Autumn had crept into the city like a memory—soft, golden, and a little bittersweet.
The breeze held a subtle bite, just enough to redden cheeks and noses, but not enough to keep people inside. Pale blue sky arched overhead, streaked with cloud wisps, while leaves rustled like soft paper, carpeting sidewalks in shades of amber, rust, and gold.
Jinwoo stood at the edge of the park path, takeaway coffee cooling in one hand, gaze following the bundle of energy darting between leaf piles.
His son.
Suho giggled as he chased a swirling maple leaf that danced just out of reach. “Got you!”
A pause—then Suho popped up, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. “That leaf tried to fight me!”
Jinwoo chuckled. “Looks like it won.”
He brushed stray leaves from Suho’s hair and scooped him up. The boy curled against his chest, holding the leaf like a trophy.
Moments like this—quiet, simple—meant everything now.
They weren’t grand or cinematic, but they were real. In a life once consumed by chaos and shadows, this reality was precious.
Jinwoo adjusted Suho’s scarf and began walking. His thoughts wandered, as they always did when the world grew still.
It had been over a year since the divorce.
Cha Hae-In had been honest. Painfully so.
She hadn’t stopped loving Suho. But she wanted something else. Something that wasn’t this.
“I love him, Jinwoo,” she’d said, voice calm, eyes glassy. “But I don’t want to be someone’s mother full-time. I feel caged.”
They’d sat across from each other at the dining table. Suho had been asleep upstairs, unaware.
Jinwoo remembered the hollowness. Not anger. Just weight. Like something precious had slipped through his fingers.
But he understood.
She hadn’t abandoned them. She still visited Suho when she could. Postcards arrived from airports. Video calls came with bright smiles and guilt beneath the surface.
But her name was no longer on the daycare’s emergency list.
Now it was just father and son.
And that was okay.
They had their own rhythm.
Saturday mornings in the park. Errands after. The mall if Suho behaved (or even if he didn’t—Jinwoo wasn’t great at saying no).
By late morning, they reached the mall. It pulsed with weekend traffic—families, students, couples in motion.
Jinwoo balanced coffee, diaper bag, and Suho’s gloved hand with the grace of a man who had practiced.
“Daaaaddy! The horses!”
Jinwoo followed his son’s finger to the carousel spinning near the food court. Lights twinkled as horses bobbed to old-timey music.
“We’ll check it out after the bookstore,” he said.
Suho frowned. “But they’ll run away!”
“They won’t,” Jinwoo said, smiling. “Pinky promise.”
They linked fingers—sacred in their world.
The bookstore offered warmth and peace. Cinnamon-scented displays welcomed them. Suho ran ahead to the children’s section, plopping onto a mushroom stool and talking to a pop-up T. rex.
Jinwoo smiled, set the bag down nearby, and stepped a few feet away to answer a call.
“Yes, I reviewed the contract,” he murmured. “Push the meeting to Monday. I’m with Suho—no, it’s fine. I’ll review the materials tonight.”
Just a two-minute call.
Maybe three.
When Jinwoo turned back toward the reading nook—
Suho was gone.
At first, he assumed the boy had wandered to a different shelf. He checked around beanbags. Called his name.
“Suho?”
Nothing.
His chest tightened.
“Suho!”
Faster now. Gaze sweeping. Sharp.
The staff hadn’t seen him. A mother with twins shook her head.
Jinwoo’s grip tightened on his phone.
Out the door in seconds, moving with calm urgency.
Where would a child go?
There, in front of a glowing jellyfish lamp, sat Suho.
His small back was curled inward. Still. Scared.
“Daddy?” Suho’s voice cracked. “Daddy?”
No one noticed.
Not a single adult turned.
“I… I losted my Daddy…”
He dropped to the floor, clutching his dinosaur book, lip trembling.