Eun-ja sat quietly at the kitchen table, the weight of the years pressing down on her shoulders. Her eyes wandered to the framed photos on the walls—snapshots of a life that felt so distant now, so full of hope and uncertainty. She longed for the days when the house was filled with laughter, when her sons were still at home, their futures still unwritten.

Her gaze settled on Jun-ho, standing by the window, his back to her. Even now, his silhouette was unmistakable. The broad shoulders, the way he held himself—always so sure, so determined. Eun-ja had always admired his confidence, his sense of duty, but today, she saw only the weariness in his posture, the quiet exhaustion that had become more apparent with each passing day.

"Jun-ho," she called softly, breaking the silence.

He turned, giving her a small, reassuring smile, the one he reserved just for her. The smile that, for all its warmth, never quite reached his eyes these days.

"You’re worrying too much, mother," Jun-ho said, his voice steady but distant. He always tried to ease her concerns, to reassure her that everything was fine. But she knew him too well.

"Is that what I’m doing?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly. "Or am I just... seeing the truth?"

Jun-ho hesitated, his gaze flickering down to the floor before meeting her eyes again. "I’m fine. I just... have a lot on my mind."

Eun-ja’s heart ached, a sharp, quiet pain that she could never fully explain. She had raised him, loved him, and yet, she couldn’t help but feel like she was losing him. It wasn’t just his physical absence she feared—it was his emotional distance, the way he seemed to close himself off more each day.

"What about your brother?" she asked gently, her words carrying a weight she didn’t expect. "In-ho... You haven’t spoken about him in months."

At the mention of In-ho, Jun-ho’s expression faltered. His brother’s name always brought a tension between them, an unspoken divide that neither of them dared to cross.