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Oh, what a young soul.
A deep sigh escaped from the old woman, and tears followed right after it.
Her hair was too white, all of it; it suited her sagging brown skin. Her lips were thin, and she wore a pure black hanbok.
Overall, she looked pretty. Angelic.
Her weak limbs didn't seem to support her weight for too long, so she settled in the mourning room by sitting on the floor, back supported by the cold wall.
And then, she wept.
Na Baekjin, a boy with few words and heavy actions.
He was the same age as her son. Seventeen.
Baekjin used to enjoy her handmade meals a lot—thanking her with stuff she needed. He always noticed whenever she was short on something, bringing it with a small smile.
Her body felt like air from all the crying.
Hours passed. In the afternoon, she stayed in the same place, sitting silently, admiring the boy she used to call “son.”
And he would used look at her with longing and wide eyes.
The picture was too formal for a funeral, plain and filled with gloom.
And then, students started to arrive—from his school, probably.
Some cried, some paid their respects, others looked at the old woman with pity—thinking of her as Baekjin's family.
She would let them think this way.
With each minute passing, another kid would arrive—a girl with pretty hair and a round face cried a lot.
“You never replied to my letter. I'll miss you a lot,” heard between her broken sobs.
And then two tall boys—with no black uniforms—entered, with faces that were painted with regret, guilt, and sadness.
They didn't shed a tear.
Just stood with no movement. Shortly after that, four boys with neat uniforms came running—the bulky one was sobbing loudly, screamed two or three times.
His best friend, maybe.
That's what the old woman thought.
The other three stood, giving flowers, nodding silently, and letting their tears soak their faces.
The taller one was still weeping loudly, each sound more painful than the previous.
He continued to whisper, “I am sorry! Jinna, I am s-sorry.”
She studied everything with great sorrow.
They were there for hours. The two boys with no uniforms left after two hours.
The bulky friend was dragged by his pals.
And then no one came. She looked at her worn-out watch; it was past five in the evening.
She figured no one would come.
But then heavy footsteps’ sound entered her weak ears.
She looked up at the tall boy who had just entered. His glasses were large, neatly set.
He didn't provide any glance to her, like all others did.
He stood there for some minutes, in his brighter red jacket.
And then, with a loud sound, he let his body fall on his knees. The grandma was about to check up on the kid, was sure there was a crack from one of his knees.
The boy looked the same age as Baekjin.
His shoulders drooped naturally. Face down, so she couldn't read his eyes.
But she did notice his trembling body—was he suffering from a fever? Why was he shaking so much?
Minutes passed painfully; the woman didn't dare to utter any words. She wanted to comfort the boy, but she was unsure what was happening to him.
He was shivering badly, his knuckles white from the fist he had.
And then, with slow steps, he crawled on his knees. He crawled until he was right in front of the sacred photo.
She watched with a careful gaze.
Her body gave a flinch as loud, sharp noises filled the room.
The boy—he was slapping himself, hard, painfully. No mercy in those hands.
He slapped and didn't stop, so she had to pull her weight on her feet and come to him.
The brown-haired young man had no intention to stop; his right cheek was bloody red.
“Son,” she whispered her word, tried to hold his moving hand, but her sickly body didn't have much in it to stop the fast and strong movements.
“Stop,” she tried again.
But it looked like the words didn't seem to reach him.
“Son, you can bleed, stop!” With firmer words, she again tried to stop the hand but failed. He gave her a slight push.
“Would Baekjin like seeing you do this at his funeral?” His hands stopped in the air, face still looking at Baekjin's lifeless photo.
“Mind your business,” he finally spoke, and the old woman had enough experience in her long life to recognize how lifeless his voice sounded.
No anger was there.
“Mourn him properly.” And with that, she went back to her place.
She watched the boy move, take the corner in the room, and sit leaning on the wall.
She finally got to see his eyes through those glasses.
A sob broke from her throat when she finally looked at those dead eyes.
Like they didn't see anything, his face hung with so much sorrow, not even he was aware of the picture he was giving to the old woman.
The old soul understood.
The boy didn't just have the same age as Baekjin, but a fate too.
He looked just as lonely as Baekjin—like someone who was left on his own before he even learned to put his foot in the world.
He noticed her staring at him, so he hid his face in his legs, which were bent sharply—pulled towards his face.
He hid himself like a child who was sulking at his parents for leaving him alone to go to the market.
This young fellow was weird.
He didn't cry at all.
Time passed, both of them not moving from their positions.
The woman was busy revisiting Baekjin's moments with her.
How he would bow to her with firm politeness, carry her bags before going upstairs to his own apartment, fix her electronics, buy her medicines even when she begged him not to do it. He even put reminders on her phone for when she had to take her meds.
And he was a brilliant student—someone who could go and touch the sky with his hard work and determination.
Oh, what a cruel fate he was born with.
Her thoughts were halted by a noise. It was thick, the same as a dog makes when he is hit with a stick.
It came from the body sitting in the corner.
Another noise, this time sharper.
He was shaking badly, his face buried in, hands wrapping around knees tightly. He looked like he wanted to disappear.
Suddenly, those small, short noises became louder, longer, heavier.
He began weeping badly—each sob tearing his throat. The old woman’s eyes widened.
She was taken aback.
No young man cries like this.
Only kids—children and dogs do that.
He had the same tone as her son when he was five years old and cried over something like the world was collapsing on him.
Hic, another loud sob.
He sounded like he didn't know how to cry.
