The hospital was already awake when Ji-hoon arrived.
It was barely past seven in the morning, but the corridors were filled with the familiar sounds of a hospital beginning another long day.
Shoes against polished floors.
Phones ringing.
Nurses calling out names.
The distant sound of a trolley being pushed down the corridor.
Ji-hoon walked toward the nurse's station with his usual expression.
Calm.
Professional.
Almost ordinary.
He had become very good at looking ordinary.
"Good morning, Doctor Kang."
"Morning."
One of the nurses looked up from the computer.
"Doctor, someone came to see you."
Ji-hoon slowed.
"Who?"
The nurse hesitated.
"Your father."
For a second, everything inside him stopped.
His expression barely changed.
Only his fingers tightened around the strap of his bag.
"My father?"
"Yes. He's waiting in your office."
Ji-hoon looked toward the corridor.
Then back at the nurse.
He forced a small smile.
"Okay."
He nodded and walked away.
His footsteps remained steady.
One after another.
He told himself to breathe.
It was only a room.
Only a man.
Only the past.
But his body had never learned the difference between the past and the present.
When he reached his office, he stood outside the door for several seconds.
His hand hovered over the handle.
Then he opened it.
The man was sitting comfortably in one of the chairs.
As though the office belonged to him.
As though he had every right to be there.
Ji-hoon's face hardened.
"What are you doing here?"
The man looked up.
A slow smile appeared on his face.
"Didn't I tell you I'd come back to see you?"
"I don't remember inviting you."
"You don't have to."
Ji-hoon closed the door behind him.
"Get out."
His adoptive father laughed quietly.
"You're still rude."
"I said get out."
"And if I don't?"
"I'll call security."
The man stood.
Slowly.
He walked toward Ji-hoon.
Ji-hoon instinctively stepped back.
The man kept coming until there was almost no space between them.
His face was so close that Ji-hoon could feel his breath.
His old instinct was immediate.
Freeze.
Don't move.
Don't react.
Don't make him angry.
But he was no longer a child.
He was twenty-eight.
He was a surgeon.
He had his own home.
His own family.
A wife who loved him.
A son who waited for him to come home.
He wasn't there anymore.
At least, that was what he kept telling himself.
His adoptive father smiled.
"Go ahead."
Ji-hoon's jaw tightened.
"Call them."
The man's voice lowered.
"I'll tell everyone what happened in the past."
Ji-hoon's breathing changed.
The man placed a hand on his arm.
Just briefly.
The touch was enough.
Ji-hoon flinched.
The man noticed.
Of course he noticed.
He always noticed.
Then he stepped away.
"What do you want?" Ji-hoon asked.
His voice shook despite everything he did to control it.
The man shrugged.
"Nothing."
He smiled.
"It's just fun."
Ji-hoon stared at him.
"Fun?"
"Seeing your reaction."
Something inside Ji-hoon broke.
"Get out!"
His voice echoed through the office.
The man looked almost amused.
"Fine."
He walked toward the door.
Before leaving, he glanced over his shoulder.
"I'll see you again."
The door closed.
Ji-hoon remained still.
His hands were shaking.
He looked at them.
Then he slowly curled them into fists.
He had spent years building this life.
A career.
A home.
A family.
He had convinced himself that distance was enough.
That leaving meant escaping.
That growing older meant becoming free.
But the past had followed him all the way here.
And the worst part was that it knew exactly where to find him.
When Ji-hoon returned home that evening, he decided not to tell Seo-ah.
He smiled when he walked through the door.
He took off his shoes.
"I'm home."
Do-hun came running toward him.
His little legs moved awkwardly and quickly across the floor.
"Appa!"
Ji-hoon's face softened immediately.
He crouched down and opened his arms.
"Come here."
Do-hun crashed into him.
Ji-hoon laughed.
For a few seconds, everything else disappeared.
The office.
His adoptive father.
The threats.
The trembling.
None of it mattered.
There was only his son in his arms.
He lifted Do-hun and kissed his cheek.
"Did you miss me?"
Do-hun laughed.
Seo-ah watched them from the kitchen.
She smiled.
For a moment, the house felt completely normal.
Then Do-hun wriggled out of Ji-hoon's arms.
He walked toward the center table.
