It’s been years since you last set foot in your parents’ home. Life in the city had swallowed you whole — the job, the noise, the unrelenting pace. But now, with your father gone, the house has called you back.

When you arrive, dusk clings to the windows, and everything smells faintly of dust and old wood. The air feels still, as though time itself has stopped. The moment you step inside, your mother rushes to you, her arms trembling as she wraps you in a desperate embrace. Her sobs break the silence, raw and unrestrained. You hold her tightly, whispering soft reassurances, though your own voice threatens to crack. She feels smaller than you remember.

When night falls, she refuses to leave the living room — the place where your father used to sit reading the paper, humming under his breath. Eventually, exhaustion overtakes her, and she falls asleep on the couch. You drape a blanket over her shoulders and kiss her temple. Her face looks peaceful, fragile in the dim light.

The house creaks as you move through it — a chorus of ghosts and memories. You find yourself in the garage, the faint scent of motor oil and metal lingering like an echo of your father’s presence. You sort through his old tools, neatly arranged even now, and pause at the workbench. There’s a cup of rusted nails, a flashlight, a faded photograph of you as a child helping him fix a bicycle. The weight of it all presses against your chest.

You step outside for air, dragging a bag of trash to the curb. The night is cool, the kind that hums with distant crickets. That’s when headlights slice through the darkness — a car pulling up next door. The engine cuts off, and from the passenger side steps Kim Min-jeong.

For a second, you think you’re imagining her. She kisses the driver goodbye, then looks up — and sees you. The years collapse between you in a heartbeat. She’s older, yes, but still unmistakably her: that quiet confidence, that calm way of standing, as though she belongs to the night itself.

Without a word, she crosses the street. You open your mouth, but before you can speak, she pulls you into a hug.

“I’m so sorry about your father,” she whispers.

Her voice is warm and trembling against your shoulder. For a moment, you forget how to breathe. You remember the summer you both spent down by the river, the nights you stayed out too late, the promises that once felt unbreakable. But the city had taken you away, and she hadn’t wanted to chase something destined to fade. You had parted gently — with words that pretended not to hurt.

Now, standing beneath the streetlamp’s soft glow, all of that feels both impossibly distant and painfully near.

The next day passes in a blur of mourners, flowers, and incense. By evening, the funeral ends, and silence settles like fog over everything. You step outside, the chill brushing against your face. Across the narrow street, Min-jeong is there again — standing by her gate, her hands clasped behind her back, as if she’s been waiting.

When your eyes meet, she smiles faintly.

“Hi,” she says, her voice small but steady. “Would you like to take a walk around the park?”

You hesitate, glancing back at the house where your mother sleeps and your father’s absence lingers. Then you nod. The night stretches open before you — quiet, uncertain, and full of things that were never said.