The news didn't break with fanfare. It was a small article. Hidden between stories about the weather and a local politician's affair. But the headline lingered just long enough on a late-night scroll to ripple through the city.
"Missing Person Case Reopened After 17 Years. Identity Confidential." Police had confirmed it quietly—a biometric match, they said. An adult admitted under a different name had triggered a dormant report. The name wasn't released. But the city remembered.
Whispers. Murmurs.
"The boy that man always protested about..."
"Wasn't he always standing outside near the pharmacy and that bakery?"
"Wait… you mean the bakery guy? The one who always had those flyers?"
"Oh my God. It was real."
By the time Ji-ho walked into Euncheonscription the next morning, the air was dense. Like everyone knew, but no one knew what to say.
He'd come in silently. Head low. The folder still tucked inside his coat.
His manager, Ms. Shin Gayoung, didn't say anything at first. Just watched from across the room. Watched Ji-ho move like a ghost through the space. Watched his hands shake as he filled a cup of water. Watched the way he stared at the espresso machine like it might remember him.
Then Manager Shin approached, gently.
"Jiho-ssi."
No answer.
"Jiho-ssi. Please sit."
He turned, finally. Eyes hollow.
"I need to keep working Manager Shin."
"Anniyeo (No), you don't. Not right now."
Manager Shin pulled out a chair. Sat beside him.
"I don't know how much you remember. I don't even know if you want to remember it. But… people are talking. They think they know who you are."
Ji-ho stared at the table.
"Are they right?"
A pause.
Then Ji-ho nodded. Once. Barely.
Manager Shin exhaled, long and slow.
"Okay. Then listen to me. You need time. You're allowed to not have answers yet. But you can't keep coming in here pretending nothing's changed. Because everything has."
Ji-ho clenched his jaw. "If I stop moving, I'll fall apart."
Kwon reached into his drawer and slid an envelope across the table. ***"Paid leave. No limit. I don't care if it's a month or a year. You come back when you're ready. And if you never do, that's okay too."
Ji-ho didn't cry. Not then.
But when he left, he stood outside the door for a full ten minutes. Breathing. Just breathing.
Far away, beyond the outskirts of the city—miles past where the GPS lines ended and the roads turned to gravel—Hyun-seok woke up.
It wasn't slow.
It was sharp. Abrupt. Violent.
His body jerked up from the cot like he'd been shocked. Cold sweat clung to his back. His lungs refused air for a moment.
The room was dark. Bare. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, flickering like a dying breath.
He sat up slowly, wincing. His head pounded. His mouth was dry.
There were no windows. No clock. No sound.
Just a door. Locked.
He reached for his jacket—gone. His watch—gone. His phone—gone.
The flyers—all gone.
And then it hit him.
Not where he was.
But what this meant.
They had him.
His body tensed, fists curling. He stood, knees shaking, and walked to the door. Banged once. Then twice. Then again. The echo was the only reply.
A speaker crackled to life.
"Mr. Jung Hyun-seok. You shouldn't have kept looking, you should've left him alone he was doing just fine and adjusting well to the world we were protecting him from."
The voice was calm. Neutral. Almost apologetic.
"We didn't want this. We don't do this normally. But you left us no choice."
He slammed his fist into the door. "Where is she? Where is my son?"
Silence.
Then a click. The speaker died.
And the silence became a scream.
He sank to his knees. Hands trembling. His mind spiralled, but one thought grounded him.
Jiho-yah. Soo-min-ah, Adeul-ah (Son). Don't let them find you. Please. Don't come looking.
Because now he knew.
It wasn't about rescuing anyone anymore.
It was about surviving long enough to pass the torch.
He looked around the room. Eyes scanning for anything. Weak spots. Screws. Shadows.
If he couldn't get out himself—
He would leave something behind.
A clue.
A message.
Anything.
Because now, the search wouldn't end with him.
Now, Ji-ho was awake.
And when the cycle comes back around—
Someone must be ready to break it.
The knock came at 7:14 in the morning.
