Chapter Text
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The alarm buzzed at 6:00 a.m., shattering the stillness of the small, two-bedroom apartment. Taesan groaned as he stretched an arm out, fumbling to silence it before it woke his daughter. He didn’t need another early morning battle just yet.
His body ached in places he didn’t know could ache. Late nights of freelance graphic design and early mornings of being a dad to Bora had worn him thin, but he didn’t let himself dwell on it. The weariness was just a part of life now. He swung his legs out of bed and quietly padded to the kitchen.
The sun was still hidden behind a thick curtain of winter clouds, casting a grayish hue over the apartment. The space was functional, but small. A cluttered kitchen counter, a dining table with two mismatched chairs, and a living room scattered with Bora’s toys made up their home. It wasn’t much, but it was theirs.
The framed photo on the fridge caught his eye, as it always did. His wife, Eunha, stood there, grinning brightly, her arm wrapped around a much younger version of him. Her eyes sparkled even in the photo, her energy almost tangible. Beside her stood a giggling toddler Bora, her tiny hand clutching Eunha’s sleeve.
It had been three years since cancer had taken Eunha. Three long years of figuring out how to do everything alone. Taesan had always been the quieter one in their relationship, the steady rock to Eunha’s vivacious flame. She had been the kind of person who lit up every room she entered, who made parenting look effortless even when it wasn’t. Without her, everything felt heavier, slower—like trudging through a perpetual fog.
The weight of it all pressed on his chest, as vivid as the memory of those final days in the hospital. He didn’t want to think about it—not again—but the image came unbidden.
The room had been too sterile, too cold despite the warmth the nurses tried to bring. Machines beeped softly in the background, their rhythm a constant reminder of time slipping away. Eunha had looked so small in that hospital bed, her once vibrant face pale and fragile. She’d tried to smile when Taesan entered the room, Bora clinging to his hand.
“Taesan,” she had said, her voice barely above a whisper. Her lips were cracked, her breath labored, but her eyes still held a spark of the woman he had fallen in love with.
He sat down beside her, his large hand enveloping her frail one. He didn’t know what to say. What could he say? He had spent months exhausting every option—consulting specialists, researching experimental treatments, calling in every favor he could think of. But none of it had been enough. The cancer had been caught too late, an insidious thief that had worked silently for far too long.
The guilt of not noticing sooner had been unbearable. How had he missed the signs? The fatigue, the weight loss, the moments when she had excused herself to the bathroom and returned looking pale. She had brushed it off, saying it was just stress or a bug. And he had believed her. He had wanted to believe her.
“I’m sorry,” he had choked out that day in the hospital, his voice thick with emotion. “I should’ve known. I should’ve—”
“Stop,” Eunha had interrupted, her tone soft but firm. She squeezed his hand with what little strength she had left. “This isn’t your fault. Don’t carry that.”
Tears welled in his eyes, but he blinked them away. “I just… I wanted to fix it. I wanted to save you.”
“You’ve done everything you could,” she said, her voice gentle. Then, after a pause, she added, “But you have to promise me something.”
“What?”
“Find happiness, Taesan,” she said, her gaze locking onto his. Her words were deliberate, as if she were using the last of her strength to make sure he heard her. “For you and Bora. Don’t let this stop you from living.”
“I don’t know how,” he admitted, his voice breaking.
“You’ll figure it out,” she said with a faint smile. “You’re stronger than you think. And Bora… she’ll need you to show her what happiness looks like.”
It was the last time she had spoken to him with such clarity. The next day, her condition had worsened. She had slipped into unconsciousness and passed away two days later, leaving a void in their lives that Taesan didn’t know how to fill.
The sound of Bora’s laughter from the hallway pulled him back to the present. He blinked, realizing he had been staring at the photo on the fridge for too long.
Three years. He had tried to keep his promise to Eunha, but it was hard. Happiness felt like a foreign concept most days, something distant and unattainable. But he tried. For Bora, he tried.
Without Eunha, the world felt duller, quieter. She had been the sun, and he had grown accustomed to living in her light. Now, he was left trying to navigate the darkness, hoping he could at least keep a small candle burning for their daughter.
