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The afternoon sunlight poured through the sheer living room curtains, casting a golden halo over the floor where tiny feet danced in mismatched socks.
Chan had turned the rug into his personal stage—two wolf plushies as his audience, a wooden spoon as his mic, and his sparkly sunglasses slightly askew on his face.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he declared with a dramatic bow, "the rockstar prince is HERE!"
No one else was home. Changbin was out for groceries, Jisung was still at the office, and Hyunjin was folding laundry upstairs, trusting that her son's version of 'quiet playtime' wouldn't burn the house down.
So naturally, Chan took full creative liberty with his performance. He jumped on the couch, belting out made-up lyrics to a melody only he could hear:
"Twinkle cake! Strawberry skies... Channie knows a train that never sleeps!"
He stomped, twirled, and did a dramatic knee slide that ended halfway because he tripped on a cushion. Undeterred, he stood again and bowed to his stuffed wolf doll.
Now he needed real music.
His eyes sparkled when he saw his father's guitar resting beside the bookshelf. It wasn't locked away—just leaning gently against the wall, still in its soft black case.
Dada always played songs for him and Binnie and Mumma with it. And for the whole family too.
So surely, he could too.
"I'll just play it a little," he whispered to no one, reaching for the handle. The moment his tiny hands pulled, the guitar tipped. He panicked and tried to hold it—but his grip slipped, and—
CRASH!!
The guitar fell sideways against the coffee table with a hard thunk and then slid down to the floor.
Silence.
Chan stood frozen. His heart pounded like a drum inside his chest.
The concert sunglasses slipped off his face and landed on the rug with a soft plop. "Oh no," he whispered.
He tiptoed toward it and knelt, inspecting the instrument with trembling fingers. One of the tuning knobs had cracked. The wood near the edge was slightly chipped. Nothing completely broken... but definitely not how it was before.
It wasn't just any guitar. That cherry-wood acoustic had been a birthday gift from Uncle Min to Chan's Dada, who'd planned it for months and custom-ordered it with Jisung's initials etched into the back.
It was one of Jisung's most cherished things, not just because it sounded beautiful, but because it had come from his younger brother—wrapped in loud paper and handed over with a proud grin that day in the park, where Jisung had immediately played a song under the open sky.
This wasn't like the time he snuck ice cream with Yongbok before dinner, or when he accidentally spilled juice on his Mumma's favorite pillow. No, this was bigger.
This was Dada's favorite guitar—the one he cleaned like it was a baby, the one he played lullabies on, the one he kissed on the headstock and called "Peter" like it was a real person.
Chan's little heart thumped hard in his chest. He knew—really knew—this was a serious problem.
A real, grown-up kind of trouble.
Tears welled in his eyes. Dada loved this guitar. "Oh no oh no oh no..." His lips quivered.
His first instinct was to run to Mumma—but that meant telling.
No. Maybe if she just... hid it? Maybe Dada would think it was a ghost. Or maybe the guitar would heal itself like magic overnight.
"I ruined Dada's Peter. I'm not a good son," he whispered to himself, slowly dragging the soft case closer. His fingers clumsily tucked the damaged guitar back in and zipped it up—though not quite all the way. He scooted it behind the couch, out of sight.
Then he sat down, cross-legged, hands in his lap, staring at the floor.
His concert was over.
And his heart was full of guilt.
By the time Hyunjin came downstairs, Chan had already abandoned his stage and was curled up on the couch like a tiny, quiet ball. His glitter sunglasses were gone. His plushies had fallen over mid-show. The living room was unusually still.
Hyunjin paused on the last step. "Channie?" the woman asked, and Chan didn't even lift his head. "Are you tired already, baby? You didn't nap..."
Chan peeked up and gave the smallest nod, eyes round and too still for his usual post-performance sparkle.
Hyunjin tilted her head. Something was off. But before she could ask more, the front door opened with a creak, and a familiar cheerful voice called out: "I'm hoooome!"
Jisung entered, balancing grocery bags in both hands and wearing a goofy smile only a dad on a snack run could manage. Changbin followed him with ease, now that the grocery bags were in safe hands.
"Dada!" Chan squeaked on instinct—then immediately shrank back, guilt flashing like a neon sign across his face.
Jisung blinked. "Well, that's not your usual running-hug greeting." He glanced between his wife and son as he set the bags down. "Did I miss something?"
"No idea," Hyunjin murmured, coming over to kiss his cheek. "He's been quiet ever since I came down."
"Hmm." Jisung knelt beside the couch and poked at Chan's cheek gently. "What's going on, buddy? Did your tea party with Bokkie not go well?"
"I wasn't having tea..." he muttered. Jisung narrowed his eyes.
"No tea party?"
"No..."
"No concert today?"
Chan shook his head. "No."
"Not even one chorus of Channie's sleepless train?" Jisung asked again, watching Changbin shrug his shoulders before going upstairs to change. A tiny huff escaped Chan's lips, the closest thing to a laugh—but his eyes didn't meet his.
Jisung frowned. "You sure you're okay?"
Hyunjin joined them with a sippy cup and sat on the other side of the couch. "Baby, you know you can tell us anything. Did something happen?"
Chan curled further into the cushions, the guilt clawing bigger in his chest. His thumb moved to his mouth, something he hadn't done in months, but he quickly caught himself and dropped it.
"No," he whispered. But even he didn't believe it.
That evening, the house glowed with warmth: stovetop soup bubbling, soft music from the kitchen speaker, the rustle of Hyunjin's robe as she moved around, and Jisung softly humming a lullaby out of habit.
And yet... Chan remained quiet.
