Park Tae-hyun wandered to a bookshelf in the quiet of Kim's Bookstore, his fingers trailing over the spines until they settled on a thick volume with a glossy cover.
He pulled it out—an oversized book on Korean calligraphy appreciation, its pages filled with elegant hanja strokes and scholarly notes.
A faint smirk tugged at his lips.
Who even buys this? Kim Min-woo must have been out of his mind to stock such an unsellable relic.
The man's judgment—or lack thereof—never ceased to baffle him.
He flipped it open, the pages falling to a spread showcasing four bold characters: "It's rare to be confused."
The phrase, a nod to embracing life's simplicity, stared back at him, heavy with irony.
"Tch," Park Tae-hyun muttered, smacking his lips.
Interesting.
He glanced at his phone, the time glowing on the screen.
Evening was creeping in, and with it, his plans with Dr. Im Yoo-jin—a movie, a fragile step toward something he couldn't quite name.
His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't eaten.
Dinner first, then her.
He locked the bookstore, the bell above the door chiming faintly, and stepped into the cool air of Tongmyeong's Seongbuk Middle Road.
The noodle shop next door was lit, its windows glowing with a warmth that felt out of place. As he pushed open the door, the sight inside stopped him cold.
Baek Cheong-won knelt on the floor, surrounded by a scatter of empty soju bottles, one still clutched in his hand.
His eyes were red, swollen, streaks of tears cutting paths down his delicate face.
He was a wreck, muttering to himself, the words slurring into a refrain of despair.
"It's not fair… it's not fair…"
Park Tae-hyun hesitated, the door swinging shut behind him.
Baek didn't notice, lost in his grief, his voice a broken record of resentment.
Clearing his throat, Park Tae-hyun stepped closer and crouched, resting a hand on Baek's shoulder.
"Hey, you okay?"
The words felt inadequate, but he pressed on, a wry edge to his tone.
"You know, most guys get drunk and maybe lose their wallet. You? You're too pretty for that. Pass out on the street, and it's not just money you'll be missing."
He meant it half as a joke, half as a warning—Baek's beauty was a magnet for trouble, the kind that could turn a late night into a nightmare.
Baek flinched at the touch, his head lolling back as he looked up.
His face, even blotchy with tears, was striking, like a painting of sorrow—pear blossoms caught in a storm.
He raised a trembling hand, fingers curling into an orchid gesture, and pointed at Park Tae-hyun.
"Today… It's the anniversary of my parents' death."
The words landed heavy, stripping away Park Tae-hyun's attempt at levity.
He straightened, his jaw tightening.
"My condolences," he said, the phrase formal, almost hollow.
He didn't know what else to offer—grief was a language he understood but struggled to speak.
Baek didn't respond, just tipped the soju bottle back, swallowing hard.
The silence stretched, thick with the stench of alcohol and unspoken pain.
Park Tae-hyun shifted, glancing at the empty tables.
"Not cooking tonight?" he asked, more to break the tension than anything else.
"Do! Cook!" Baek lurched to his feet, swaying like a willow in a storm.
His slender frame moved with a grace that belied his state, each stumble somehow elegant, inviting someone—anyone—to catch him, to breathe in the faint scent of his cologne.
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Park Tae-hyun raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.
"You sure you can manage?" he said, but he slid into a chair anyway, claiming a spot at a table.
Eating here wasn't easy for him—his ghostly nature made food a gamble—but he was hungry, and the thought of hunting down another place felt like too much effort.
Baek waved a dismissive hand and staggered to the kitchen, disappearing behind the curtain. Soon, the clatter of a stove igniting echoed out, followed by the sizzle of oil in a pan.
Park Tae-hyun pulled out his phone, thumbing through notifications.
A new message from Dr. Im Yoo-jin popped up: "I'll pick you up soon."
He typed back a quick "OK," then paused, frowning.
Too curt.
He added a "hahaha" with a cannonball emoji, then cringed.
Too much.
He withdrew it, but the empty space felt worse, like a confession of nerves.
He typed "Hehe," then grimaced again—too cold, too distant.
Withdrawing a second time would scream desperation.
His thumb hovered, caught in a loop of indecision.
Get it together, he thought, rubbing his temple.
The table became a battlefield of his own making, each tap on the screen a misstep.
In the kitchen, Baek was no less conflicted.
He stood over a wok, tossing strips of pork with practiced flicks, the twice-cooked meat sizzling as it hit the hot oil.
He'd pile it over rice—a simple dish, hearty and comforting.
But his mind was elsewhere, churning with questions that burned hotter than the stove.
"Why didn't she take you?" he muttered, his voice barely audible over the hiss of the pan.
"Why my parents, but not you?"
The old saying echoed in his head: 'It's not the lack of wealth that stings, but the inequality of it.'. Fairness was a myth, and today it had carved a fresh wound.
"It's not fair," he whispered, his hands moving on autopilot.
"Really..... not fair."
His eyes were dull, unfocused, but his cooking never faltered—years of running the shop had made it second nature.
"How can she be so partial? How can she choose?"