He turned away from the fridge and returned to the task at hand: breakfast. Because life, no matter how heavy it felt, had to keep moving forward. Breakfast.
The kitchen smelled faintly of last night’s dinner—instant ramen, again. He was far from a master chef, but he tried. This morning’s menu consisted of scrambled eggs, toast, and apple slices. Simple, but enough to keep Bora fueled for the day.
“Appa?”
Taesan turned to see Bora standing in the hallway, her hair a tangled mess and her pajama shirt slightly askew. At seven years old, she was the spitting image of her mother: the same round face, bright eyes, and a smile that could melt the hardest heart.
“Morning, Bora,” he said, his voice soft. “Breakfast will be ready in a minute. Go wash up.”
She nodded sleepily and shuffled to the bathroom. He watched her go, his heart aching and swelling all at once. She was his everything now, the reason he pushed through the exhaustion, the loneliness, the grief. But parenting alone wasn’t easy. He worried constantly—was he doing enough? Was he too strict? Too lenient? Was she happy?
Eunha would have known the answers. She had been the glue that held them together, the one who always knew what to say or do. Without her, Taesan often felt like he was navigating a ship through a storm with no map.
By the time Bora returned, her face freshly washed and her hair still a bit wild, breakfast was on the table. She climbed into her chair and began eating, her small hands clumsily cutting her toast into bite-sized pieces.
“Did you sleep okay?” Taesan asked, sitting across from her.
Bora nodded. “I had a dream about Mommy,” she said casually, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
Taesan’s grip on his coffee mug tightened. “Yeah? What happened in the dream?”
“She was baking cookies,” Bora said, her eyes lighting up. “The chocolate chip kind. She said I could have as many as I wanted.”
A bittersweet smile tugged at Taesan’s lips. Eunha had loved baking with Bora. He could still picture the two of them covered in flour, laughing as they shaped cookies and cupcakes.
“Maybe we can bake some cookies this weekend,” he offered.
Bora’s face lit up. “Really?”
“Really,” he said, though he wasn’t entirely sure when he’d find the time. But seeing her smile made it worth the effort.
After breakfast, the usual morning chaos began, though it was a chaos they had learned to navigate together. Bora darted around the apartment, her small frame moving with surprising efficiency as she rummaged through her drawers, looking for her favorite panda hair clip.
“Where did I leave it?” she muttered to herself, not with the frantic energy of a child in a rush, but with a focus that belied her age.
Meanwhile, Taesan hovered near the dining table, flipping through her homework folder to ensure everything was completed. He double-checked her schedule, mentally ticking off the items she would need for the day.
“Appa,” Bora called out from her room, “don’t forget my art project. It’s in the blue folder.”
Her voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he scanned the pile of school supplies on the table. Sure enough, the blue folder was there, almost forgotten beneath her notebooks. He grabbed it and added it to her bag.
“Got it,” he called back, a mix of gratitude and guilt swirling in his chest.
Bora had been doing well in school—better than he could have hoped for, considering everything she had been through. Her teachers often commented on how bright and attentive she was, how she seemed wise beyond her years. But Taesan knew that her maturity came at a cost. Losing Eunha at such a young age had forced her to grow up quickly.
She didn’t cry much anymore, at least not in front of him. Instead, she channeled her emotions into focus and responsibility, taking on tasks that most kids her age wouldn’t even think about. Every morning, it was Bora who remembered the small details: her gym clothes for P.E., the signed permission slip for a field trip, the spelling test she needed to study for.
“Don’t forget, we have a parent-teacher meeting next week,” she reminded him as she came out of her room, finally wearing her panda clip. “Ms. Choi said it’s really important.”
“Right,” Taesan said, trying to keep up. He grabbed his phone and typed a quick note to himself before he forgot.
“And I have a spelling test today,” she added, slipping on her sneakers. “I think I’m ready, but can you quiz me on the way to school? Just in case.”
“Of course,” he replied automatically, though a small part of him ached at her self-sufficiency. She shouldn’t have to remember these things on her own.