Ji-ho had barely slept. The world outside his window was grey and trembling, as if even the sky didn't know what to do with itself. He moved through his flat like a ghost—slow, hollow-eyed, unsure where to place his hands.
He didn't expect anyone.
He didn't expect anything.
The box left on his doorstep was small, clean, and unlabelled.
He stood staring at it for a moment, then bent down and carried it inside. It wasn't heavy. Just… final.
He opened it with a pair of scissors, careful not to tear the seal.
Inside: A manila folder. A sealed letter. And an old tape recorder—dusty, scratched, but intact. A single cassette sat inside, already wound to the beginning.
His hands shook.
He pressed play.
The click was soft. Then silence. Then—
"Ji-ho-yah… Jal jina?, Appa jal isseuni, deo isang gominhaji ma. I mal deutgo itdamyeon… appa-neun ne gyeote itji motae. Mianhae Jiho-yah. Saranghaeyo. (Ji-ho, are you doing okay? I'm fine, so don't worry anymore. If you're hearing this… it means I can't be by your side anymore. I'm sorry Ji-ho. I love you.)"
The voice.
His voice.
Hyun-seok.
His chest cracked open.
"I don't know how much time I had. Maybe this reaches you too early. Maybe too late. But everything's in the folder. Your name. Your birth certificate. My will. SOJiUN. The house in Yeonhui-dong. You don't have to take any of it. But I needed to leave you something that proves you were real. That you belonged. That you weren't just a boy who passed through the world without a name."
Ji-ho closed his eyes.
"I tried, Ji-ho-yah. I really tried. To bring everything back to where it belonged. But some things can't be fixed. Not by one man. Maybe not even by time. But you… you were always the only reason I kept going."
His hands tightened around the recorder.
"There are people who will try to tell you who you were. What you were. Ignore them. You decide that now. Whether it's Soo-min, or Ji-ho, or someone new entirely. Just choose what lets you breathe."
The tape hissed faintly.
"Kim Daon knows everything. He'll help you. Tell him I said… it's your company now."
A pause. Then, soft as a breath:
"I'm sorry for every second I wasn't there. But I loved you in all of them."
Click.
Ji-ho stared at the recorder. Then at the letter.
He opened the envelope.
It was handwritten. Short. In a neater version of the same script he'd seen on the SOJiUN flyer.
He read it once. Then twice. Then again.
It simply said:
"Ji-ho-yah, Uri Soo-min-i, Adeul,
This is everything I was too afraid to give you in person.
Everything I wished someone had given me when I was your age.
Don't let the past trap you. Don't let the world name you. And don't look for me, Jiho-yah. I want to protect you the best I can so don't look for me.
Your Samchon, your hyung, Appa Jung Hyun-seok."
SOJiUN stood like a monument. Familiar and foreign all at once.
Ji-ho walked through the front doors, dressed in black. The receptionist's eyes widened. But she said nothing. She simply picked up the phone.
A few minutes later, Daon appeared in the corridor.
His tie was crooked. His eyes tired.
They stared at each other for a long second.
Then—
"Mr Kim" Ji-ho said quietly.
Daon's face crumpled.
"Gwaenchana, Gwaenchana (Its okay, its okay)."
Daon stepped forward, gripping his shoulders.
"He knew this would happen. That's why he left everything. That's why he rushed the documents."
Ji-ho's throat tightened. "He knew something would happened to him."
Daon nodded.
"He knew. But he wanted you to have a choice."
They walked through the halls of SOJiUN together. Past memories Ji-ho didn't yet have. Past whispers that made sense now.
At the top floor, Daon opened the conference room. Inside: a stack of folders. Labeled. Organised. One name on every tab.
Jung Soo-min.
"He spent the last weeks preparing this," Daon said. "The will has already gone into effect. You're his legal heir. His successor."
"I don't want a company."
"You don't have to run it Jiho-ssi. Just… know it's yours."
Ji-ho sat down slowly. Looked out the window.
"How do I find them?"
Daon was silent.
"That's the question he asked too. Every day."
Ji-ho nodded.
"Then I guess it's my turn."
