Jun sat by the window and watched the dust.
A beam of the setting sun sliced the room with a fiery stripe, and in this light, dust motes hovered like tiny, homeless planets. This was their private movement—not music and not speech, but a chaotic, wordless noise full of meaning. Jun did not turn on the light. In the twilight, it was easier: the walls hid their scars, and his face—the exhaustion accumulated over the day.
From the kitchen wafted the scent of sesame oil—thick, warm, and beneath it, the sourness of old books was barely discernible. The smell was as precise as a postal code. The house smelled exactly as it had before. This was somewhat comforting.
Yuna's pink backpack "sounded" in the corridor. The clang of the zipper—short, high-pitched, almost laughing—was repeated several times. This sound had become for Jun something of a metronome: his sister is packing, his sister is in a hurry, his sister lives as if the cracks in their world do not exist. She burst into the kitchen like a whirlwind, with a bag of lollipops and a headband with ears—a strategically important attribute for a trip to the amusement park.
"Oppa, which T-shirt should I take for you?" Her voice did not wait for an answer. It simply did not allow the silence to take root.
"The dark one," Jun replied. It was safe.
Yuna dashed into the room, grabbed a T-shirt from the sofa, and for a second assumed an expression of focused importance. Aigoo... Inside Jun, the shadow of a smile stirred but never emerged, getting stuck somewhere halfway.
She rushed about the apartment, stuffing her pockets with candy wrappers and glitter. Her hands smelled of chewing gum—the sweet scent of small, naive plans. At the entryway, Yuna stopped, pulled an old photo album from a drawer, leafed through it, and deftly—almost imperceptibly—slipped one photograph into her pocket.
Jun noticed this immediately. He knew this move. In Yuna's pocket now lay a piece of the past—a quiet lure, a way to bargain for a few extra minutes of Father's attention.
He looked at his sister and felt a strange duality. For her, these trifles were instruments of joy. For him—reminders of a time that cannot be put on pause. He already saw this evening: Father in a flawless suit, a phone grafted to his ear, a smile lasting half a second longer than necessary. The park would become a stage set where Yuna would shine, and Father would appear and disappear like a guest performer.
Yuna approached and looked into his eyes—widely, hopefully, as if the world could grant her another miracle right now.
"Will you eat today?"
It was not a question. It was a demand for a promise.
"No," he shook his head.
The answer sounded level. Like a crossed-out item.
Behind this short refusal lay a whole set of forebodings: forced smiles for photographs, an empty table in someone else's apartment, the vibration of a smartphone that would sound more often than living voices. Jun folded all of this inside, as one folds clothes into a travel bag—neatly, so as not to interfere with breathing.
The door to the entryway slammed shut—a solid, final sound. Everything was ready.
Jun picked up Yuna's bag. The rough fabric smelled of the laundry and something stubbornly familiar from their shared childhood. He felt its weight—not so much of things as of responsibility. This contact turned out to be unexpectedly grounding. The bag in his hand meant that he was still holding onto something. That the world, at least for now, would not fall apart.
Yuna suddenly reached out and hugged him around the neck—quickly, awkwardly, like a flash of light. She smelled of mint toothpaste and sugar; a forgotten speck of glitter shimmered on her cheek. Jun froze, allowing this gesture to happen. He knew: this is how she says, "I love you." Without words.
He did not answer. His own words still lived too deep.
When the footsteps in the stairwell faded, Jun returned to the room and closed the door. Quietly. Almost tenderly.
Just as he once had—on the day of their departure from Busan—he again severed one space from another with one short movement.
But this time, the silence on the other side of the door was different.
---
Mother stood in the doorway, clutching a kitchen towel in her hands. She did not wipe the dishes with it, nor did she warm her fingers—she simply held it as one holds something essential when one does not know how else to defend oneself. The skin on her hands had reddened from the hot water; thin white marks from endless washing showed on her wrists. The shadow of her figure stretched across the linoleum toward the very threshold, lingering there as if it did not want to let go.
The kitchen behind her back breathed with steam. The air was saturated with the scent of cheap laundry detergent and moisture trapped in the crevices of the old stove. This smell was home—dense, customary, cutting to the quick. Jun inhaled it, and in that breath was everything: the taste of his mother's soup, the dry knock of the ladle against the rim of the pot, the silence with which she had smoothed his shirts for years, hiding exhaustion in the perfectly even folds of the fabric.