Taesan tried his best to keep up with everything—her school assignments, her extracurricular activities, her social life—but there were days when it felt like she was the one leading him, not the other way around. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. If anything, he cared too much. He just felt stretched thin, always one step behind.
Bora, on the other hand, seemed to thrive under the weight of responsibility. She had a quiet resilience, a determination to make her mother proud even if she couldn’t articulate it.
“You’re all set,” he said, zipping up her backpack and handing it to her. “Let’s get going before we’re late.”
As they moved toward the door, Bora paused and looked up at him. “You’re doing a good job, Appa,” she said suddenly, her voice steady but kind.
Taesan froze for a moment, startled by her words. He wasn’t sure how to respond.
“Thanks, Bora,” he said softly, ruffling her hair.
It wasn’t the first time she had comforted him like that, as if their roles had reversed. Bora had become so much more than a child to him; she was his partner, his teammate, the person who kept him grounded when he felt like he might lose his way.
He knew she was strong, but he also worried about how much she carried. No seven-year-old should have to remind her parent about meetings or tests, or tell them they were doing a good job. But Bora did it without complaint, her small shoulders bearing the weight of a loss she barely had time to process.
“Okay, panda clip secured?” he asked, trying to lighten the mood.
Bora grinned and tapped the clip in her hair. “Secured, Appa.”
“Then let’s go,” he said, holding the door open for her.
As they stepped out into the hallway, Taesan’s heart swelled with a mix of pride and sadness. Bora was growing up so fast—too fast—but he would do everything in his power to make sure she had the childhood she deserved, even if it meant running on empty.
They were halfway out the apartment when Taesan noticed the commotion in the hallway. Boxes were stacked near the door of the unit across from theirs, and a man was unloading a small moving truck parked just outside the building’s entrance. Taesan’s gaze fell on the man’s back.
His hair was long, dark, and straight, falling neatly to his shoulders. The strands shifted with his movements, revealing the faintest curve to his ears—soft, but with a subtle point at the tip. Something about the way the man moved was strangely graceful, his figure lean but strong.
Taesan found himself staring for a moment too long, his curiosity piqued.
“Appa, we’re going to be late,” Bora said, tugging on his sleeve.
He blinked and turned his attention back to her. “Right. Let’s go.”
As they descended the stairs, Taesan’s thoughts lingered on the man in the hallway. He hadn’t caught a clear look at his face, but the image of the long hair and pointed ears stayed with him.
“Do you think he likes cookies?” Bora asked as they reached the ground floor.
Taesan chuckled softly. “Maybe. We can ask him if we make some this weekend.”
Bora grinned, and for a moment, the weight on Taesan’s shoulders felt a little lighter.
The drive to Bora’s school was filled with spelling words.
“Spell ‘important,’” Taesan said, glancing at Bora in the rearview mirror.
“Easy! I-M-P-O-R-T-A-N-T,” she replied confidently.
“Good. How about ‘happiness’?”
“H-A-P-P-I-N-E-S-S,” she said, adding, “like when we bake cookies this weekend.”
Taesan chuckled. “Exactly.”
When they reached the school, Bora unbuckled her seatbelt and leaned over to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Bye, Appa. Don’t work too hard today!”
“I’ll try not to,” he replied with a small smile.
She hopped out of the car and ran toward a group of her friends, her laughter mixing with the hum of children’s voices on the schoolyard. Taesan watched her go, his heart swelling with pride. Bora was so strong, so full of life despite everything she’d been through. She was his reminder that, even in the face of loss, there could still be joy.
As she disappeared into the school building, Taesan took a deep breath and pulled away from the curb, heading toward his own workplace.
Music had always been his passion. Growing up, Taesan had spent countless hours with a guitar in his lap, experimenting with melodies and writing lyrics in the margins of his school notebooks. Music was where he could express himself, where he felt most alive.
When he met Eunha, she became his muse. She would sit beside him, listening intently as he played new pieces, her head resting on his shoulder. Her encouragement had pushed him to pursue a career as a music producer, and her memory lingered in every corner of his studio.