He pushed his rice around on his plate. He didn't ask for popsicles. He didn't even protest when Changbin stayed late playing games, which raised serious suspicion in his parents' minds.
Later that night, after tucking him in, Hyunjin lingered by her son's bedside. She brushed loose strands of hair off Chan's forehead and kissed his temple.
"I love you, baby."
Chan didn't answer at first. Then, in a teeny voice: "Even if I did something bad?"
Hyunjin paused, her heart folding in two. She smiled softly. "Always, darling. Even then."
Another pause. But the confession didn't come—not yet. Instead, Chan turned his face into his pillow and whispered, "Night-night."
Hyunjin turned off the light, her heart a little heavier than before. Downstairs, she found Jisung tuning the ukulele instead of his usual guitar. Her eyes narrowed.
"Why not your guitar?" she asked.
Jisung shrugged. "I couldn't find it earlier. Thought maybe you moved it for cleaning or something?"
Hyunjin blinked. No. She hadn't touched it. The two exchanged a look.
And upstairs, Chan squeezed his eyes shut under the blanket, the lump in his chest bigger than ever.
The morning sunlight filtered through the curtains in golden strips, casting sleepy patterns across the kitchen tiles.
Jisung was already making pancakes—his famous strawberry swirl ones. Hyunjin had her hair in a soft bun, humming quietly as she organized the mugs. Changbin was out, practicing, determined to win gold in the next match.
Chan sat at the table in his usual seat, legs swinging. But his plate remained untouched.
Jisung set down a tiny bunny-shaped pancake on Chan's plate and ruffled his hair. "What's this, my rockstar's lost his appetite?"
Chan blinked at the pancake. His eyes burned. "Dada?" he called in a tiny voice.
"Yeah, buddy?"
Chan stared at his plate, hands clenched in his lap. "I... I have to tell you something."
Both parents paused. Hyunjin turned from the shelf, and Jisung slowly lowered the spatula.
Chan's bottom lip wobbled. "I broke it," he sniffled. "Your guitar. I—I was playing a concert and I just wanted to pretend and then it fell, and I was scared and I didn't mean to, and I—"
Jisung blinked.
"I put it behind the couch," he added, voice cracking. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to be bad. I am a bad child."
The room was silent for a moment, only broken by the quiet sizzle of batter still on the pan.
Then—
"Oh, baby," Hyunjin said, walking over and kneeling beside the boy. She cupped Chan's cheeks, wiping the tears with her thumbs. "You're not bad."
"Channie," Jisung said, sitting down next to them, his hand on the boy's small shoulder. "Thank you for telling us. That was very, very brave."
"But you love that guitar," Chan whispered, shame still dripping from every word. "Uncle Min gave it."
Jisung smiled gently. "I do love it. But I love you more."
Hyunjin pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Mistakes happen. What matters is you were honest."
Chan sniffled again. "I wanted to fix it, but I don't know how..."
Hyunjin smiled. "Well... then maybe we can fix it together."
Jisung clapped his hands. "With glue. And wolf stickers! And glitter!"
Chan's eyes widened. "Really?"
"Absolutely. It'll be the fanciest, sparkliest guitar ever," Hyunjin said with a wink.
"And we'll call it Sparkling Peter," Jisung added dramatically. "Version 2.0."
A watery giggle escaped Chan's throat, and he threw his arms around both his parents, burying his face in Jisung's hoodie. They held him close, one hand rubbing soft circles on his back, the other smoothing his hair.
The guilt that had weighed him down finally lifted—and in its place bloomed warmth.
By late afternoon, the kitchen table had been completely taken over by repair operations. Newspapers were spread out like a crime scene, a small bottle of wood glue stood center stage, and beside it—open and threatening—was Hyunjin's emergency craft box.
Chan stood at the head of the table with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, safety scissors in hand like a commander preparing for battle.
Jisung gently brought out the guitar from behind the couch. Everyone paused like it was some holy relic.
"Alright, team," he said solemnly. "We can rebuild Mr. Peter."
"Stronger," Hyunjin chimed in, holding up pink glitter glue like a scalpel.
"Prettier," Chan added, sticking his tongue out in concentration.
"Cooler," Changbin added, determined.
It started gently. A dab of glue. A sticker here, a sprinkle of glitter there. Then chaos.
Changbin almost glued his own thumb to the neck of the guitar; Jisung accidentally glittered his own eyebrow. Chan glued a flower sticker over the cracked part and then drew a smiley face beside it.
"To make it happy again," he explained softly, leaning on his mother.
By the time they finished, the guitar had become an explosion of personality: polka-dot stickers, wolf stickers, glitter swirls, a wolf drawing in one corner, and even a pink ribbon tied around the tuning knob.
Jisung strummed it once. The sound was slightly off—but still sweet. "I think he sings in glitter now," he said.
"He's magical," Changbin whispered proudly.
Hyunjin laughed, brushing a smear of gold off her cheek. "I think this is officially the only guitar in the world repaired with love, apology, and six wolf stickers."
That night, the new-and-improved "Peter 2.0" found its home on the wall above Chan's bed—per his request.
Just until he felt braver again.
"I won't hide anymore," he whispered as Hyunjin tucked him in. "Even if I break one of Mumma's paintbrushes."
Hyunjin smiled and kissed his forehead. "That's my brave boy."
Jisung leaned over and pinky-linked with him. "Promise?"
"Promise."
As his eyes fluttered closed, Jisung and Hyunjin stood quietly at the door, watching their son fall asleep beneath the soft glow of the fairy lights, with the glitter-covered guitar watching over him.
And though the crack on the wood remained... somehow, it looked more beautiful now than ever before.