Yuna fussed at the threshold, but Lee Soyeon did not look at her. Her gaze was fixed upon Jun—short, precise, without extra shades. In it, there was no plea. Only a command that required no words: go and do not fail.
"Watch over her," she said quietly.
The voice sounded dry, almost official. Not an instruction to a child—a report.
"I will, Mom."
Two words. Customary. But in them stood his signature.
Soyeon took a step forward. The towel in her hands crumpled into a tight fold. She reached out to adjust the collar of his shirt—that very gesture which replaces hundreds of "be carefuls." Her damp fingers touched his neck. The warmth resonated with something forgotten.
Jun pulled away—just a little. Not sharply. Almost imperceptibly. Contact meant the acknowledgment of pain, and he had long ago learned to keep it under lock and key.
A pause hung between them. Short, but heavy. Within it fit years—unpaid bills, pharmacy ointments, bandages in the darkness, and that thread which cannot be severed, even if one tries very hard.
Jun leaned over and picked up Yuna's bag. The rough handle pricked his palm familiarly. The weight was perceptible—not so much of things as of responsibility. This grounded him. As long as the bag was in his hand, the world had no right to fall apart.
Mother exhaled. Almost inaudibly. Then she gave a short nod.
A parting without words and without tears—because tears in their house had long since dried up, leaving only salt on the skin of exhaustion.
Click.
The tongue of the lock placed a period. The door drew a line between the kitchen, smelling of steam and economy, and the outside world. Lee Soyeon remained there—among the pots standing on the stove like silent witnesses to her daily efforts.
Jun knew: she would have preferred to bend under any labor, to suffocate in debts, rather than allow her children to again be near the one who had once destroyed their home. But the law was dry and indifferent. It left her with only one right—to silently clench her jaws when the time came to pack the travel bags.
Jun took hold of the door handle.
And he did not look back.
---
Yuna pressed her forehead against the glass, and her breath left a hazy, rapidly vanishing imprint on the window. She counted the signs outside as if it were the most important game in the world: "Samlip… Convenience store… Pink kitty!"
Every time the overhead bin door slammed with a sharp mechanical clack, Jun flinched. The sound resonated in his skull, steady and ruthless, like the strikes of a metronome. Yuna looked happy. The world outside the window raced forward, and this clang of metal only confirmed: movement continues, even if the path is built from fragments.
The train accelerated. The vibration passed through the seat, rose into his back, and pressed against his shoulder blades and the heavy backpack on his knees. This hum almost coincided with his pulse. Beneath it, another rhythm was heard—the measured clatter of the rails, the iron heartbeat of the road. It was easy to detach oneself from it if one closed one's eyes. And just as easy—to get lost.
Jun gripped the backpack tighter. The notebook inside seemed heavier than it should be. Not because of the paper—because of the meaning. He could not leave it in Seoul. Right now, it was the only thing that did not pretend.
He felt for his headphones in his pocket and, without looking, turned on the first track. Architects burst into his ears. When Dead Butterflies began to play, the landscape outside the window started to lose its volume. To the explosive chorus, the train emerged from a tunnel, and the light changed sharply: gray fields flared with patches of suburbs.
The music laid down a dense layer, muffling everything else. The world became flat, like a stage set. To the chords speaking of the unfulfilled, the notebook lay in the backpack—vibrant, stubborn, knowing nothing of the scent of expensive colognes and cold agreements. Jun closed his eyes and allowed the sound to fill the void that the notebook had opened within him.
He thought of the author. Why did another's words sound so loud? To have someone say that I am important…
He barely touched the edge of the notebook through the fabric with his fingers. From this simple gesture, a warm, steady wave passed through his body—as if, in a dark room, a light switch had finally been found. How could one pass by and not respond?
Yuna suddenly turned and held out her phone to him. A message from Father: Delayed in negotiations. You know the door code. Order pizza.
The words struck his forehead with a familiar coldness. Yuna faded for a second—the spark in her eyes wavered—but she immediately built an excuse like a wall. "He works so much for us, after all…" Her voice grew thinner.
Jun pulled out one earphone. The music retreated, yielding to the sterile noise of the carriage. He noticed how her fingers trembled, and his anger at his father drowned in a viscous feeling of pity. "Everything is fine, Yuna-ya," he said and forced himself to smile. "We will order that pizza with double cheese. The one Mom usually forbids. It will be just us."
