It had been four days.
Four days since Ji-ho had seen him.
And that in itself was strange. Odd, even. Because Jung Hyun-seok always passed by the storefront at least once a week. Sometimes more. Sometimes just to wave, sometimes to drop off a hot drink from the bakery, sometimes to walk him partway home in companionable silence. Always casual, always brief. Never too much. Never too little.
But this week—nothing.
At first, Ji-ho didn't notice. Not properly. He was still emotionally numb from Seo Yoon's breakdown, from her manic confession in the bakery, from the sound of that cursed song she swore haunted her. He'd gone home that day with a mind full of static and a throat that wouldn't clear. There were pieces of her words still lodged in his ears like glass. Blood type O. June 7th. A child declared dead without investigation. The name Ha Eun-ji repeating in his skull like a ticking clock.
He didn't think about Hyun-seok until the next evening.
He looked up from his register at closing time and expected to see the familiar silhouette outside—hands in pockets, head slightly bowed, like he didn't want to disturb anyone. But there was only the empty street. Only the gentle flicker of the streetlamp, swaying in the breeze.
The third day, Ji-ho caught himself lingering by the door after closing. Eyes scanning the sidewalk. Still nothing.
The fourth day, it started to bother him. Not just because Hyun-seok hadn't shown up, but because Ji-ho realised he cared. Not passively. Not distantly. But actively. The kind of care that settled into his chest and made the space feel heavier without the man's quiet presence around.
What if something happened?
No. Don't be dramatic.
He always comes by.
Maybe he got sick. Maybe he's busy. Maybe he just needed space.
Still, his hands were already reaching for his phone.
He opened his messaging app.
Paused.
Typed: [Mr Jung, are you okay?]
Deleted it.
Typed again: [How have you been lately?]
Deleted that too.
Another attempt: [I hope you're alright. Just checking in.]
Backspaced the whole thing.
He exhaled.
Then typed: [Samchon... Are you free today?]
He hovered over the send button.
And pressed it.
The response came seconds later.
[Always. Shall I come get you?]
Ji-ho stared at the screen.
His heart kicked once in his chest.
And for reasons he couldn't explain, his eyes began to sting.
He blinked it away.
Typed: [Yeah. See you soon.]
The car ride was quiet.
Not the suffocating kind. Not the awkward, silenced kind. Just quiet. Like a familiar hum that filled the spaces between breaths. Ji-ho sat in the passenger seat, fingers curled near the window, watching the city glide past.
Hyun-seok didn't speak at first. He didn't need to.
The soft instrumental from the radio played in the background—something old, warm, nostalgic. The opening chords of "너에게 (To You)" by Kim Kwang Seok spilled through the speakers. The type of melody that reminded you of wooden floors and sunlight. Ji-ho wasn't even sure what it was, but it made his muscles loosen.
"New playlist?" Ji-ho asked eventually, voice low but steady.
Hyun-seok chuckled under his breath. "One of my wife's old favourites." He paused, then added, "I actually sang this at a wedding a few months ago."
Ji-ho blinked. "You? You can sing?"
Hyun-seok laughed, eyes still on the road. "Jiho-ya, I'm a great singer. What, you don't believe me?" Without waiting for a reply, he hummed along to the chorus, lips curving at the memory.
Ji-ho nodded slowly. "She has good taste."
Silence again, but softer this time. Less like a pause, more like an exhale.
"You been eating properly?"
Ji-ho smirked. "Samchon, that's rich, coming from you."
Hyun-seok gave him a sideways look. "You're deflecting."
"I'm coping."
They both laughed, and the tension dissolved like sugar into tea.
"You know," Ji-ho said eventually, eyes still on the road, "I don't usually like people."
Hyun-seok raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"
Ji-ho turned slightly. His expression unreadable but genuine. "But I like you, Samchon."
The words dropped like a small pebble into a still lake.
Hyun-seok didn't speak immediately.
He simply smiled.
Not broadly. Not proudly. Just softly.
A smile that carried decades.
He didn't say anything. Just let the road continue.
Ji-ho looked back out the window.
He didn't understand why his chest hurt.