The studio was modest but functional, tucked away in a quiet building downtown. As he rode the elevator to the top floor, Taesan mentally prepared himself for the day ahead. The studio wasn’t just his creative space; it was where he produced music for clients, mixing tracks and helping artists bring their visions to life.
He unlocked the door and stepped inside. The familiar scent of coffee and soundproofing foam greeted him, along with the sight of his desk cluttered with audio equipment and notebooks. He set his bag down and slid into his chair, facing the screen of his computer.
Today, he had no clients scheduled. It was a day for creating something new—something of his own.
Taesan placed his fingers on the keys of his MIDI keyboard, his mind searching for inspiration. But as the minutes stretched into an hour, he realized he was just going through the motions. He tapped out a melody, layered some chords, and added a drum loop, but nothing clicked. The music felt hollow, like it was missing a soul.
He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. It had been a long time since he’d written anything meaningful. The last song he’d truly poured his heart into had been for Eunha. She had loved it, calling it “their song,” and they’d danced to it in their living room while Bora toddled around them.
But since Eunha’s death, the well of inspiration had run dry. Taesan had tried everything to reignite his creativity—reading poetry, listening to classic love songs, even watching romance movies—but it wasn’t the same.
Music, for him, had always been tied to feeling. And without Eunha, he felt like he’d lost the thread that connected him to the emotions he used to channel into his work.
He picked up a notebook from the corner of his desk, flipping through old lyrics. Most of them were love songs, written in the early days of his relationship with Eunha. The words felt distant now, like relics from another life.
Setting the notebook aside, Taesan leaned forward and stared at the blank screen on his computer.
“You told me to find happiness,” he murmured to himself, thinking of Eunha’s last words. “But I don’t even know where to start.”
The studio was quiet, save for the faint hum of the equipment. Taesan glanced out the window, watching the city bustle below. Somewhere out there, people were falling in love, chasing dreams, and creating memories. He wondered if he’d ever feel that kind of spark again.
With a sigh, he turned back to his keyboard and tried another melody.
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Sungho stretched out on his couch, his legs sprawled as he let his head fall back against the cushions. The last box was finally empty, its contents either shelved, folded, or tucked away. He looked around his new apartment, a small but cozy space that already reflected his personality. His bookshelf was neatly arranged, lined with architecture books and his favorite novels, while his two beloved film posters hung proudly on the wall—Interstellar, with its vast, haunting imagery of space, and Dead Poets Society, a reminder of the beauty and fragility of human connection.
The faint aroma of freshly unpacked cardboard still lingered in the air, mixing with the soft citrus scent of the candle he’d lit earlier. The place was quiet, but it was a good quiet—a peaceful one. For the first time in a while, Sungho felt like he could breathe.
He walked over to his small Bluetooth speaker on the kitchen counter, scrolling through his playlist until he found the song he wanted. The opening notes filled the room, soft and familiar. As the melody unfolded, Sungho let the music wrap around him like an old friend. Without thinking, he began singing along, his voice low but steady, a habit he allowed himself only when he was alone.
Music had always been a comfort to him, a way to express what words couldn’t. He sang as he moved through the apartment, tidying up stray papers and adjusting picture frames. His voice filled the empty space, mingling with the sunlight streaming through the windows.
The ping of his phone interrupted the moment, and Sungho grabbed it off the counter.
Jaehyun: So? How’s the new place? Have you already turned it into a film shrine?
A second text came through almost immediately.
Riwoo: Is it comfortable enough for us to crash there? Dibs on the couch.
Sungho smiled, shaking his head at his two best friends.
Sungho: The place is nice. Small, but it works. And no, you’re not crashing here. It’s my quiet sanctuary.
Jaehyun: Quiet sanctuary? Sounds like someone’s being dramatic. You moved because you needed a reset, not to become a hermit.
Sungho’s smile faded slightly at the mention of why he’d moved. His apartment downtown had been too intertwined with memories of Eui—his ex-boyfriend, whose once-charming demeanor had become something toxic.