"Do-hun," Seo-ah called.
He ignored her.
His tiny hand reached toward the vase sitting on the table.
Ji-hoon noticed too late.
"Wait..."
The vase slipped.
It hit the floor.
The sound of breaking glass filled the room.
Everyone froze.
Do-hun stared at the pieces.
Seo-ah's face changed.
She rushed toward him.
"Do-hun!"
Her hand lifted instinctively.
Then stopped.
She looked at her own hand.
For a second, she looked horrified.
She lowered it.
Do-hun began to cry.
Seo-ah stepped backward.
She turned away.
"Mommy…"
She couldn't answer.
She walked quickly toward the bedroom.
Ji-hoon looked at Do-hun.
Then at Seo-ah.
"Stay here."
He hurried after her.
He found her sitting on the edge of the bed.
Her hands were covering her face.
She was crying.
Ji-hoon stopped at the doorway.
"Seo-ah."
She shook her head.
"I almost hit him."
"You didn't."
"But I wanted to."
Her voice broke.
"I raised my hand."
Ji-hoon walked toward her.
She looked up at him.
"I saw what I was doing and I..."
She covered her mouth.
"I'm becoming them."
"No."
"I am."
Her tears came faster.
"I tried so hard not to be like my parents."
Ji-hoon sat beside her.
"I know."
"I know what it's like when adults get angry at you for things you don't understand."
She wiped her face.
"I know what it feels like to be afraid of the people who are supposed to protect you."
Her voice became smaller.
"And today I almost became that person."
Ji-hoon's chest tightened.
Because he understood that fear more than she knew.
He reached for her hand.
"You didn't."
She looked at him.
"I raised my hand."
"And you stopped."
"But what if one day I don't?"
"You will."
"How do you know?"
Ji-hoon looked at her for a moment.
"Because you're afraid of becoming them."
She said nothing.
He gently pulled her into his arms.
"The fact that you're afraid of becoming them is already proof that you're different."
Seo-ah cried against his chest.
He held her tighter.
"Good parents worry about hurting their children," he whispered.
He paused.
"Bad parents worry about being inconvenienced by them."
She closed her eyes.
Ji-hoon stroked her hair.
"You were angry. You were overwhelmed. You made a mistake."
He looked down at her.
"But you stopped."
Seo-ah's breathing slowly steadied.
"Do-hun isn't going to remember a broken vase," he said softly.
"He'll remember that his mother came back to him."
She looked at him.
"You really think so?"
"I know so."
She leaned against him.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then she whispered:
"What about you?"
Ji-hoon went still.
"What about me?"
"You've been strange since yesterday."
His eyes moved away.
"I'm just tired."
She studied his face.
"You don't have to tell me."
Ji-hoon looked at her again.
There was no accusation in her eyes.
Only concern.
"You can tell me when you're ready."
He swallowed.
"Thank you."
She rested her head against his shoulder.
He wrapped his arm around her.
Neither of them knew that they were both carrying things they were afraid to name.
Seo-ah was terrified that the anger she had inherited would someday become something her child feared.
Ji-hoon was terrified that the man who had hurt him as a child would somehow find a way to follow him into the family he had built.
They were both afraid of becoming what had once hurt them.
But neither of them understood something yet.
People who want to repeat cruelty rarely spend their lives terrified of becoming cruel.
People who don't care about the damage they cause don't usually cry over the possibility that they have hurt someone.
The fear itself meant something.
It meant they were paying attention.
It meant they cared.
Outside the bedroom, Do-hun was still sitting near the broken vase.
Ji-hoon eventually stood.
"I'll clean it up."
Seo-ah nodded.
He walked out.
He crouched beside his son.
"Did you break this?"
Do-hun looked at him with wide eyes.
"Sorry."
Ji-hoon smiled.
"It's okay."
He carefully picked up the pieces of glass.
Do-hun watched him.
"Daddy angry?"
Ji-hoon paused.
Then smiled.
"No."
He touched his son's hair.
"Daddy isn't angry."
And perhaps that was the simplest thing he could give him.
Not a perfect childhood.
Not a promise that nothing bad would ever happen.
Just the certainty that when something broke, someone would kneel down beside him and say:
It's okay.
We'll clean it up.
Together.