But it wasn't painful. Not exactly.
It just ached in a way that made him want to sit in that car a little longer.
Let the silence carry them.
Let that familiar hum stay just a little more.
He didn't know what he was waiting for.
But maybe, for once, waiting didn't feel so bad.
They didn't plan the day.
It simply unfolded.
Hyun-seok parked near a small shopping district Ji-ho had mentioned once in passing. The kind of place Ji-ho said he liked to walk through but rarely bought anything from. Everything always felt just a little too expensive. Just a little out of reach.
But today, nothing stayed out of reach.
They wandered between shops. A quaint bookstore with uneven shelves. A vintage vinyl shop where the owner played jazz out loud and offered them sweet barley tea. Hyun-seok watched him closely—subtly. Not in the way that pressured, just enough to catch the things Ji-ho thought he hid well. The way his eyes lingered a little too long at a window display.
It wasn't anything extravagant. Just a pair of wireless headphones on sale in a tech shop, a shirt hanging outside a boutique, a sleek watch with a black leather strap.
He didn't say anything, just looked for a little too long before walking past.
Hyun-seok doubled back, pretending to be curious. Ji-ho had already moved ahead, pretending he hadn't looked.
"Jiho-ya," Hyun-seok called casually, handing over the small shopping bag a few minutes later.
Ji-ho blinked. "Wait—what?"
Hyun-seok shrugged. "You kept staring at it. Figured it might help you tune me out better."
Ji-ho flushed, caught between a laugh and protest. "You didn't have to—"
"I know."
Lunch was outside, on a bench by the river. Kimchi Jeon, bokkeumbap, fried chicken, tteokbokki, and canned soda. Ji-ho didn't realise how hungry he was until his stomach growled mid-sentence. Hyun-seok chuckled and pushed more food towards him.
Ji-ho looked at him, eyebrows raised. "Are you secretly rich or something?"
Hyun-seok wiped his hands with a napkin. "I was lucky once."
The words lingered in the air longer than they should have.
Ji-ho didn't push. He just kept eating.
They walked for a while afterwards, shoes crunching against gravel, the wind soft in their hair. Hyun-seok pointed out random things—buildings with terrible architecture, couples wearing matching jumpers, a dog on a leash that clearly hated being on a leash.
Ji-ho laughed more than he had in weeks.
They ended up at a tiny cafe that served dessert in glass jars and coffee with floral notes. Ji-ho sipped his too quickly and burned his tongue. Hyun-seok slid a glass of water toward him, wordlessly.
The sun hung low in the sky by the time they sat side by side on a low concrete ledge overlooking the river.
"This was nice," Ji-ho murmured.
"Yeah," Hyun-seok said quietly. "It was."
Neither of them moved to go. Not yet.
The breeze tugged gently at Ji-ho's hair. His eyes followed the water, but his thoughts were elsewhere.
There was a weight in his chest again.
A familiar ache. One he couldn't name.
The weather was perfect. The sky golden. The river calm.
But something in his bones said this peace wouldn't last.
Still, he let himself have it.
Just for today.
Just for this almost.
A day made of almosts.
The sun began its slow descent. The sky turned soft and water coloured, like someone had painted it with pastels. They found a bench tucked into a quieter part of the path—not too many people, just the occasional cyclist or passer-by. The kind of spot that didn't demand conversation.
Between them sat containers stacked empty beside it. Ji-ho had insisted on carrying the food after they left the small restaurant, claiming he didn't trust Hyun-seok not to spill the sauce.
They drank canned sodas from a nearby vending machine. Ji-ho had gone for orange. Hyun-seok, as always, had chosen plain lemonade.
They sat there, quietly chewing the last few bites. A breeze drifted past them. Ji-ho rested his elbow on the back of the bench, head tilted just slightly toward Hyun-seok.
"You know," he said, voice a little softer than usual, "you remind me of someone. It's weird."
Hyun-seok froze for the briefest second.
Then he smiled. "Good weird or bad weird?"
Ji-ho didn't answer.
His expression stayed unreadable, but something shifted in the set of his jaw. A small furrow formed between his brows. Like he was chasing a memory he couldn't quite catch.
