The city didn't look real when you'd been gone too long.
It looked like a painting—flat, silent, beautiful in a way you couldn't touch.
Jihoon walked barefoot along the empty street at dawn, his shirt torn, hair tangled, eyes sunken from months of sleeplessness. The world felt too bright. Every noise was too sharp. Every gust of wind too cold.
He didn't know where he was going—just that he was moving, breathing, existing. That was enough.
A truck rumbled past and stopped a few meters ahead. The driver, a man in his forties with kind eyes and a delivery cap, leaned out.
"Hey! You alright, kid?"
Jihoon blinked. The words felt distant, like they were underwater.
"You look like hell," the man said. "Where's your home?"
Jihoon hesitated. "…Downtown. Near Jongno."
"Hop in. I'll take you."
He nodded, too tired to argue.
The warmth of the truck's seat nearly made him fall asleep. The man didn't ask questions—just hummed quietly, as if afraid to break the silence. When they reached the city, Jihoon muttered a thank you, bowed slightly, and stepped out.
The man watched him go, brow furrowed, but said nothing.
When Jihoon turned the corner toward his neighborhood, the sight froze him in place.
Missing posters.
His face—printed, stapled, weathered by rain—plastered across poles and shop windows.
MISSING PERSON: HAN JIHOON, AGE 26.
He stared for a long time, the letters blurring. His throat tightened, not from pain, but from something deeper—shame.
He'd died to the world. And yet, the world had waited.
Jihoon took the alley route home. His legs felt heavy. The gate creaked when he pushed it open. The small apartment complex hadn't changed. Even the plant by the stairs was still wilted the same way.
Inside, dust floated in the slanting light.
He set down the small bag the stranger had given him and spotted his phone on the table. The screen was cracked but still worked when he pressed it.
A hundred missed calls from Ha-eun. Thirty from Kang. Dozens of unread messages.
He didn't open any. Just sat there staring, the phone trembling slightly in his hand.
The walls seemed to breathe with him.
"...I'm back," he whispered, though no one was there to hear it.
He ran a bath.
The water turned pink for a moment before clearing. He leaned against the cold tile, eyes half-closed.
Every time he blinked, images flashed: the gloved man's face, the camera's click, the smell of rust.
He muttered to himself, nonsense words, anything to drown them out.
By the time the water cooled, the steam had cleared. His reflection looked like someone else's—a stranger who had stolen his name.
Sleep didn't come that night. The ceiling spun slowly above him. He counted his breaths, whispering fragments of jokes and promises he didn't remember making.
When dawn returned, so did the noise.
"Jihoon!"
A voice. Familiar, raw.
He blinked and saw his mother. Her hair was messy, her apron half-tied. So-mi was crying behind her, and Ji-yoon—his older brother—stood frozen in the doorway, still in his military uniform.
"Where have you been!?" his mother shouted, voice cracking between relief and anger. "Do you know how many nights—"
She couldn't finish. She just held him, shaking.
Jihoon hesitated before hugging her back. Her warmth felt like something fragile, almost sacred.
"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I was… working a case. It got bad. They took my phone."
A lie, smooth and practiced.
Ji-yoon exhaled, shoulders dropping. "You idiot. You should've called."
So-mi wiped her face. "You look like a zombie."
"I feel like one," he admitted, managing a small smile.
They laughed weakly, the kind that comes after too much fear.
Then something strange happened.
When Jihoon blinked—twice, slowly—the world shifted.
A faint shimmer surrounded his family. Colors pulsed gently around them, like candlelight.
So-mi's was bright yellow, flickering with energy. Ji-yoon's burned a steady red—firm, loyal. But his mother's… was blue. Dim, trembling near her throat.
Jihoon frowned. "Mom, your throat—"
She blinked. "Hm?"
"You've been coughing lately?"
She looked surprised. "Just a bit sore. How did you know?"
"I'll buy medicine," he said quickly. "Something for it."
They exchanged puzzled looks, but didn't question him.
He wasn't sure how he knew—only that he did. The truth shimmered before his eyes, gentle but absolute.
Later that day, the doorbell rang.
Ha-eun stood there, eyes wide, trembling.
"Jihoon…"
He barely managed a smile before she hugged him so tight he forgot how to breathe.
"You're alive," she whispered. "You're really alive."
He nodded into her shoulder. "Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."
She pulled back, eyes glassy. "You look awful."
"Thanks," he said, chuckling weakly.
She didn't let go of his hand even once as they sat outside on the apartment steps. Evening sunlight painted the buildings gold.
He tried to speak, but she beat him to it. "I called the police. I called Kang. I even went to your station. Nobody knew anything."
"I know," he said softly. "I didn't either."
She studied his face. "You're not okay, are you?"
"I'm breathing. That's a start."
Her expression softened. "Then rest for a bit."
She guided him to sit, her lap gentle under his head. He resisted at first, then gave in. Her heartbeat echoed faintly through the fabric.
For the first time in months, Jihoon felt still.
They talked quietly about nothing—the neighbor's cat, a new bakery, Kang's terrible jokes. Every word pulled him a little closer to the world again.
He almost laughed when she scolded him for not eating enough. Almost.
The sun dipped lower.
"You're still here," she murmured.
"Where else would I go?" he said.
Ha-eun smiled, brushing a strand of hair from his face. "Don't vanish again, detective."
"I'll try."
Night fell gently over the city. They walked together down the street, her hand warm in his. Neon signs blinked above ramen shops, kids chased each other near the convenience store, and somewhere far off, a bus honked impatiently.
For once, all of it felt real.
Jihoon looked at Ha-eun, at the crowd, at the glow of life pulsing through it all. His new vision flickered faintly—colors shifting around strangers as they laughed and argued.
He could see it now: the world's pain, its warmth, its fragile truths.
And for the first time since the darkness, he smiled—not because everything was fine, but because he still believed the world had meaning .