Yuna nodded too quickly. "With double cheese… And a Coke."
He drew her toward him. Beneath his palm was a fragile, tense warmth. Jun pressed her head to his shoulder, hoping she did not hear how hollowly and angrily his heart was beating. He held her—just as he held the backpack, just as he held himself.
An hour passed. There was more water outside the window, and the smell in the carriage changed. To the cheap plastic was added a barely perceptible salty note—a sign of the approaching sea. This smell was like a pinch of sugar in bitter tea: Busan was already close.
Figures flashed on the display: 325 kilometers. 2.5 hours of travel. Time here was measured not in minutes, but in the weight of expectations. Yuna mechanically toyed with the corner of his backpack—a quiet gesture that returned her composure.
The train entered the final leg of the journey. The lights thickened; the facades grew brighter. There, beyond the platform, glass doors and the level silence of another's house awaited him. Jun did not let go of the backpack.
Yuna squeezed his hand—briefly, confidently. He responded in kind.
The rhythm of the rails behind them remained steady and cold, like the pulse of the city they were entering. And the closer the station drew, the more insistently the silent presence of the notebook was felt—not a cry, not a command, but a quiet, stubborn reminder: Look more closely.
---
Yuna pressed her forehead against the glass, and her breath left a hazy, rapidly vanishing imprint on the window. She counted the signs outside as if it were the most important game in the world: "Samlip… Convenience store… Pink kitty!"
Every time the overhead bin door slammed with a sharp mechanical clack, Jun flinched. The sound resonated in his skull, steady and ruthless, like the strikes of a metronome. Yuna looked happy. The world outside the window raced forward, and this clang of metal only confirmed: movement continues, even if the path is built from fragments.
The train accelerated. The vibration passed through the seat, rose into his back, and pressed against his shoulder blades and the heavy backpack on his knees. This hum almost coincided with his pulse. Beneath it, another rhythm was heard—the measured clatter of the rails, the iron heartbeat of the road. It was easy to detach oneself from it if one closed one's eyes. And just as easy—to get lost.
Jun gripped the backpack tighter. The notebook inside seemed heavier than it should be. Not because of the paper—because of the meaning. He could not leave it in Seoul. Right now, it was the only thing that did not pretend.
He felt for his headphones in his pocket and, without looking, turned on the first track. Architects burst into his ears. When Dead Butterflies began to play, the landscape outside the window started to lose its volume. To the explosive chorus, the train emerged from a tunnel, and the light changed sharply: gray fields flared with patches of suburbs.
The music laid down a dense layer, muffling everything else. The world became flat, like a stage set. To the chords speaking of the unfulfilled, the notebook lay in the backpack—vibrant, stubborn, knowing nothing of the scent of expensive colognes and cold agreements. Jun closed his eyes and allowed the sound to fill the void that the notebook had opened within him.
He thought of the author. Why did another's words sound so loud? To have someone say that I am important…
He barely touched the edge of the notebook through the fabric with his fingers. From this simple gesture, a warm, steady wave passed through his body—as if, in a dark room, a light switch had finally been found. How could one pass by and not respond?
Yuna suddenly turned and held out her phone to him. A message from Father: Delayed in negotiations. You know the door code. Order pizza.
The words struck his forehead with a familiar coldness. Yuna faded for a second—the spark in her eyes wavered—but she immediately built an excuse like a wall. "He works so much for us, after all…" Her voice grew thinner.
Jun pulled out one earphone. The music retreated, yielding to the sterile noise of the carriage. He noticed how her fingers trembled, and his anger at his father drowned in a viscous feeling of pity. "Everything is fine, Yuna-ya," he said and forced himself to smile. "We will order that pizza with double cheese. The one Mom usually forbids. It will be just us."
Yuna nodded too quickly. "With double cheese… And a Coke."
He drew her toward him. Beneath his palm was a fragile, tense warmth. Jun pressed her head to his shoulder, hoping she did not hear how hollowly and angrily his heart was beating. He held her—just as he held the backpack, just as he held himself.
An hour passed. There was more water outside the window, and the smell in the carriage changed. To the cheap plastic was added a barely perceptible salty note—a sign of the approaching sea. This smell was like a pinch of sugar in bitter tea: Busan was already close.