They both stared out at the river.
"Are you rich?" Ji-ho asked suddenly.
It wasn't accusatory. More like curious. Testing.
Hyun-seok chuckled quietly. "You'll find out eventually."
Ji-ho smirked faintly, but didn't push. Something about the way Hyun-seok answered made him think the truth wasn't simple.
A silence fell again. Comfortable, but layered.
Birds flew low over the water. A cyclist rang their bell in the distance. Somewhere, faintly, a child was laughing.
The sun dipped lower.
And Ji-ho found himself thinking—
I don't want this day to end.
But he didn't say it.
As the sky deepened and their drinks turned warm in their hands, Ji-ho shifted slightly, glancing over. "Thanks for today, Samchon."
The word didn't sound casual this time. It sounded like it meant something.
Hyun-seok stared at him for a moment too long. Then he nodded slowly. "Drive safely, Samchon," Ji-ho added, standing up.
Hyun-seok's voice was gentler than usual when he replied, "Get home safely, Ji-ho-yah."
It was Ji-ho's first time he allowed someone to say his name with such softness.
Ji-ho watched the car disappear around the corner after they parted ways.
The car ride home was painted in gold, but nothing about Hyun-seok looked illuminated. His hands gripped the steering wheel like a lifeline, knuckles pale against the leather. The radio, still set to the same station, hummed quietly with the remnants of The Letter by Kim Kwang Jin. The sound was warm, familiar, but his eyes were flooded.
He didn't blink them away.
The city blurred around him, faces passing by in flashes, laughter echoing in the distance, but all of it was muffled. As if he were underwater. As if the world no longer had the right volume.
Flashbacks crept in like echoes of a better life:
Soo-min on his shoulders at the beach, sticky fingers gripping his ears, laughing so hard he couldn't breathe.
Ji-hyeon at the dining table, sketching plans muttering about lighting and elevation.
Their large living room filled with cushions and cartoons and sunlight—Soo-min pretending to be a superhero, Ji-hyeon laughing at them both from the hallway.
He remembered Ji-hyeon singing in the kitchen.
He remembered tucking Soo-min into bed.
He remembered being a man with a future.
Now, he was just a man holding onto fragments.
"Just a little longer," Hyun-seok whispered to the wheel, voice cracked from the pressure. "Just a little longer."
The car turned quietly into another street. This time, he didn't go home.
He drove instead to the old park—where he once pushed Soo-min on the swing until the sun set behind the trees. Then to the corner bookstore where Ji-hyeon would sit and flip through architecture magazines while waiting for him after meetings. Then to the quiet street where their first apartment still stood, empty now, but still echoing with the ghosts of their beginnings.
He walked each path slowly, as if memorising the cracks in the pavement.
At the river's edge, he sat alone on a bench. The same one Ji-ho had rested against days earlier.
This time, there was no laughter. Only silence.
He entered the house like a stranger—soft steps, quiet breath.
In his study, he opened a drawer that hadn't been touched in years.
Letters. Dozens of them.
Some addressed to Ji-hyeon.
Some to Soo-min.
None ever sent.
He read a few. Smiled once. Then, with steady fingers, he picked up a pen and began writing anew.
One for Ji-hyeon—thanking her for loving him, giving birth to their son, forgiving him for not finding Soo-min in time.
One for Soo-min—telling him how proud he was. How sorry. How much he still sees his smile in every sunrise.
One for Halmeoni—short, restrained, but gentle. "Thank you. For her. For everything."
He folded each one with care. Placed Ji-hyeon's inside her old notebook. Soo-min's inside the music box he used to play with. Halmeoni's was sealed and tucked behind the family photo in the hallway.
Then he sat down in the quiet again.
Tears broke past the barriers he'd built. His chest heaved quietly as he sat by himself in the dark, letting the grief pour out in full.
Every memory. Every word. Every moment he'd never get back.
It was not just sadness. It was a farewell.
Not to life. But to the dream that they could return to what they once had.
"Just a little longer," he whispered again.
But even he didn't believe it now.