Outside, the weather had shifted. The te morning sun had long been swallowed by thick, gray clouds, casting a dim, muted light over the estate. A cold breeze drifted in through the open balcony doors, stirring the heavy curtains, making them sway like ghosts in the silence. The trees beyond the garden trembled under the slow, creeping wind, their branches whispering secrets no one could hear.

  When Mi-rae left, the quiet she left behind felt heavier than her presence. Kiho had not spoken a word. Nor had his father. They had simply remained there, two figures sitting across from each other, divided by more than just the space between them. The silence in the room was suffocating, as if every breath carried the weight of something left unsaid.

  Even the servants moved carefully, their footsteps muted against the polished floors. The air inside the mansion felt thick—like a storm waiting to break, though the sky outside only hinted at the possibility of rain.

  Kiho sat motionless, his gaze lowered, yet his mind restless. The house, despite its grandeur, felt strangely unfamiliar. As if time had passed without him in it, leaving him behind like an echo of something that once belonged but no longer fit.

  Chairman Choi, who had remained quiet for so long, finally exhaled. The sound was almost imperceptible, yet it carried the weight of exhaustion. His grip tightened around the delicate porcein teacup in his hands before he finally pced it down, the faint clink echoing in the vast, hollow space.

  Mr. Jang, standing by the side, watched them both—two men bound by blood but separated by years of absence. His gaze flickered toward Kiho, who had yet to look up, and then toward Chairman Choi, whose expression remained unreadable.

  For a long time, no one spoke. And in that silence, the mansion felt colder than it had in years.

  Mr. Jang, ever the mediator, attempted to break the silence. “How does it feel… seeing the mansion again?” His voice was light, careful.

  Kiho remained still, his gaze sweeping over the opulent surroundings. The towering ceilings, the rich mahogany furniture polished to a shine, the chandeliers that cast warm golden light against the marble floors—it was all the same, and yet, it wasn’t.

  “Not much has changed,” he finally murmured, his voice unreadable. “Though… most of the servants are new.”

  Mr. Jang nodded. “Yes, only a few have remained over the years.”

  Kiho’s attention drifted, his eyes settling on the grand staircase, its dark wooden banister gleaming under the soft lighting. Just beside it, hung in a gilded frame, was a family portrait.

  He stood, his movements deliberate, as he approached the portrait. The golden frame shimmered under the soft glow of the chandelier, regal and untouched by time. In the painting, Chairman Choi sat in a dignified posture, dressed in a deep navy suit, his expression composed yet authoritative. A little girl sat on his p, dressed in a delicate cream-colored dress with ce embroidery, her dark curls framing her round face—she was the child from earlier, the one called Lyn.

  Standing just behind Chairman Choi was a man, possibly in his early thirties, his posture straight and formal. Kiho’s stare hardened. Recognition flickered in his eyes. His little brother, the boy he only remembered as a five-year-old, was now a grown man. Yet, the sharp lines of his face, the determined set of his mouth—those were features Kiho still recognized from over two decades ago. Beside Jisung stood a woman, elegant and composed, her beauty carrying a quiet mystery. She wore a dark emerald dress, cinched at the waist, the fabric flowing gracefully around her. A pearl neckce rested against her colrbone, complementing her poised presence.

  Kiho studied them intently, his jaw tightening.

  Mr. Jang, who had been observing him carefully, stepped beside him, his voice low and measured. “That’s Jisung,” he said softly, his gaze lingering on the elegant portrait. “It was taken recently, on Lyn’s birthday. She just turned eight.”

  Kiho’s eyes remained locked on the image, tracing the familiar yet unfamiliar faces before him. Mr. Jang continued, his tone carrying a quiet fondness. “Jisung has done well for himself. His wife, Haeun, is a kind woman. They have a—”

  “Not the family I remember.”

  Kiho’s voice cut through the room like a bde, quiet but sharp, halting Mr. Jang mid-sentence. His stare had darkened, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. The air between them grew heavier, the silence stretching unbearably long. Then, without another word, he turned sharply, his steps slow and deliberate as he walked back to his chair.

  Mr. Jang remained standing for a moment, watching him, before letting out a quiet sigh. The warmth in his expression dimmed slightly, repced with something more pensive. He gnced back at the portrait once more before following Kiho, his movements just as slow, as if weighed down by the past.