"Anniya, Jiho-ssi (No, Ji-ho), if you want to look for your father I will more than willing to help and support you every step of the way, but he did this to protect you to not look for him incase it happens to you again, he wants you to remember him, cherish him, relive the moments, even though they were short, the times you had together, the times he was your Samchon."
His voice was calm.
But his hands were already reaching for the first folder.
Ji-ho had never felt cold like this. Not the kind that wrapped around your skin—but the kind that seeped into your chest and refused to leave. It wasn't winter. It wasn't the weather. It was something deeper. Something crawling beneath his ribs.
He retraced his steps the next morning. Back to the bakery. Back to the alley where Hyun-seok used to stand, quietly handing out flyers, sipping coffee with tired eyes and a warm smile. But now it was empty. The window displays were still there, but the lights inside were off. A "Closed" sign hung askew on the door.
He turned, desperate, scanning the street.
Nothing.
He moved to the usual spot—the corner near the bookshop, where they used to exchange quiet jokes, quiet glances, quiet warmth.
No one.
The bench was vacant. The air didn't feel the same.
His heart started racing. That uncontrollable, nauseating kind of rhythm that makes your throat close.
Then—
Fluttering.
Two flyers. Torn at the corners. Damp from the morning mist.
One: Seo Yoon's face.
One: His.
Ji-ho's knees buckled. His hands trembled violently as he picked them up. He clutched them to his chest like they were the last pieces of proof that they existed. That they were real. That he hadn't made them up.
His breath shortened. Sharp. Incomplete. His throat couldn't push air through.
He ran.
All the way to SOJiUN.
He didn't wait for clearance. Didn't check in at the front desk. He pushed through the doors, shaking, chest heaving, eyes wild.
The receptionist stood up. "Sir—!"
"Where's Kim Daon? WHERE IS HE?!"
She froze.
Seconds later, Daon came rushing from the corridor. He barely got a word out before Ji-ho screamed—
"WHERE IS HE?! WHERE'S MY FATHER?! WHERE DID HE GO?!"
The hallway silenced.
Every head turned. Every step stopped. Time held its breath.
Ji-ho's voice cracked open like a wound. He staggered forward, clutching his chest. His entire body was convulsing—not just in panic. In grief. In rage. In devastation.
"WHY DID HE LEAVE ME?! WHY DID YOU LET HIM GO?!"
Daon reached him—but Ji-ho shoved him back.
"WHY?! WHY NOW?! WHY WHEN I JUST—"
He fell to his knees.
Sobbing.
Loud.
Unrestrained.
The kind of crying that didn't come from the throat—it came from the soul. From marrow. From memory.
"I didn't even get to call him Appa," Ji-ho choked out. "I wanted to—! I wanted to, I swear—! I started to—!"
His voice collapsed into itself.
Daon knelt beside him, speechless.
Ji-ho grabbed at the lapels of Daon's coat, forehead pressed to his shoulder like a child.
"He was mine," he whispered. "He was mine. They took him from me. I didn't get to say it—I didn't get to—"
He broke again.
Daon could only hold him.
"I finally wanted him. I finally remembered enough to want him. And now he's—he's—"
Ji-ho gasped, fists pounding against his own chest.
"It hurts. It HURTS. I can't breathe. I can't—"
His heart was thundering. Not like panic. Not like fear.
Like grief had become a heartbeat.
A flame inside his veins.
"He gave me all of this," Ji-ho whispered, tears soaking his sleeves. "The company. The name. The will. The words. And I didn't even get to tell him… I remembered. I remembered him."
Daon pressed his hand over Ji-ho's back. Steady. Gentle. Shaking just as much.
"You still can," he said. "He left all this for you because he believed you would."
But Ji-ho didn't respond.
He was too far gone.
Grief had wrapped around him like a second skin.
And when he finally stood, he looked smaller.
Like someone who had just become hollow.
The only thing he carried with him were the two flyers.
One with Seo Yoon's face.
One with the man he now called Appa.
He pressed them together.
Folded them like a prayer.
And whispered, "I'll find you. I'll find you both. Even if it kills me."
The wind outside howled.
