Shin Mi-yeon was dressed elegantly, her straight hair falling neatly over her shoulders. The silk scarf at her neck shimmered faintly in the morning light.

Yeonjun thought her presence alone seemed to calm the room. But the panic still pulsed under his skin. 

He bowed silently.

Just then, Seojun came rushing out behind him, still adjusting his pants. 

“Ah… Mom?”

She stepped forward without pausing. She saw the tears in her son’s eyes.

“Seojun, I didn’t know your friend stayed over,” she said with a warm smile. But she had already sensed the tension in the air.

Yeonjun quickly straightened up.

“I’m sorry for intruding. I’m Han Yeonjun… I was just about to leave.”

She smiled again and turned slightly toward the house.

“Could you set two more plates, please?” she called softly. Then, facing Yeonjun again, she added gently, 

“I was just sitting down to breakfast. Please, join me.”

Seojun froze. “Mom!?” he said, louder than he meant to. His eyes jumped to Yeonjun, then back to her, wide and nervous.

But she looked at him calmly. Her voice was firm.

“Seojun, sit at the table. Now.”

Yeonjun didn’t move at first. He still wanted to leave. Every part of him told him to walk away.
But there was something about Shin Mi-yeon. She was calm, elegant, and serious in a way that made saying no feel wrong.

She didn’t leave space for arguing. Not without being rude. Not without breaking a rule he had always followed.

So he followed Seojun quietly. Every step felt a little heavier. He sat down at the long kitchen table.

***

The silence at the table felt heavy. It was the kind of quiet you could almost touch, like old velvet. Soft, dusty, and hard to breathe through.

Seojun sat up straight. His elbows didn’t touch the table. His hands stayed tight in his lap, and he didn’t take his eyes off the bowl of rice porridge in front of him.

Across from him, Yeonjun sat still. He looked calm on the outside, but the panic hadn’t fully left his face. The skin under his eyes was dark and swollen from bad sleep. A tense line stood out on the side of his neck. His lips had no color, and his fingers were stiff. He looked like someone who had been through something bad, and it was still with him, even in the morning.

Sitting across from him felt like punishment to Seojun. He didn’t even try to look at Yeonjun. He was too scared to lift his head.

Shin Mi-yeon took a slow sip of her coffee. She looked calm, but she could feel everything in the room. She put her cup down and looked at Seojun.

“What time is your class today?” she asked. Her voice was steady.

Seojun’s eyes lifted for a second, then dropped again.

“Nine o’clock,” he said. After a short pause, he added,

“I’ll skip it. I’m not feeling well.”

There was a short silence. Shin Mi-yeon raised one brow, barely noticeably but enough. She wasn’t used to hearing such things from her son, especially said so casually.
After a pause, she set down her cup and adjusted the scarf at her neck, as if brushing off the moment with practiced grace.

“You must be surprised to see me this early in the morning. Unfortunately, our Jeju Island plans were unexpectedly canceled,” she said with a composed smile.

“There was some kind of mix-up, and our business class tickets were sold to two other people as well. They offered us seats on the next flight, but your father said it wasn’t worth the trouble, so we had the tickets changed to an open date and came straight back. He dropped me off and went directly to the restaurant.”

No one replied.

Mi-yeon’s gaze moved between the two of them. They were both staring at their plates, neither eating nor speaking. It was painfully obvious they were avoiding looking at each other.
No chairs shifted, no chopsticks moved, no one reached for their water glass. The air was stiff with unspoken weight.

A middle-aged housekeeper stepped lightly into the room, almost silent in her movements. She placed a small dish of gyeran-jangjorim next to Seojun’s bowl, then adjusted the spoon on Yeonjun’s side without a word before quietly stepping back again.

On the table sat a polished spread: abalone rice porridge, steamed egg custard, grilled mackerel, a plate of sliced fruits, and a small tray with sour plum tea and black coffee side by side. It was a careful blend of old and new, nourishing yet refined, designed to comfort without ever appearing casual.

Mi-yeon took a quiet breath, then turned her attention, not to her son, but to the guest. This was the first time she had seen this boy. It was the first time she had ever heard his name, Han Yeonjun. Seojun had never mentioned him. Not once. No stories, no casual remarks, not even a passing reference. He was very handsome, in a soft, classical sort of way. There was something about his stillness, something a little too composed for someone his age. The shadows under his eyes made his features more fragile, not less. And even though he was doing everything to avoid her gaze, there was a quiet dignity in the way he held himself.

What caught her attention more than the guest was her own son. He seemed unusually quiet, more distant than usual, almost like he was being careful with his words. It was as if he did not want to reveal too much of himself. She remembered how, just a few weeks ago, he had been so full of fire it felt like he was ready to burn the whole world. That fire was gone now. Or maybe it had simply found a new direction. There had been someone before. Someone who had left behind a silence that Seojun still carried, whether he realized it or not.

Her eyes lowered slightly.

The boy was wearing one of Seojun’s old T-shirts, loose at the collar and faded from too many washes, paired with a pair of ripped jeans she clearly remembered scolding her son for years ago.

“You’re not throwing that away?” she had asked once.

“It’s comfortable,” Seojun had said. “For days when I don’t feel like being seen.”

But what caught her attention now wasn’t the shirt or the jeans. It was the bracelet. Around his bare wrist was a braided cord with a black and white ceramic charm, elegantly carved, the surface etched with a subtle, deliberate design she recognized instantly.

Mi-yeon remembered it clearly.
Not when he made it, but when he showed it to her, hesitating like a child unsure of his own creation.

A quiet evening, soft lighting from the pendant lamp in his studio, clay-dusted fingers carefully fiddling with the knot as he held it up.

“It came out so nice,” he’d said. “Too nice to wear. I think… maybe one day I’ll give it to someone really special.”

He hadn’t looked up when he said it, but she remembered the stillness in his voice.
Now, seeing that bracelet on this boy’s wrist, this boy she had just met, Mi-yeon’s brows remained neutral, but something shifted in her eyes.