It reminded her of a lost child who was crying restlessly, looking for his mother.
He was muttering some words between sobs that she couldn't comprehend.
But the crying didn't stop; it became louder and more painful.
Sniffs after sniffs.
He didn't even try to suppress his voice, didn't pull his head up as well.
She gave him time to let go of all the pain and sorrow.
But his weeping sound was too painful for a mother's heart.
He seemed like he needed someone to come and hug him.
So she did.
She leaned towards the sitting poor baby, carefully placed her hand on his back. He didn't acknowledge her, didn't stop weeping.
He wept like a small child or a small puppy.
Her heart broke for him.
She slowly hugged the curled body, circling her hand on his back.
Then, he finally pulled his head out to peek at her. His eyes were swollen, red.
“God takes the best people first because he doesn't want them to suffer in this cruel world.” And just like that, he broke down again.
“Baek-he-I” Not one sentence was he finishing. Every word stuck in his throat.
She hugged him tightly when she felt his hands releasing the grip and wrapping themselves around her.
He wanted the hug but didn't know what to do. So, she hugged him tighter, like how a mother would when her lost child was found after hours of searching.
She cried with him, but her voice was suppressing his louder sound.
“I-he called—” an ugly sound ripped from his throat.
“Hm? Let it all out, son.” she encouraged. Grief doesn't leave your body until you acknowledge it.
The little boy’s neck was soaked in tears.
“He call-ed, told me-sob-to live.” Grandma let out a loud sob herself hearing those words.
Those were probably his last words, for his young friend at least.
“Then live,” she patted his back, his face a sobbing mess on her shoulder.
“Live just like how Baekjin wanted.”
“I can't.” His mouth fell open as he started weeping again, cruel. His voice was cruel in her ears.
“Baekjin-ah, what would I do without him, halmeoni?”
“Your life is young, don't try to give up,” her voice was soft, comforting as she tried to comfort the weeping child in her arms.
“I ca-nt.” She closed her eyes at his defeated words. “Baekjin, he was—” he trembled as he tried to find the words, “was the only one for me.” Those were his words.
“Oh, poor baby.” She cried with him.
For the whole night, they sat there, past three in the night. Seongje—the name of the boy—lay down in her lap as she slowly massaged his forehead.
-
The morning arrived.
It arrived with grief and pain. Seongje was awake; he appeared hollow. She refused to leave him on his own. It was clear he had no one.
So she took him with her. He didn't resist but didn't say yes either. He just followed her steps in great silence.
She gave him her son's clothes, which were slightly tight for him. She told him he was abroad and Seongje could stay as long as he wanted.
Seongje didn't reply.
Now he sat on her son's bed, the room given by her. And as night loomed over the sky, he let himself sink into the mattress, pulling out his phone and opening a very specific gallery.
-
She made a hot soup of vegetables, her own recipe, rice with grilled meat, and salad.
She figured he wouldn't reply to her knock, so she entered the room with “I am coming in!”
The room was dark, a trace of light. She looked at the boy's figure on the bed with sadness.
He was asleep.
She placed the tray on the small table, didn't have the heart to wake him, but she had to; he was on an empty stomach for more than a day.
“Seongje-ah, son.” Her soft calls had no effect on the sleeping body. She noticed a phone on the bedsheet. Its screen wasn't black, showing a video paused.
She grabbed it with shaky hands, didn't want to touch the play button, but she did.
She actually started the video from the start.
The camera was shaking.
“Why are you filming?” It showed Baekjin in his house; she figured the cameraman was Seongje.
The video played.
“No, fuck! I have to put proof of a very innocent-looking Baekjin.” Seongje’s laughter echoed in Baekjin's small apartment; it was never filled with heavy or wide furniture or equipment. Neither was his room.
It looked like they were in Baekjin's room.
Baekjin looked younger, fresh from his earlier shower, hair down like any other young boy.
He appeared annoyed but didn't try to stop Seongje after another attempt to snatch his phone away.
“Why do you record everything when we are alone?” Baekjin mindlessly asked as he grabbed a t-shirt to put on.
“You never know when I'll die.” With those words, Baekjin's moment seemed to halt, his fingers stopping where he was fixing his shirt. “You won't die before me.”
“Bastard, I said you never know!”
And then they went back to their bickering again, Seongje recording every moment of Baekjin.
Baekjin even cracked a small smile at Seongje's joke; of course, the louder voice of laughter belonged to the glasses boy.
Then, the video cut, restarted at another scene.
Baekjin was sitting on a dining chair, most likely with Seongje, as the angle was from his profile.
“I'll make you cheat on Baku with me after you're married.” To those words, Baekjin gave a chuckle. “I am not marrying Humin.”
“So? You will marry me?” he teased.
Baekjin's hand didn't stop from where he was cutting steak and putting it on Seongje's plate—Seongje recorded that too.
“Hm, depends. Will you wear a gown?” Baekjin joked.
“Fuck no! Just marry that dumbass.” Baekjin gave a fond chuckle.
Silence passed. The voices of plates and forks were the only ones.
Then, with a quiet tone, Seongje asked, “Will you stop chasing Baku if I wore that gown?”
-
The grandma stopped it there—feeling like she violated their privacy a little too much.
She didn't know who Baku was.
Her thumb accidentally clicked back, taking her to the album.
It was filled with Baekjin's photos and videos.
She gave one last look at the boy, deciding to let him sleep some more.
She took her tray in hand again, put down the phone back where it was, and left the dark room.
Indeed, God was cruel every so often