"Wohyoon… my dear grandson… Grandpa hasn't given up yet. Please, come back home… our dear Wohyoon."
An old, wealthy man whispered his prayer, voice trembling beneath the steady beeping of the heart monitor. Tears streamed down his wrinkled cheeks as he lay in a pristine hospital bed. The room was luxurious, but no warmth nor comfort could be found there—only the cold weight of despair.
The door creaked open. His two grandsons, Armon and Warren, stepped inside. Their faces wore the same tight masks of grief, a poker face that cracked a little more with each visit. They carried yet another message that only deepened the old man's sorrow.
"Grandpa…" Armon's voice wavered, breaking as tears welled up. "We still… we still can't find Wohyoon. Grandpa… is he even still alive? It's been fifteen years. Fifteen years and not a single trace, not even a shadow of him. Grandpa, please… let's give up and focus on your recovery!"
His words ended in a scream, his body trembling as he clutched his grandfather's frail hand. Beside him, Warren bit back his own plea. The taste of blood filled his mouth where he had bitten his lip too hard. Silent tears slid down his cheeks.
They both wept quietly, side by side, as the old man's hand trembled in Armon's grasp—wrinkled, fragile, cursed by time.
Just as Warren finally gathered the courage to speak, a soft knock echoed against the door.
"Hello? Flower delivery to Mr. Sylvan? This is Sof from Bloom Flower Shop. May I come in?"
The brothers hurriedly dried their tears, though their red eyes betrayed them. Warren opened the door.
A young man stood there, holding a bouquet. "I'm Sof, from Bloom. Delivery from Madame Sylvan to Mr. Sylvan. Where should I put these?"
He appeared gentle, almost ethereal. His eyes shone like blue skies after rain, his dark hair falling like the quiet of night. He seemed too soft for this cold, sterile place.
"…Wohyoon?"
The old man's voice cracked, desperate, as he stared at the stranger.
Sof tilted his head, confusion flickering in his gaze. Slowly, he stepped forward and offered his hand, warm and reassuring.
"I don't know who Wohyoon is," he said softly, "but I hope you can find light in this warmth."
The old man clutched his hand, tears flooding his eyes. "You're more than enough. Forgive me… thank you."
Sof sat beside him. They spoke—about flowers, about life, about little things that carried meaning. And as the old man listened, his heart ached with certainty. This boy… this gentle, comforting soul… was Wohyoon.
When Sof finally left, the old man's composure broke. He barked at Armon and Warren with sudden urgency.
"Take his hair—get a DNA test. Now!"
They had already stolen a few strands while helping adjust Sof's hair, disguising it as a polite gesture. Hope lit their hearts as they rushed to the lab—the first spark of hope in fifteen long years.
Hours later, the results arrived. They burst into their grandfather's room, where he waited anxiously. His frail body, weakened by illness, stood upright with impossible strength as he snatched the envelope with trembling hands.
"Give me that!"
He fumbled it open, eyes skipping everything, rushing straight to the bottom line.
"99.9%..." His voice broke. "Ninety-nine… Wohyoon! Oh, Wohyoon! I found you—my sweet grandchild!"
His knees buckled as he collapsed to the floor, sobbing with joy. Armon and Warren clung to him, their own tears falling freely as they hurried to call the rest of the family. After fifteen years of darkness, the youngest Sylvan had finally been found.
Days passed.
At Bloom Flower Shop, Sof tended to his plants as usual. But something felt strange. Wealthy strangers had begun to frequent the shop, ordering extravagant bouquets. Sof welcomed them with polite warmth… even as unease began to bloom in his chest.