The smoke thickened.
It softened the edges of everything, blurring faces and dulling light. As it rose toward the ceiling, the distance between the two brothers felt wider than the space they stood in.
Visitors came and went in quiet waves.
Shoes shuffled over the polished floors. Black sleeves brushed against one another. Low murmurs repeated the same sentences until they lost it's meaning.
"I'm sorry for your loss."
"They were wonderful people."
"You must stay strong."
Stay strong.
Eun Gyeol nodded each time.
His bow was precise. His voice steady.
"Thank you for coming."
There was no tremor. No hesitation.
Min Jae stood beside him and watched.
At first, he told himself this was what older brothers did. They stayed composed. They carried the weight. They held things together.
But the longer he watched—
The less it felt like strength.
And the more it felt like absence,absence of something important.
A distant aunt grasped Eun Gyeol's hand, tears streaking down her cheeks. "You must be hurting the most."
Eun Gyeol answered calmly, "We'll manage."
We'll manage.
The words were correct.
But they didn't sound human.
Min Jae's breathing grew uneven.
He looked at the framed photograph again. His mother's bright smile. His father's calm, steady gaze.
They had laughed loudly. Argued loudly. Lived loudly.
And now
all that remains is silence.
The weight struck him again. Sudden. Crushing.
His chest tightened. His throat burned. Tears blurred his vision before he could stop them.
A broken sound escaped him.
Relatives shifted uncomfortably, whispering.
But Min Jae didn't care.
He turned toward the only person who had ever steadied him.
"Hyung."
Eun Gyeol looked at him immediately.
"Yes?"
The word landed too cleanly.
"You're not crying."
It came out fragile at first.
Eun Gyeol blinked.
Grief. Crying. He understood the concepts.
"I—"
"You're not crying," Min Jae repeated, louder now.
Heads turned.
"You didn't cry at the hospital. You didn't cry when we saw them. You're not crying now."
Each sentence struck harder.
Eun Gyeol felt it.
Not sorrow.
Impact.
Like something pressing against a sealed wall inside his chest.
"I'm processing it," he replied quietly.
Processing.
The word hung between them, clinical and cold.
"That's not how you talk," Min Jae whispered.
Then, softer—
"You're not my brother."
The sentence floated for a moment.
Then it sank.
Eun Gyeol felt something tighten beneath his ribs. Not pain.
Pressure.
"You look like him. You sound like him. But you're not him."
Each word slipped past whatever barrier he had built.
"You didn't even cry. They loved you so much."
Loved.
He remembered that.
He remembered their warmth. Their praise. Their hands on his shoulders.
But the feeling attached to those memories felt distant.
Like watching sunlight through thick glass.
"And now you're just standing there like a shell."
Shell.
The word didn't bounce off him.
It went in.
Deep.
He reached toward Min Jae instinctively.
"I'm here."
The words left his mouth—
And felt hollow.
Thin.
Min Jae flinched.
The reassurance had missed him completely.
Why aren't my words reaching him?
Why do they feel empty?
A sharp pulse exploded behind Eun Gyeol's eyes.
The funeral hall blurred.
Voices dulled.
For a split second, everyone around him felt like actors placed in familiar roles.
Uncle. Aunt. Cousins.
He knew who they were.
But if he didn't remember their names—
Would he feel anything?
The thought terrified him.
Because he couldn't answer.
"You're not my brother anymore."
Something broke.
Not loudly.
Not visibly.
But inside—
A fracture.
The headache intensified.
Images flickered violently.
Rain against pavement.
A smaller hand gripping his sleeve.
Min Jae hiding behind him.
Older boys laughing.
He stepped forward in that memory.
Anger—hot, protective—burned clearly there.
"I told you not to touch him."
The scene shifted.
Home.
Their parents at the dining table.
His mother rubbing her temple.
"Ha Eun Gyeol, why did you beat those kids? Their parents complained."
He remembered answering without hesitation.
"They were being mean to Min Jae. I'm his older brother. I had to protect him."
Those words had come from somewhere solid.
Rooted.
His father had sighed. "Protecting him is good. But don't let anger lead you."
His mother had smiled softly.
"We're proud that you care so much."
Min Jae had been nearby, pretending not to listen. Cheeks slightly puffed. Jealous.
But safe.
Then his mother's voice softened further.
"Promise us something."
The memory slowed.
"Promise you'll always protect your brother. Stay by his side whenever he needs you."
He had nodded without doubt.
"I promise."
The funeral hall rushed back.
Min Jae stood before him now, eyes red and shaking.
"You're not him."
The memory and the present collided.
And suddenly—
The emptiness hurt.
Not because it was full of emotion.
But because it wasn't.
He remembered loving his brother.
He remembered caring.
He remembered promising.
But the feeling attached to those memories felt faint.
Like warmth recalled during winter.
Why does it feel like I'm remembering how I should feel… instead of actually feeling it?
The pressure became unbearable.
His knees gave out.
Gasps filled the room as he collapsed to the floor.
His hands pressed against the cold surface.
The headache peaked—
And something cracked inside the hollow space in his chest.
Tears spilled suddenly.
Uncontrolled. Hot. Messy.
His shoulders shook.
The sound that escaped him was raw.
Broken.
Min Jae froze.
Eun Gyeol gripped the fabric near his knees.
"I promised," he whispered hoarsely.
The words tore through his throat.
"I promised I'd protect him."
This time—
The words carried weight.
Pain flooded in behind them.
Not complete.
Not whole.
But enough.
Enough to hurt.
Enough to breathe unevenly.
Through blurred vision, he looked toward the framed photographs.
"I don't know what's happening to me," he thought desperately.
"I don't know why something feels missing."
"But I remember this."
The promise.
Clear.
Unshaken.
Even if parts of him felt hollow—
Even if something inside him was thinning—
That promise remained.
He pressed his palm harder against the floor.
"I'll protect him."
Not calm.
Not composed.
"I will."
The incense smoke nearby twisted sharply—
Then rose straight upward.
As if something had shifted.
As if something had resisted being taken.
And on the polished floor of the funeral hall—
Between what remained—
Ha Eun Gyeol chose the promise again.
Even if he no longer fully understood what it meant to feel it