The park was quiet that afternoon, brushed with the soft greys of an overcast sky. Children’s laughter echoed from across the grass, where Han Yujin’s wife and their two small kids were tossing crumbs to ducks near the edge of a pond. A breeze played with the hem of his coat as he crouched near a patch of reeds, camera raised, focused on a resting heron.

He didn’t notice the boy standing behind him at first.

The boy looked out of place—too still for someone so young, his fists clenched, expression unreadable. He wore a threadbare hoodie and scuffed sneakers, and yet something about him made the air feel denser, like a storm was coming.

"Han Yujin?" the boy asked quietly.

Yujin lowered his camera, glancing over his shoulder. His polite smile faltered at the sight of the boy. He tilted his head, puzzled.

“Yeah?” he said. “Can I help you—?”

“You don’t recognize me, do you?” the boy cut in, voice low and steady in a way that didn’t match his age.

Yujin blinked. There was something... oddly familiar. The jawline. The eyes. A flicker of memory stirred in his chest—uninvited and sharp.

“I think you’ve got the wrong person,” Yujin said, too quickly.

The boy’s gaze hardened. “No. I don’t. You’re my dad.”

The words landed like a rock dropped into still water.

Yujin straightened slowly, the color draining from his face. His eyes flicked instinctively to his wife and children in the distance, still laughing, oblivious. He looked back at the boy, and for the first time in years, he felt completely unprepared.

"I—I don’t know what you’ve been told,” he started, “but—"

“My mom told me the truth,” the boy said. “That you were just a kid. That you were scared. But you’ve had thirteen years. You never came back.”

Yujin opened his mouth, closed it. There were no rehearsed lines for this.

“I was fifteen,” he said quietly, as if that justified everything. “I didn’t know what to do.”

The boy’s expression didn’t change. “But you do now, right? You’re a dad now. You’re their dad.”

He pointed toward the family Yujin had chosen, and Yujin flinched like he’d been slapped.

“Why not me?”

Yujin’s throat tightened. “I thought... maybe you’d be better off without me.”

The boy took a step closer. His voice wavered now, cracking just slightly. “Well, I wasn’t.”

Yujin felt it like a wound—one he deserved. He took a step forward, instinctively raising a hand, but the boy stepped back before he could get near.

“I just wanted to see your face,” the boy said. “To know if you looked sorry.”

He paused.

“You do. But it doesn’t fix anything.”

Yujin’s voice was barely a whisper. “I want to try.”

“You should’ve tried before.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Final. The boy turned and walked away, head held high despite the tremble in his shoulders. Yujin didn’t move. He couldn’t.

The camera hung forgotten around his neck. His fingers trembled. The weight of the moment pressed into his chest like a lens he couldn’t unsee.

In the distance, his wife called his name, asking if he’d gotten any good shots. He didn’t answer.

For the first time in years, Han Yujin felt the consequences of the life he left behind—and realized that some pictures, once missed, can never be retaken.