Sungho hadn’t thought about Eui in months. Not really. Moving here was supposed to be his way of leaving it all behind—the suffocating memories, the fear, the ache of what once felt like love but turned into something darker.
They had met in college, in what now felt like another lifetime. Sungho had been in his second year, scrambling to reach for a book on the top shelf of the library when it almost collapsed onto him. A tall, broad-shouldered stranger had swooped in at the last second, steadying the books before they tumbled.
“Got it,” the stranger had said with a smile, his deep voice soft and reassuring. His kind eyes, framed by thick lashes, crinkled as he handed the book to Sungho.
“Thank you,” Sungho had stammered, adjusting his glasses and feeling more flustered than he should have.
“No problem. You should ask for help next time, though.”
“I didn’t want to bother anyone.”
“It’s not a bother,” the stranger said, extending a hand. “I’m Eui, by the way.”
“Sungho.” He shook Eui’s hand, his nerves settling at the other man’s warm demeanor.
Their conversation continued, easy and natural, until Eui suggested grabbing coffee at the campus café. Over shared laughter and the bitter taste of cheap espresso, a connection began. From that day on, they were inseparable—or so it seemed.
At first, Eui’s protectiveness had felt like care. He’d insist on walking Sungho home late at night, keeping him close during crowded events, and ensuring he always had what he needed. It felt nice, even comforting, to have someone look out for him.
But as time passed, Eui’s protectiveness began to smother him.
He’d frown if Sungho wore anything that might “draw attention,” insisting it was for his safety. A casual crop top that Sungho once wore to a picnic with friends led to an hour-long argument. Eui had sneered, “Why would you wear that? Do you want people to stare at you like a piece of meat?”
Worse were the small controls Eui began to impose. He hated Sungho’s friends—Jaehyun and Riwoo—claiming they were “bad influences.” Whenever Sungho spent time with them, Eui would pout or become cold, eventually escalating to taking Sungho’s phone and impersonating him in texts to keep them away.
By the time Sungho realized how deep the manipulation ran, it was too late. He was already ensnared.
The breaking point came during their final year of college. Sungho had worn the crop top again—not to spite Eui, but because he loved it and hadn’t wanted to feel ashamed of himself. Eui’s reaction had been swift and terrifying. He yelled, his voice booming in their shared dorm room, calling Sungho names he never thought he’d hear from someone who claimed to love him.
“You’re disgusting,” Eui had spat, his face red with anger. “Do you even care about how you look? No one wants to see that!”
Sungho was frozen, his breath shallow and his hands trembling.
From there, the aggression escalated. At first, it was the yelling. Then came the days when Eui would grip Sungho’s arms too tightly, leaving bruises he would later blame on Sungho’s “clumsiness.”
The final straw was the night Sungho tried to leave. They’d graduated, and Eui insisted they move into an apartment together. Sungho had thought maybe distance from the pressures of college would improve things, but it only made Eui’s control tighten.
When Sungho packed a bag and tried to walk out, Eui snapped. He shoved Sungho against the wall, pinning him there with his full weight.
“You think anyone else will want you? Look at yourself,” Eui had hissed, his grip bruising Sungho’s arms. His other hand lashed out, leaving a bruise on Sungho’s cheek. “You’re ugly. Pathetic. No one’s going to take you now.”
Sungho had sobbed in silence that night, curled up on the bathroom floor.
The night Sungho left was etched into his memory like a scene from a movie—only it wasn’t glamorous or thrilling. It was terrifying. But it was also the night his friends proved just how far they would go to save him.
After Eui had stormed out for his night shift, Jaehyun and Riwoo arrived with military precision. Sungho had called them earlier that day, his voice barely above a whisper as he explained what had happened and begged for their help. They didn’t hesitate.
When they showed up, they parked a block away, not wanting to risk Eui seeing the car.
“You’re getting out tonight,” Riwoo had said firmly when Sungho opened the window. His voice was low but steady, a stark contrast to the sheer panic on Sungho’s face. “Grab your essentials and leave the rest. We’ll buy you whatever you need later.”
“Do you think he’ll come back early?” Sungho whispered, his voice trembling.
