The small apartment smelled of stale cigarettes, cheap alcohol, and forgotten dreams. The overhead light flickered weakly as the wind howled through cracks in the thin window panes. The walls, once painted a warm cream, had dulled into a lifeless gray, stained by time, anger, and tears. In a cramped corner of the room, six-year-old Oh Jihoon sat with his knees pulled tightly to his chest, a ragged blanket barely covering his small frame. His chestnut brown hair clung to his forehead, damp from the cold sweat of fear, and his large eyes stared blankly at the peeling wallpaper as the front door rattled.
He didn't flinch when it finally burst open. He had grown used to the sound of it crashing against the wall like a storm breaking through silence. The smell hit first—liquor, cigarette smoke, and a faint trace of overly sweet perfume. Then came the stumbling footsteps, the click of her heels uneven on the floor, and her slurred voice calling out into the apartment.
"Jihoon… Jihoon-ah…! Where the hell are you hiding again, you little brat?"
Oh Yejun was home.
There had once been a time when Jihoon had run to the door when he heard her voice. When his tiny legs would carry him forward, hopeful that maybe—just maybe—today would be different. That maybe this time, she'd come home with a smile or something warm to eat or even just a pat on the head. But those days had ended long ago, buried under drunken outbursts and hateful words.
His mother staggered into the living room, her mascara smeared and her lipstick faded to the corners of her lips. She dropped her purse onto the couch, missing completely as it tumbled onto the floor and spilled its contents. A cracked compact mirror, crumpled bills, and empty cigarette boxes rolled onto the floor like broken pieces of her dignity. Jihoon barely moved.
"I know you're here somewhere," she mumbled as she kicked off her heels and collapsed onto the couch with a groan. "Always hiding like a rat in the walls. Do you think you're better than me now, huh?"
Jihoon stayed perfectly still, heart pounding in his chest. He'd learned long ago that silence was his only armor.
"I ruined my life for you," Yejun said bitterly, staring at the ceiling like it owed her answers. "If it weren't for you, I would've been the wife. I would've had it all—mansions, drivers, silk sheets… But no. That bastard threw me away, and you—you were the mistake he left behind."
She sat up suddenly, eyes bloodshot and wild, scanning the room.
"Jihoon! Get the hell out here right now!"
Still, he didn't move. His blanket trembled slightly as his fingers tightened around its edge.
The silence only fueled her rage.
With a curse, Yejun stumbled toward the back of the apartment, shoving open the small bedroom door where Jihoon had tried to make a world of his own. It wasn't much—just a thin mattress on the floor, a secondhand desk with missing drawers, and a stack of old books he'd rescued from the trash. But it was his. His only safe place.
She found him easily. His tiny body couldn't hide behind much.
"There you are," she hissed, grabbing him roughly by the arm and yanking him to his feet. "You just love making me look like a fool, don't you?"
Her nails dug into his skin. Jihoon bit his lip to keep from crying out. If he cried, it would only get worse.
"Why were you hiding from me? Huh? You think you're too good for me now?" She shook him, her voice rising with every word. "Just like him… You have his damn eyes!"
She slapped him. Not hard enough to knock him over, but enough to sting. Enough to leave a red mark on his cheek. Enough to make him wonder if she saw Sunghan in his face and not the child who still called her 'Mom.'
Jihoon didn't answer. He didn't even cry. He just stared at the floor and waited for it to pass.
And it did—eventually. Her fury drained as quickly as it had ignited, replaced by tears and self-pity. She sank to the floor, weeping into her hands.
"Why did he leave me? Why…?"
Jihoon stood there, silent, his cheek throbbing and his heart aching—not just from pain, but from a sorrow that a child shouldn't know. He wanted to help her, to tell her he was still here, that she wasn't alone. But she had already chosen to see him as a burden, not as a son. And so, like always, he crouched down quietly beside her and picked up her spilled purse, gathering her things without a word.
That night, he didn't sleep. The apartment was too quiet again, too full of lingering echoes. He stared at the ceiling, his cheek resting against his threadbare pillow, and thought about what life might be like elsewhere—where mothers hugged their children and fathers called them by name. But those thoughts faded quickly. They were too painful, too dangerous. Dreams like that didn't belong in places like this.
The pattern continued.
Some days, she would be too tired to yell. She would return home, collapse on the couch, and sleep for hours while Jihoon tiptoed around her like a ghost. Other nights, she would bring strange men home—drunk, loud, laughing. They barely noticed Jihoon, and when they did, it was only to sneer or complain. Yejun never defended him. Sometimes, she even laughed with them.
Jihoon learned to disappear.
At school, he said little. His teachers described him as polite, quiet, reserved. But they didn't see the bruises beneath his sleeves or the way his eyes darted whenever someone raised their voice. He never brought lunch, never joined class outings, and when other students asked about his parents, he only gave a faint smile and shrugged.
He didn't have answers. Only silence.
One rainy evening, Yejun didn't come home.
Jihoon waited by the window, the cracked glass blurred with raindrops, watching the alleyway below for any sign of her familiar figure. Midnight passed. Then two. Then four.
She came home at dawn—barefoot, soaked, mascara running down her face like black tears. Jihoon opened the door quietly, towel in hand.
"Where were you?" he asked in a whisper.
Yejun stared at him for a long moment, swaying slightly in the doorway. Then she burst into laughter.
"You're asking me? You think you get to ask me where I've been?"
Jihoon held out the towel. She slapped it away.
"I was out trying to survive, you ungrateful little piece of shit. You think this life is easy? You think I wanted this?"
He didn't answer.
She pushed past him into the apartment, muttering to herself.
"I should've aborted you. That's what I should've done. God knows I would've been better off."
Her words hung in the air like a blade.
Jihoon stood in the hallway, eyes wide, his small frame trembling. He didn't understand everything she said—but he understood enough.
He understood that love was something he'd have to live without.
One night, she came home with bruises on her arms and a split lip. Jihoon tried to help her to bed, but she shoved him away.
"Don't touch me," she hissed.
"But Mom, you're hurt—"
"I said don't!"
She sank to the floor, sobbing.
"I used to be beautiful. Did you know that?" she murmured to no one. "Men used to line up for me. I had the world at my feet… until you ruined everything."
She looked at Jihoon then, eyes bloodshot and brimming with venom.
"I should've left you at the hospital."
Jihoon lowered his gaze. He felt nothing. Not sadness, not anger—just a hollow ache that pulsed where love should've been.
By the time he turned seven, he stopped asking questions. He no longer asked why she cried at night, or why she hit him when she was drunk, or why he had to skip meals when she disappeared for days. He didn't ask why the world felt so cold.
He simply learned to endure.
He cleaned the apartment when she was out. He patched his clothes with scraps of fabric. He visited the corner market once a week, clutching whatever coins he could find between cushions or under furniture, trading them for instant noodles or discounted rice.
And at night, he would stare out the window, tracing the stars with his finger, whispering wishes into the silence. Wishes he knew would never be granted.
He became invisible—at school, at home, in life. A quiet boy with bruised arms and tired eyes, carrying burdens far too heavy for his age. But in that invisibility, he found a fragile kind of strength.
He learned how to listen without speaking, how to move without being seen, how to protect himself in small, silent ways.
Because if no one would protect him, then he would have to do it himself.
And though he didn't know it yet, this quiet resilience—this flicker of light—would one day shape everything.
Even in the loneliest winter, the light still flickered.