’ve been talking longer than they should’ve. A part of him wonders why he feels so drawn to this stranger. Another part refuses to ask.

When they sit on a bench outside the bookstore one evening, Ji-ho finds himself asking questions he never meant to ask.

“Do you believe in... instinct?”

Hyun-seok tilts his head. “Instinct?”

“Like... when you feel something’s right. But you don’t know why.”

There’s a long pause.

“Sometimes,” Hyun-seok says. “Sometimes instinct is memory that hasn’t surfaced yet.”

Ji-ho doesn’t respond. He just stares at his shoes.

The silence stretches.

Then, quietly—“Did your son go missing?”

Hyun-seok’s breath catches. But his voice is calm when he answers. “Yes.”

Ji-ho nods. He doesn’t ask anything else. He doesn’t want to know. Doesn’t want to go further. But he thinks about it for days.

The next time Hyun-seok visits, Ji-ho smiles without meaning to. And something in Hyun-seok’s chest breaks a little. Because he can’t say it. Because Ji-ho is standing in front of him. Breathing. Laughing. Alive.

But he doesn’t know he is his son.

And if he tells him now—he might lose him all over again.

So he says nothing.

And Ji-ho never asks.

Not yet.

But they sit together anyway. And Ji-ho listens anyway. And Hyun-seok tells him about books he used to read. Stories he used to love.

And when Ji-ho laughs at something he says, the sound feels like something returning. Like something that was never supposed to leave.

But Ji-ho still doesn’t believe. And Hyun-seok still doesn’t say it. And the truth still sits between them like a shadow neither of them is ready to acknowledge.

But it’s there.

Growing.

And one day—when the weight is too heavy—It will break.

And when it does—it will be too late.