Figures flashed on the display: 325 kilometers. 2.5 hours of travel. Time here was measured not in minutes, but in the weight of expectations. Yuna mechanically toyed with the corner of his backpack—a quiet gesture that returned her composure.
The train entered the final leg of the journey. The lights thickened; the facades grew brighter. There, beyond the platform, glass doors and the level silence of another's house awaited him. Jun did not let go of the backpack.
Yuna squeezed his hand—briefly, confidently. He responded in kind.
The rhythm of the rails behind them remained steady and cold, like the pulse of the city they were entering. And the closer the station drew, the more insistently the silent presence of the notebook was felt—not a cry, not a command, but a quiet, stubborn reminder: Look more closely.
---
Yuna pressed her forehead against the glass, and her breath left a hazy, rapidly vanishing imprint on the window. She counted the signs outside as if it were the most important game in the world: "Samlip… Convenience store… Pink kitty!"
Every time the overhead bin door slammed with a sharp mechanical clack, Jun flinched. The sound resonated in his skull, steady and ruthless, like the strikes of a metronome. Yuna looked happy. The world outside the window raced forward, and this clang of metal only confirmed: movement continues, even if the path is built from fragments.
The train accelerated. The vibration passed through the seat, rose into his back, and pressed against his shoulder blades and the heavy backpack on his knees. This hum almost coincided with his pulse. Beneath it, another rhythm was heard—the measured clatter of the rails, the iron heartbeat of the road. It was easy to detach oneself from it if one closed one's eyes. And just as easy—to get lost.
Jun gripped the backpack tighter. The notebook inside seemed heavier than it should be. Not because of the paper—because of the meaning. He could not leave it in Seoul. Right now, it was the only thing that did not pretend.
He felt for his headphones in his pocket and, without looking, turned on the first track. Architects burst into his ears. When Dead Butterflies began to play, the landscape outside the window started to lose its volume. To the explosive chorus, the train emerged from a tunnel, and the light changed sharply: gray fields flared with patches of suburbs.
The music laid down a dense layer, muffling everything else. The world became flat, like a stage set. To the chords speaking of the unfulfilled, the notebook lay in the backpack—vibrant, stubborn, knowing nothing of the scent of expensive colognes and cold agreements. Jun closed his eyes and allowed the sound to fill the void that the notebook had opened within him.
He thought of the author. Why did another's words sound so loud? To have someone say that I am important…
He barely touched the edge of the notebook through the fabric with his fingers. From this simple gesture, a warm, steady wave passed through his body—as if, in a dark room, a light switch had finally been found. How could one pass by and not respond?
Yuna suddenly turned and held out her phone to him. A message from Father: Delayed in negotiations. You know the door code. Order pizza.
The words struck his forehead with a familiar coldness. Yuna faded for a second—the spark in her eyes wavered—but she immediately built an excuse like a wall. "He works so much for us, after all…" Her voice grew thinner.
Jun pulled out one earphone. The music retreated, yielding to the sterile noise of the carriage. He noticed how her fingers trembled, and his anger at his father drowned in a viscous feeling of pity. "Everything is fine, Yuna-ya," he said and forced himself to smile. "We will order that pizza with double cheese. The one Mom usually forbids. It will be just us."
Yuna nodded too quickly. "With double cheese… And a Coke."
He drew her toward him. Beneath his palm was a fragile, tense warmth. Jun pressed her head to his shoulder, hoping she did not hear how hollowly and angrily his heart was beating. He held her—just as he held the backpack, just as he held himself.
An hour passed. There was more water outside the window, and the smell in the carriage changed. To the cheap plastic was added a barely perceptible salty note—a sign of the approaching sea. This smell was like a pinch of sugar in bitter tea: Busan was already close.
Figures flashed on the display: 325 kilometers. 2.5 hours of travel. Time here was measured not in minutes, but in the weight of expectations. Yuna mechanically toyed with the corner of his backpack—a quiet gesture that returned her composure.
The train entered the final leg of the journey. The lights thickened; the facades grew brighter. There, beyond the platform, glass doors and the level silence of another's house awaited him. Jun did not let go of the backpack.
Yuna squeezed his hand—briefly, confidently. He responded in kind.
The rhythm of the rails behind them remained steady and cold, like the pulse of the city they were entering. And the closer the station drew, the more insistently the silent presence of the notebook was felt—not a cry, not a command, but a quiet, stubborn reminder: Look more closely.