POV ( Yoon-jae)

The sun doesn’t "wake up" in our house. It just sort of arrives, sliding across the white marble floors like a cold guest who wasn’t invited.

I know it’s 6:30 AM because the automated blinds in my bedroom make a soft whirr sound. It’s the only voice I hear in the morning. I sat up and pushed the duvet back. Everything in my room is grey or navy blue. It’s a room designed for a "good son"—the kind of son who doesn't leave toys on the floor or fingerprints on the glass.

I am ten years old, but I’m very good at being quiet. In this house, silence is the same thing as being polite.

I walked down the hallway to the kitchen. My footsteps didn't make a sound because of my soft slippers. On the kitchen island, there was a glass of water and a vitamin pill sitting on a small silver tray. Next to it was a note from Ms. Park.

“Your breakfast is in the warmer. I’ve gone to the market. Be sure to finish your fruit.”

I didn’t go to the warmer. Instead, I stood by the floor-to-ceiling window and looked out at the driveway. A black sedan was idling near the gate. That was my father’s car.

I watched the back of his head through the tinted glass. He was looking at his tablet, probably reading about stocks or global strategies. He didn't look back at the house. He didn't need to. He knew I was inside, fed and safe. To him, the house was a machine that worked perfectly while he was away.

The car pulled out. The gate hissed shut.

I sat at the long dining table. It has twelve chairs. I only ever use one. I looked at the empty seat at the head of the table where my father sits when he’s home for dinner. It’s always perfectly straight.

I picked up the vitamin and swallowed it. It tasted like metal and fake orange.

Sometimes, I wonder if the walls of this house are made of ice. No matter how high Ms. Park turns up the heat, my fingers always feel a little bit numb. I checked my backpack. My notebooks were organized by subject. My pencils were sharpened. I looked exactly like the son of Seo Jae-min should look.

I walked to the front door and put on my shoes. I looked back at the kitchen. The sun was hitting the marble now, making it shine so bright it hurt my eyes.

It was a beautiful house. It was a clean house.

But as I stepped outside into the morning air, I realized something I hadn't told anyone. I realized that the house never waited for me to come home. It just stayed cold until I arrived, and stayed cold after I left.

I started walking toward the school gate, my bag heavy on my shoulders. I wasn't looking for a miracle. I was just looking for something—anything—that felt like it was breathing.