Baeksan sat still, eyes blank, but inside his chest something twisted.
He saw it again—his family. Or at least, the shape of them. Shadows sitting at a table, outlines moving through a house that didn't feel warm. A boy—himself—sat small in the corner, knees pulled tight, arms wrapped around them.
The scene played out like a memory on old film, scratched and worn, but he couldn't pause it, couldn't stop it.
He tried to focus on their faces. That was what he wanted most. A father's face. A mother's face. He told himself, Just remember. You grew up with them. You saw them every day. Their faces should be clear.
But every time he leaned into the memory, they blurred. A haze covered them, like someone had smeared his vision. He could picture hands, rough and shaking. A voice, sharp enough to split walls. The slam of a door that made his chest cave in. But faces? Nothing. Always nothing.
The boy in his memory stayed curled on the floor, shrinking as the spotlight above him narrowed. He could hear the footsteps—heavy, and uneven. He could hear the bottle hit the table, the liquid sloshing like it might spill.
He could hear the sound that came after, the sound that always made his stomach twist before the pain even came.
He remembered the sting across his cheek, the way his body learned not to flinch because flinching only brought another strike. He remembered holding his breath, biting down so hard on his lip it bled, because crying meant louder yelling, harder hits, longer nights.
And yet… no matter how hard he pushed, he couldn't summon their eyes. Couldn't find their mouths. Not even a smile, fake or real. Just blurs. Just blanks.
The more he tried, the more it hurt. If there had been any kindness at all, he couldn't prove it. If there had ever been a time when they held him, he couldn't see it. It was as if the memories had stripped every chance of warmth away and left only the shadows, only the sting.
On the train, Baeksan's fingers dug into his palms, nails pressing hard enough to leave crescents. His face, though, didn't move. Not a twitch, not a flicker. To anyone looking, he was just another passenger lost in thought.
But in his head, the boy stayed locked in that shrinking spotlight, whispering to himself, the words too quiet to reach anyone else.
Don't remember. Don't remember. Don't remember.
Outside that cage of memory, laughter floated. Light voices, soft smiles, warmth exchanged between two people who looked at each other like it was the most natural thing in the world. Baeksan didn't hear the words, not really. The sound alone was enough.
It was heaven. A place that could never belong to him. This is paradise.
And so he stayed where he always was—on the outside, silent, staring. His big eyes shifted between them, but no reaction ever reached his face.
Just a hollow echo in his chest.
And the memory of faceless parents he would never be able to escape.
A faint sound pulled at him. At first it was far away, muffled like it came from under water. Then it grew sharper. A voice. A woman's voice.
"K—Baeksan-s—… hey—Kim Baeksan-ssi!"
He blinked, but the dark spotlight in his mind didn't fade right away. It took effort, like dragging himself out of tar. And when his eyes finally focused, he almost flinched.
She was right in front of him. Her face leaned close, black hair brushing forward, red eyes wide and unsettled. One hand was on his arm, the other lightly shaking his shoulder.
"You okay? You weren't moving at all earlier for quitw some time…"
For a second, the world felt wrong, too bright. Her voice carried a tone he wasn't used to—worry, and genuine, like she'd been calling him for a while.
He realized his gaze had been fixed on nothing. His reflection in the train window was pale, eyes hollow, lips pressed into a flat line that looked more like a corpse than a living man.
She searched his face, frowning. "Your eyes… they looked empty. Like you weren't even here. Like a corpse."
He didn't answer. Not right away. His throat worked, but no words came. It wasn't that he didn't know what to say—it was that anything he said would sound wrong.
So he stayed still, letting her hand slip off his arm. Her worried expression didn't fade, though. If anything, she looked more unsettled seeing how little he reacted.
He finally gave the smallest nod, just enough to break the tension without giving her anything real. "I'm fine."
It was hollow. A lie so thin it almost wasn't worth saying.
She held his gaze for a few moments longer, like she didn't believe him, but then she leaned back in her seat. Her shoulders shifted uneasily, her hands finding the strap of her bag like she needed something to hold onto.
Her hand had slipped back to her lap, but the ghost of her touch still clung to his sleeve. Baeksan didn't move. He didn't even breathe right, shallow inhales rattling against the pressure in his chest.
The train rocked along its tracks, carrying conversations, footsteps, the dull rhythm of wheels against iron. All of it sounded distant, like someone else's life.
The only thing sharp was the memory of her face leaning close to his—red eyes trembling with worry, her voice breaking through the cracks he thought were sealed.
He wanted to say something. To thank her. To reassure her. To be normal. But every word that rose inside him turned to ash before reaching his mouth. His lips stayed sealed, his body locked in that cold stillness he'd known since childhood.
The woman shifted beside him, her movements small but restless. She kept sneaking glances his way, trying not to be obvious, but failing. Each glance tightened the knot inside his chest.
She probably thought he was sick, or broken, or something worse. And the truth was… she wasn't wrong.
Baeksan lowered his gaze to his hands. His knuckles were white, his fingers still stiff from digging into his own palms. Slowly, he uncurled them, tracing the half-moon indents with his thumb. Little reminders that even when he was sitting still, he was still fighting something no one else could see.
He thought about what she had said earlier—her voice bright, trying to bridge years of distance with school memories and workplace ties. She remembered him.
She wanted to talk. She smiled. And when he drifted too far, she pulled him back.
But in his head, the dark room still lingered. He could still see that child sitting under the spotlight, knees hugged tight, eyes wide with fear.
And no matter how hard he tried, the child's parents had no faces. No warmth. No words to offer. Just silence.
Why can't I see them? The thought gnawed at him, bitterly. Why is it only me?
He felt a shift in the air then. Across the carriage, that familiar figure still sat—posture calm, smile fixed like it belonged to someone who already knew the end of the story.
His gaze flickered toward Baeksan again, and for a split second, Baeksan swore he could feel it—that piercing weight, pressing into the cracks he tried so hard to cover.
But the man looked away, back toward the girl. His smile softened, almost fatherly, as she asked him something Baeksan didn't catch. Their voices wove together, warm, easy, belonging to a world that wasn't his.
Baeksan sat frozen, his reflection in the window looking more ghost than man.
Deep down, he was still hugging his knees in that empty room.
Realistically, he was just another passenger on the 8:43.