  Chairman Choi, who had been silently observing the exchange, set his teacup down with a quiet clink. He Chairman Choi set his teacup down gently, his expression unreadable yet composed. After a brief pause, he spoke, his voice steady but with a softness that hadn’t been there before.

  “Stay for lunch,” he said. “I’ll have the chefs prepare all your favorite dishes.”

  His gaze lingered on Kiho, as if searching for something in his son’s face, before he slowly rose from his seat.

  “I should excuse myself for now,” he added, his tone polite, almost cautious. “There are some matters I need to attend to.”

  Chairman Choi had already turned away, his steps measured and unhurried. But just as he reached the foot of the staircase, he paused. For a moment, the silence stretched between them before he spoke, his voice calm yet firm.

  “Your brother will be home earlier than expected today,” he said, his tone carrying a quiet weight. “Stay and see him before you leave.”

  He didn’t look back, nor did he wait for a response. Instead, he continued up the stairs with deliberate ease, disappearing into his room, leaving behind only the faint echo of his footsteps.

  Kiho, his eyes still fixed downward, muttered, “I guess I am not welcome here at all.”

  Kiho, who had spent the past hour letting his gaze wander, taking in the mansion with a detached, almost restless air, now found his stare locked onto the staircase. Something had changed—his posture, once rexed in feigned indifference, had gone rigid. His fingers curled slightly at his sides, tension knotting in his shoulders. The air in the room felt heavier, thick with the weight of things left unsaid.

  The silence deepened, pressing against the walls like an unseen force.

  Mr. Jang, attuned to the shift in atmosphere, spoke with quiet care. “Would you like to go to the garden?” he offered. “Madam Yoon has kept all the flowers your mother used to tend to.”

  At that, Kiho’s gaze flickered, something unreadable passing through his expression. A memory, perhaps—a moment of another life buried beneath twenty-five years of distance. He didn’t respond right away, but after a beat, he pushed himself to his feet.

  Mr. Jang followed without a word as they walked through the vast halls, the grandeur of the mansion stretching around them. The polished floors reflected the dim glow of the chandeliers, the rich scent of aged wood and distant tea lingering in the air. Their footsteps barely made a sound, swallowed by the weight of time—by the echoes of a past that had long been left behind but never truly faded.

  Familiar Flowers, Forgotten Bonds

  The air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and faint traces of blooming flowers. A soft breeze rustled the leaves, whispering through the trees that had long since outgrown their once-young branches. In the garden, Kiho stood with Mr. Jang, his gaze moving over the carefully tended ndscape. The pce had changed—grown—but there were remnants of the past woven through the new.

  As his eyes traced the winding paths, a sudden wave of nostalgia hit him. He could almost see her—the graceful figure of his mother, kneeling by the flower beds, her delicate hands brushing over the petals with care. The garden had been her sanctuary, her pce of peace. He could hear the soft hum of the songs she used to sing while tending to the pnts, the warmth of her ughter carried by the wind. The memory was so vivid that, for a fleeting moment, he almost believed he could reach out and touch her. But just as quickly, reality sank its cws into him, and she was gone again, lost to the past.

  From behind them, a familiar voice broke the quiet. “You still have the same eyes.”

  Kiho turned as Madam Yoon approached, her warm smile untouched by time. She studied him with gentle fondness before looking around the garden. “These trees were once mere shrubs when you were st here. Now look at them,” she said, motioning to the sturdy trunks and the flourishing canopy of green above them. “Much has changed, but some things remain. Your mother’s favorites—the mugunghwa (rose of Sharon), baekilhong (crape myrtle), and dongbaek (camellia)—they still bloom just as beautifully as ever. She loved them dearly. I can still see her kneeling right there by the camellias, her hands covered in soil, yet smiling as if she held the world’s greatest treasure.”

  Kiho's gaze followed her gesture, nding on the flower beds his mother had once cared for with so much devotion. The colors were vibrant, the petals swaying gently in the wind, as if whispering secrets of the past. The sight stirred something deep within him—an ache, a longing, a resentment for the years lost and the memories that felt too distant to hold onto.

  Mr. Jang added with a small smile, “It’s thanks to Madam Yoon. She made sure they were taken care of all these years.”

  Madam Yoon gave a soft ugh. “I only did what she would have wanted. I could never bring myself to let them wither. It felt like... a way to keep a piece of her here. She would have been so proud to see them flourish.”