Silently, he reached into a cabinet beneath the stove, pulling out a small yellow canister.
His fingers trembled as he unscrewed the lid, tipping a pinch of powder into the pork.
It dissolved instantly, leaving no trace.
"My parents were taken," he murmured.
"Why are you still here? Because you saved her?"
He laughed, a hollow, bitter sound.
"What a joke."
"You want to eat?" he said to the empty air, as if Park Tae-hyun could hear his thoughts.
"Fine. I'll feed you."
His breaths came sharp and uneven, each one a struggle against the choice he'd just made.
The rice wasn't ready—he'd forgotten to heat it.
Cursing under his breath, he shoved a bowl into the microwave, the hum filling the kitchen as he stirred the pork one last time.
"Ready yet?" Park Tae-hyun called from the dining area, his voice cutting through Baek's haze.
"Soon," Baek replied, startled.
His eyes flicked to the wok, panic flashing across his face.
He hesitated, then covered the pan, hiding the evidence of his betrayal.
The microwave dinged, and he scooped the steaming rice into a bowl, piling the pork on top.
His hands shook as he carried the plate out, setting it before Park Tae-hyun with a thud.
Park Tae-hyun glanced up from his phone, still frowning at the mess of messages he'd sent Dr. Im.
Baek's dazed expression didn't escape him.
"You didn't forget the salt, did you?" he asked, half-teasing.
Baek shook his head, mute, his lips pressed tight.
Park Tae-hyun picked up his chopsticks, poised to dig in.
Baek's hand twitched, his mouth opening as if to speak, to stop him—but the words caught in his throat.
"Wait," Park Tae-hyun said, setting the chopsticks down.
"Where is Sour plum juice or bitter melon juice?"
Baek blinked, thrown.
"Oh… okay." He shuffled back to the kitchen, returning with a glass of sour plum juice, the liquid sloshing slightly as he set it down.
Park Tae-hyun lifted the glass, inhaling its tart scent.
He took a deep breath, ready to drink, when his phone buzzed again.
A new message from Dr. Im: "I'm here, come out."
He froze, the glass halfway to his lips.
The juice's sharp tang promised a grimace, a sourness that would linger on his face like a debt unpaid.
He set it down, untouched.
Not now, he thought.
This was his first real outing with her—his first in this life, maybe ever, if he counted the blur of his past.
He wanted to be present, not distracted by a puckered mouth or a poisoned mood.
The plate of pork and rice sat untouched, too.
He stood, brushing off his jeans.
"Put it on my tab," he said, glancing at Baek.
"I'll settle up at the end of the month. I'm heading out."
Baek didn't respond, his face a mask of shifting emotions—relief, guilt, something darker.
Park Tae-hyun didn't notice, already moving toward the door.
He stepped outside, the evening air cool against his skin, and spotted Dr. Im's car parked along the curb, her window rolled down, her silhouette waiting.
Behind him, in the noodle shop, Baek stared at the abandoned meal.
His breath hitched, and with a sudden, violent motion, he swept the plate to the floor.
Rice and pork were scattered across the tiles, the crash echoing in the empty space.
He sank to his knees, clutching his head, and began to cry.
The sobs came soft at first, then grew, spilling out louder, rawer, until they twisted into a dry, wrenching howl.
It was the sound of a man breaking, of grief and guilt colliding, of a heart left to bleed alone in the wreckage of his choices.
Dr. Im Yoo-jin stepped out of her car, the evening air cool against her navy dress, a change from her usual white coat.
Park Tae-hyun approached, their eyes meeting briefly in silent understanding—no words needed.
They walked toward the Hanam Mall’s secondary entrance, footsteps echoing softly.
The mall was a fading relic, barely alive. Kim’s Bookstore and Baek Cheong-won’s noodle shop clung to existence, joined only by a cinema and a buffet restaurant, their neon signs flickering weakly.
The cinema bled money, its seats empty on weekdays. Chuseok brought families, filling the theater with temporary warmth, but to Park Tae-hyun, it felt like a dying gasp.
The Shopping Center's collapse loomed, threatening to crush everything.
He bought tickets for *Neon Street Detective 2* and a couple’s meal—popcorn, drinks, and a clumsy gesture.
Late for the show, they settled for first-row seats.
Dr. Im didn’t complain, just nodded, her face calm. It was 2D; the view wouldn’t strain them.
With no shops to browse, waiting wasn’t an option.
In the theater, Dr. Im sat quietly, legs crossed elegantly, gazing at the screen. Park Tae-hyun offered popcorn; she declined with a gentle wave.
He sighed inwardly.
Romance was uncharted territory, his past life too consumed by work to learn its rules. Now, in Kim Min-woo’s body, pursuing her felt like groping through fog.
The movie began, its humor drawing chuckles.
Park Tae-hyun laughed at a quip; Dr. Im’s smile was subtle, silent, catching the screen’s glow. It was beautiful, but the night felt flat, like unsalted food—missing the spark he’d craved.
They sat close, yet distant, bound by unspoken truths he couldn’t voice.
The film played on, and they remained, two shadows sharing a fleeting moment.