But the boy who had once been missing?
He was done hiding.
The room blurred. Employees stood frozen. No one moved.
"Please… bring him back. Bring him back."
Ji-ho slumped against Daon's chest.
And then—
"I'll look for him. I'll find him. Even if I disappear too. Even if they take me too."
His voice was hoarse.
Daon closed his eyes.
Because he had heard that sentence before.
From someone else.
A long time ago.
It was raining.
Not hard. Not dramatically. Just enough to soak the flyers.
Ji-ho didn't have an umbrella. Didn't have a coat. He stood there, beneath the streetlamp, its glow trembling against the wet pavement like the sky was too exhausted to shine. The metal signpost beside him wobbled slightly in the wind.
He took out tape.
His hands trembled.
One by one, he smoothed the flyers against the pole. One was torn. He didn't care. One was smudged. Didn't matter.
His father's face. Seo Yoon's face.
The Samchon who made him feel human.
The girl he tried to ignore for some time, only to start feeling familiarity for, stolen.
Again.
He pressed the tape down, hard enough that his palms stung.
And then he stepped back.
And stared.
His lips trembled.
His chest was hollow. But the ache kept pounding. It wouldn't stop. Like something inside him was trying to shatter its way out. Like his ribs were too tight to hold the grief.
"Appa..."
It slipped out. Barely a whisper.
Then again.
"Appa..."
And again. And again.
"Where are you?"
He was sobbing now. Loud. Ugly. His knees gave out and he collapsed onto the wet concrete. Passers-by slowed. Some crossed the road. Others kept walking.
"WHERE DID YOU GO?!"
His voice cracked against the sky.
"WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME AGAIN?!"
The flyers above him fluttered. The rain smeared the ink. But their faces stayed. Watching.
"I REMEMBER NOW! I REMEMBER EVERYTHING!"
His fingers clawed at his chest.
"Please come back. Please... please come back."
Someone stopped across the street.
An older woman, holding a small plastic bag of vegetables.
"Aigoo," she whispered, watching him.
"Poor thing… he looks so young."
"He's been standing there for weeks."
"I think he lost someone."
"Isn't he the son of that man? The one who used to hand out the flyers?"
"Looks like him. Same eyes."
Ji-ho couldn't hear them.
He was crying too loudly. Rocking forward and back, hands on his head, like he could hold in the memories.
"Appa... I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't remember sooner. I'm sorry I pushed you away. I'm sorry I didn't ask more questions. I'm sorry I let them take you. It's my fault. It's all my fault. I'm sorry."
His throat burned.
His eyes burned.
His heart burned.
And no one could save him.
No one could say it would be okay.
Because it wasn't.
The person he'd just begun to want was gone.
Taken.
Erased.
And this time, he was the one left holding the missing posters.
He reached into his pocket.
Pulled out a pen.
And beneath the flyers, he wrote:
MY FATHER DID NOT GO MISSING HE WAS ABDUCTED.
Missing: Jung Hyun-seok. 42.
MY FRIEND DID NOT GO MISSING. SHE WAS ABDUCTED.
AGAIN.
Seo Yoon. Birth Name: Ha Eun-ji. 26.
Please help me find them.
Then, just below that:
If you know anything…anything at all… please come to this corner. I'll be here. Every day.
My name is Jung Soo-Min, I was abducted at 7 years old, and now those people have taken my father and my friend.
He stepped back.
And waited.
The wind whipped at his clothes.
The rain fell harder.
But Soo-min didn't move.
He didn't speak.
Because his voice was gone.
But he stayed.
He stayed like his father had once stayed.
Because now—
He was the one who waited.
A pair of footsteps passed behind him.
A man and woman.
Casual. Unhurried.
Their umbrellas tilted slightly, their heads lowered, faces obscured by the mist.
They hummed.
Softly. Calmly.
"KKOGKKOG SUMEORA MEOLIKARAG BOILA~"
Soo-min's grip on the sign tightened.
His breath hitched.
He didn't turn around.
Didn't need to.
Because he already knew.
They were still out there.
And now… they had his father too.