The house was quiet peaceful. A kind of peace Jonggun never thought he’d have, yet here he was.

The backyard was bathed in soft morning light, a breeze carrying the scent of fresh grass and wildflowers. And there, at the center of it all, was Jojo.

His firstborn. His son.

Jojo giggled as tiny paws danced around him, the family’s puppy yipping playfully. A butterfly landed on his nose, making the boy burst into laughter pure, innocent, untouched by the world Jonggun once lived in.

Jonggun stood beside him, holding the tiny hand in his own. So small. So warm. He had thought his wife’s hands were the smallest he’d ever hold, but Jojo’s? Jojo’s hand barely wrapped around his finger.

"Careful, Jojo," Jonggun murmured, his voice lower in the morning stillness.

Jojo only giggled more, wobbling forward like a little duckling, his chubby legs unsteady but determined.

Jonggun sighed, but there was something soft in his eyes. He ran a hand through his already messy hair, adjusting his glasses. No cigarette in sight not since you told him to stop when you were pregnant.

And speaking of you.

He glanced toward the house, catching sight of you through the open window. You were at the stove, making breakfast, sunlight kissing your skin. His wife. His peace.

A life he never imagined for himself but one he would protect with everything he had.