“He won’t,” Jaehyun assured him, though the tense line of his jaw betrayed his worry. “And if he does, we’ll handle it. But we’re not leaving without you.”
Sungho hesitated, fear keeping him frozen for a moment. The bruises on his arms and the ache in his cheek from Eui’s latest outburst were sharp reminders of what could happen if he got caught.
“Come on, Sungho,” Riwoo urged. “You deserve better than this. Trust us. We’ve got you.”
With shaking hands, Sungho grabbed his backpack and hastily filled it with whatever he could: his wallet, a few changes of clothes, his laptop, and a photo of his parents. The rest didn’t matter.
When he reached the living room window, he saw Riwoo waiting below while Jaehyun helped guide him from the fire escape.
“I can’t believe we’re breaking you out of here like this,” Jaehyun muttered, half-joking as he steadied Sungho on the ledge. “I feel like I’m in some low-budget spy film.”
Sungho couldn’t bring himself to laugh, but he appreciated Jaehyun’s attempt to lighten the mood.
The moment his feet hit the pavement below, Riwoo grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the car. “We’re getting you out of here, no matter what.”
Sungho glanced back at the apartment, half expecting to see Eui storming toward them. But the windows were dark, and the street was silent save for their hurried footsteps.
They drove to Riwoo’s place, where Sungho spent the next few months recovering. His friends didn’t push him to talk, but they didn’t leave him alone either. They filled the silence with casual chatter, movie nights, and late-night takeout runs, reminding Sungho that he wasn’t alone anymore.
When he finally felt ready, they helped him find a new apartment—a modest one-bedroom in a quieter part of town.
“This place is perfect for you,” Jaehyun had said during the tour. “It’s peaceful, and no one knows you here. You can start fresh.”
“And the best part,” Riwoo added with a grin, “is that we’re just a call away. If you need us, we’ll be here in minutes.”
Sungho had nodded, swallowing back tears. He didn’t have the words to thank them, but they understood.
Now, a year later, he was sitting in his new apartment, surrounded by the life he was rebuilding. The scars Eui left behind—both physical and emotional—still lingered, but Sungho was determined to move forward.
Riwoo: Well, don’t get too comfortable alone. We’ll drag you out soon.
Sungho: If you drag me out, Jaehyun’s paying.
Jaehyun: Deal. But seriously, Sungho, how’s everything? You settling in okay?
Sungho hesitated before replying. He appreciated their concern, but he didn’t want to dwell on the past.
Sungho: It’s good. Quiet, peaceful—just what I needed. Don’t worry about me.
With that, he set his phone down and looked around the room. The apartment was modest, but it was starting to feel like his. The unpacking had been grueling—his stamina wasn’t exactly stellar—but he’d powered through. Now, everything was in its place.
He leaned back on the couch, letting out a long sigh of relief. As the music shifted to another song, his mind drifted to this morning’s brief encounter.
He’d been at his door, unpacking a box of books, when he’d heard the hurried patter of footsteps in the hallway. Turning slightly, he’d caught sight of them—a tall man and a little girl.
The man had immediately drawn Sungho’s attention. He was broad-shouldered and striking, with dark hair that fell slightly over his forehead. There was something about the way he carried himself—rushed, yes, but protective, as though the little girl beside him was his whole world.
The girl had been giggling, her backpack bouncing as she tried to keep up with him. The way she clung to his hand and called out to him with such ease spoke of a bond Sungho couldn’t help but admire.
And yet, as curious as he was, Sungho had quickly turned away, pretending to focus on his unpacking. He didn’t want to seem nosy, nor did he want to invite any awkward conversations before he was ready. But even now, sitting alone in his living room, the image of the man and his daughter lingered in his mind.
“Stop it,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. He had moved here for a fresh start, not to get tangled in someone else’s life.
Still, he couldn’t ignore the faint curiosity tugging at him. Who were they? What was their story?
Sungho sighed, leaning back into the couch cushions. He didn’t have answers, and maybe he didn’t need them. For now, all he could do was settle into his new life—and hope, quietly, that this fresh start would bring him the peace he’d been searching for.