The rain hadn't stopped all night.It whispered against the window like someone softly knocking to be let in.
Grim Seojin sat at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of instant coffee that had long gone cold. The morning light tried to push through the gray, but it only managed a weak glow that painted everything in muted colors.
He'd been up since dawn, scrolling through job listings again. "No openings," "Position filled," "Experience required."The words blurred together until they looked like static.
The only other sound was the faint hum of Hana's cartoon from the living room and the clatter of Areum setting down her mug.
"Did you sleep?" she asked.
"A bit."
She looked at the screen over his shoulder. "You're still looking?"
He nodded. "There's something I can get. Maybe a warehouse job. Night shifts."
Areum leaned on the counter. "Night shifts? Who's going to watch Hana?"
"I'll figure it out."
"You said that last time."
He didn't respond. His thumb scrolled once more, though he wasn't reading anymore.
A moment of silence stretched too long. The sound of Hana's laughter from the other room felt like a fragile wall holding everything together.
"Seojin," Areum said finally. "You could ask your brother again. He offered to—"
"No."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "He has connections, Seojin. It's not—"
"I said no." His voice was sharper now.
Areum's tone cooled. "You can't keep letting pride feed your excuses."
He clenched his jaw, trying to swallow the words rising in his throat. "I'm doing my best."
"I know you're trying," she said softly, "but it's not enough."
That broke something small and delicate inside him.
He looked at her, and for a heartbeat, the warmth from yesterday vanished.
"Not enough for who?" he asked. "You? Hana? Or you and everyone else who thinks I can't fix my own damn life?"
Areum stepped back, startled by the edge in his tone. "Don't twist this—"
"I'm not twisting anything," he said, standing now. "I just don't need pity from anyone, least of all my own wife."
The living room fell quiet. Hana had turned her head toward them, her wide eyes uncertain.
Areum noticed first. Her voice softened immediately. "Hana, sweetie, finish your cartoon. Appa and I are just talking."
Hana nodded slowly and turned back to the TV, though her little shoulders were tense.
Seojin sat down again, running a hand through his hair. The adrenaline drained away, leaving only exhaustion.
"I didn't mean to yell," he muttered.
Areum sighed, pressing her fingers against her temples. "I know. But Hana shouldn't have to hear us fight."
"I know."
He stared at the table. The ring of coffee on the wood had spread into the shape of a small dark halo.
Areum picked up her bag. "I'll drop Hana off at school today."
"I can—"
"It's fine," she said, not unkindly, but firmly.
She kissed Hana's head, said a gentle goodbye, and left. The door clicked softly — but in the small apartment, it sounded final.
The day crawled. Seojin walked the streets under a dull sky, his hands buried in his pockets. He checked the bus stops, the corner stores, the posters on utility poles."Hiring part-time." "No experience needed."But every call ended the same: a polite voice, a rejection, a beep.
By noon, his shoes were soaked through.
He ended up near the Han River, watching gray ripples distort the city's reflection. People passed him in suits, in uniforms, in motion. He sat still, feeling the world move around him like he was already fading out of it.
When he got home, Areum wasn't back yet. The silence felt heavier without Hana's laughter.
He opened the fridge — same half cabbage, same jar of kimchi. He cooked quietly, not because he was hungry but because the act itself felt like proof he still existed.
When Areum returned with Hana, they spoke little. Hana told him about her art project; he smiled, listening. Areum ate in silence, glancing at him occasionally as if weighing whether to speak.
After dinner, she said softly, "Seojin, maybe tomorrow you can come with me to the community job office. They're helping people find—"
He cut her off with a quiet laugh. "You think I need charity now?"
Her eyes flashed. "It's not charity, it's help!"
"I don't need help!" The words came out sharper than he meant. Hana flinched.
Areum closed her eyes, exhaling slowly. "We'll talk later."
She took Hana to her room.
Seojin stayed behind, staring at the half-empty bowls, the faint reflection of himself in the dark window.
Hours passed. The city lights flickered beyond the balcony, blurred by mist and drizzle.
He sat there with a cigarette between his fingers — not lit, just held. He'd promised Areum he'd quit, and for now, he still could keep that promise.
He whispered, "Just one more chance," like a prayer.But this time, even he didn't sound convinced.
When he came inside, Hana was asleep on Areum's lap. Areum looked up as he entered.
"I'm sorry," he said simply.
She nodded, but didn't answer.
He watched her stroke their daughter's hair — a small, tender motion that made his chest ache.He wanted to reach out, to sit beside them, but something inside him told him he no longer belonged in that moment.
So he went to bed quietly, leaving the light on in the living room.
The rain outside grew heavier, tapping on the glass like an impatient reminder.
Tomorrow would be the same.But for the first time, the warmth of Morning Light didn't come.