The morning sun slipped through thin curtains, painting faint gold lines across the faded wallpaper of Han Jae-min's room. He stirred awake, blinking groggily as his body reminded him of its injuries. A dull ache lingered in his ribs, sharp twinges pulsed along his side, and when he sat up too quickly, the world seemed to tilt for a heartbeat.
His eyes drifted to the mirror across the room.
For a long moment, he simply stared. The reflection showed his face pale and unreadable, but his body carried another story. Across his chest and shoulders, patches of blue and purple had already bloomed, some darker than others, spreading like ink stains beneath the skin. He winced as he tugged his shirt off, running his fingers lightly over the swelling. Each bruise carried memory—rough hands, fists crashing down, a boot pressed to his side while voices barked for someone to search him.
He exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, and forced the shirt back over his head. Pain lanced through his ribs, but he ignored it. He had grown used to swallowing discomfort, to hiding it where no one could pry.
The clock on the wall ticked faintly, reminding him it was Saturday morning. His mother would already be in the kitchen, setting out breakfast. He stepped out of his room, the floorboards creaking softly under his weight.
The scent of fried eggs and rice drifted into the hallway. She was waiting for him at the table, already seated with her hair pulled back neatly despite the exhaustion etched into her features. A steaming bowl was set carefully at his spot.
"Good morning," she said, her voice low but gentle.
He murmured something in return and sat down. The first bite was painful, his jaw aching from where it had been struck, but he swallowed without letting his expression falter. Still, his mother noticed—the slight wince, the guarded way he shifted in his chair.
"Are you hurt?" she asked suddenly.
He froze for a heartbeat, then shook his head.
Her eyes narrowed with quiet concern. "Jae-min… are you being bullied?"
"Negative," he said flatly, his voice low and clipped.
She leaned forward slightly, her gaze searching his face. "Then what happened? Will you tell me?"
Silence.
It was an answer in itself. His silence always was.
Setting her chopsticks down, she rose to her feet. "Come with me."
Without a word, he followed her into her room. It was small, with lavender detergent clinging to the bedsheets and an old wooden dresser pushed against the wall. She opened a drawer, pulling out a tin of ointment and bandages, then pointed to the edge of the bed.
When he lifted his shirt, her breath caught in her throat.
The bruises stretched across his torso, ugly blooms of pain that no mother should ever have to see on her child. She swallowed hard, keeping her hands steady as she dipped her fingers into the ointment and began dabbing it gently across the worst of the marks.
He flinched when the ointment touched his skin, though his face remained impassive, his eyes staring somewhere past her shoulder. She knew her son—he would not cry, would not complain, would not even sigh too heavily. He would only endure.
Once, he had been different.
She remembered him as a bright, talkative boy, his laughter bubbling through their small apartment like sunlight. He had been clingy, especially with his father, always eager for his attention. But the night his father left had changed everything.
She could still hear the words. I'm leaving. So blunt, so cold. Her son had only stood there, staring up at the man he adored with wide, blank eyes. He had not cried. He had not screamed. He had simply grown quiet. By the next morning, the chatter was gone. The laughter was gone.
And what remained was the boy in front of her now—silent, closed-off, carrying burdens too heavy for his age.
When she finished, she lowered his shirt gently and smoothed down his hair. She pressed a kiss to his forehead, her lips lingering there as if it might somehow protect him from everything she couldn't.
"I'll be late," she whispered. "Don't stay up too long."
He nodded once. That was enough.
She left for work soon after, and Jae-min returned to his room. Lying down, he stared at the ceiling until his eyes grew heavy, sleep pulling him under faster than it usually did.
---
His mother's day.
The office was noisy with typewriters and shuffling papers. She sat at her desk, shoulders hunched as she typed quietly. The scent of stale coffee lingered in the air, mingling with the dust of old files stacked in leaning towers around the room.
"Faster!" her superior barked, his voice sharp. "We don't have all day!"
She bowed her head automatically, murmuring an apology before doubling her pace. She was used to the shouting by now. The man always raised his voice, no matter how hard she worked, no matter how carefully she followed instructions. But she couldn't quit. Without her degree, no other company would hire her. And besides, she had her son to think about. Rent, food, school supplies—all depended on her staying here, enduring.
As her fingers clattered over the keys, her thoughts drifted. She remembered her university days, when life had felt bigger, when possibilities stretched out like an endless horizon. Back then, she had loved freely. She had loved Jae-min's father, who had seemed kind and full of dreams. They had whispered about their future, about a home, a family, a life built together.
But the pregnancy had changed everything. She had left school. He had promised to support her, and for a time, he had. Then the bottles appeared, the cigarettes, the long nights of anger. He never showed this side to their son—he had always been gentle with Jae-min. But behind closed doors, after their boy was asleep, the shouting began. The hitting followed.
Until one night, he walked out for good.
She had survived alone ever since, piecing together work and long hours. And though she was tired to her bones, she swore she would give her son whatever she could. Even if he never opened up to her again.
By the time five o'clock struck, her shift was finally over. She lingered in the street for a moment, staring at the pale light of evening draped across the city. And then she thought of her son.
His birthday was approaching. He would never ask for anything—he rarely asked for anything at all—but she couldn't let it pass without something. She stepped into a small shop, her eyes scanning shelves until she found it: a simple leather-bound notebook. It was nothing extravagant, but sturdy, with thick pages that could hold his thoughts, drawings, or even just silence.
She bought it, wrapped in plain brown paper, and tucked it into her bag before heading home.
---
When she opened the door, the apartment was quiet.
Her son's room was dim, the curtains drawn. He was already asleep, curled beneath the blanket, his breathing steady. She stepped inside softly, setting her bag down. Carefully, she placed the wrapped notebook on his desk, beside his schoolwork.
Leaning down, she brushed a strand of hair from his forehead and pressed a kiss there.
"Good night, my boy," she whispered.
And as she pulled back, she thought—just for a moment—she saw it.
A faint smile. So small it could have been imagined, but there it was, softening his sleeping face.
It was the first time in years she had seen it.