The bakery never reopened.
The old woman who used to sweep the front steps left a bouquet one day and never returned. The neighbourhood stopped asking. The flyers eventually peeled and blew away. But someone always replaced them. Always made new ones. Always stayed long enough to put them back up.
Soo-min stopped using his phone. He stopped going to work. Stopped answering the door. But every day, at exactly 6:30 a.m., he stood beneath the signpost. Taped up the same two flyers. Smoothed them with trembling fingers. Waited.
Sometimes he'd hand out coffee to strangers.
Sometimes he wouldn't speak at all.
But the message never changed.
He was looking for two people.
He was looking for his father.
And for the friend he never got to keep.
He kept their faces alive in the only way he could.
Then one day, a woman passed by with her daughter.
The little girl stopped. Pointed at the flyers. "Eomma, who's that?"
The woman stared. Eyes wide. Then softened. "Someone important."
The girl looked at Soo-min. "Is he sad?"
The mother didn't answer.
Soo-min overheard. But didn't react.
He only smiled—barely.
Because yes, he was sad.
But he was still here.
And that meant they were still looking.
And if even one person cared—
Then the story wasn't over.
Not yet.