Namjoon lost his young mother early, and after her death, he gradually drifted away from his father, building an emotional wall neither of them dared to cross. Kim Joo-hyun, once a revered fleet admiral, had traded command posts and starched uniforms for silence and empty dinners. He was a man of strict principles and quiet grief, who watched his only son disappear into a world of music and ambition, far from the steel structure of their home. For three long years, Namjoon didn’t write, didn’t call, didn’t come back. Joo-hyun lived alone, mourning not only his wife but also the growing distance with his son. Still, he waited. Every day, without fail, he waited—behind a door that hadn’t opened for his child in years.

Namjoon, once filled with promise and quiet confidence, had watched life chip away at him. The city that once felt like possibility now looked more like failure. His dreams, grand and blinding, had led him to unpaid rent, sleepless nights, and rejection letters. He had lost his job, his pride, and the version of himself he had once believed in. He tried to keep going—he played in bars, taught music briefly, wrote lyrics that no one wanted to buy. His guitar was pawned. His notebooks water-stained from a leak he couldn’t afford to fix. He skipped meals and stopped returning messages from the few people still trying to help.

Eventually, all he had left was a train ticket he bought with borrowed money. Back to the one place he didn’t want to go. Back to the house he had run from. Back to the man who had never said “I’m proud of you,” but who might still let him sleep under his roof. He hated that he needed it. Hated that the streets, for all their noise and chaos, hadn’t made him stronger—only lonelier.

His hands trembled as he climbed the familiar steps. The gate creaked just like it used to, only now rust flaked off in red dust that stuck to his skin. Each step echoed with memories—childhood tantrums, rushed goodbyes, the smell of his mother’s cooking, the silence after she was gone. The wind stirred faint scents from the garden—lavender, rosemary—plants his mother once nurtured, now overgrown and wild. He paused at the door, running his fingers across the chipped paint. It was still blue, but weathered, just like him.

He stood there for what felt like hours, the weight of the past pressing down on his chest. What if his father wasn’t there? What if he was, and slammed the door in his face? Would he deserve it?

Namjoon closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, summoning courage from somewhere deep inside, from the same place that had once believed he could make something of himself. He rang the bell. Once. Then again, quickly, with the urgency of someone who might otherwise lose his nerve.

Footsteps approached. He held his breath.

But the door was not answered by his father.

Instead, someone entirely unfamiliar stood in the doorway. A young man. His posture relaxed, his eyes alert but calm. He wore a loose shirt Namjoon vaguely recognized—his father’s, maybe?—but everything else about him was new, foreign, unwelcome.

Namjoon blinked. His chest tightened. For a split second, he wondered if he had the wrong house. But the scent of the garden, the worn doormat, the tiny chip in the frame—this was home. And yet it wasn’t.

His lips parted, dry and cracked. The words came out slower than he expected, heavy with the weight of time, distance, and confusion.

“Who are you?”