  Kiho remained silent, his gaze flickering from the flowers to Madam Yoon. After a long pause, he finally spoke. “You've aged.” His tone was unreadable. “But you still look the same. Still pretty.”

  Madam Yoon chuckled softly, her eyes crinkling with warmth. “Time has been kinder to me than most. But you, Kiho... or should I say our dear Jihoon now? Time has been far too cruel to you.”

  Mr. Jang smiled as well, though he said nothing more. The morning continued in quiet observations, until eventually, the call for lunch interrupted their silent reminiscing.

  Mr. Jang turned to Kiho with a polite nod. “I’ll be back to pick you up in the afternoon,” he said gently. “Take your time.”

  There was a brief pause before he added, “Enjoy your meal,” then excused himself, stepping away from the garden and leaving Kiho alone with his thoughts.

  Inside the grand dining hall, the table was set with an exquisite spread, each dish meticulously arranged with care. The rich scent of galbijjim filled the air, the slow-braised short ribs glistening in a deep, savory gze. A steaming pot of samgyetang sat at the center, the ginseng-infused broth clear yet fragrant, promising warmth and nourishment. Ptes of jeon, golden and crisp, were neatly stacked beside small bowls of dipping sauce. An assortment of namul, delicately seasoned vegetables, and the ever-present kimchi added vibrant color to the feast, while mounds of freshly steamed rice sat waiting, their warmth rising in gentle wisps.

  As Kiho and the others took their seats, soft footsteps signaled the arrival of Chairman Choi. He emerged from his room, his gaze sweeping over the table before settling on Kiho. His voice was calm, carrying an almost tentative warmth.

  “I asked the chefs to prepare all of your favorite dishes,” he said, his tone careful yet sincere. “It’s been a long time… I hope you’ll enjoy them.”

  Kiho’s gaze drifted over the array of dishes, his expression unreadable. After a pause, he finally spoke, his voice cool and distant.

  “I don’t remember you ever knowing my favorites.”

  The words nded with quiet finality, cutting through the air like a bde. The tension thickened, heavy and unmoving. The dishes, no matter how carefully prepared, suddenly felt like remnants of a past long out of reach—one that Kiho had no intention of reciming.

  Moments ter, the young girl from earlier descended the staircase, her small frame wrapped in a pale yellow dress with delicate embroidery along the hem. Her dark hair was neatly tied with a white ribbon, and her curious eyes flitted across the room before she moved to take her seat. Lyn sat to the left of Chairman Choi, leaving a space between them. Across from her, Kiho remained still, his expression unreadable.

  As the meal went on, Lyn found herself stealing gnces at the man in front of her. She tried not to, but her eyes kept drifting back to him—his cold demeanor, the unfamiliar yet oddly familiar presence he carried. She didn’t speak, but the weight of her silent curiosity did not go unnoticed.

  Chairman Choi, noticing her lingering stares, set his spoon down and spoke gently. “Lyn, show some manners. It’s not polite to stare at our guest.”

  She blinked and turned to him, lips pressing together as she debated whether or not to ask what was on her mind. Before she could, Chairman Choi added, his tone softer this time, “He’s your uncle.”

  Lyn looked back at Kiho, but he gave no reaction. He neither acknowledged them nor broke his silence, simply continuing his meal as if they weren’t there. After a moment, she turned back to Chairman Choi and responded simply, “Okay.” Her voice was gentle, accepting but still thoughtful.

  The meal was consumed in silence, each bite heavy with unspoken thoughts. When the ptes were cleared, dessert was served—an exquisite dispy of baesuk, delicately poached pears in a light cinnamon-infused syrup, adorned with pine nuts and gold fkes. Beside it, a selection of jeonggwa, candied fruits glistening like jewels, sat on a porcein tray. A rich honey castel was sliced into perfect portions, its airy texture complemented by a side of yakbap, sweet glutinous rice mixed with chestnuts, jujubes, and pine nuts. The aroma of subtle spices and fine ingredients lingered in the air, yet even the luxurious treats did little to ease the weight of the atmosphere.

  Once she had finished her dessert, Lyn set down her spoon and turned to her grandfather. “Grandfather, may I be excused?”

  Chairman Choi regarded her for a brief moment before giving a small nod. “Go on.”

  Lyn stood gracefully and slipped outside into the garden, the soft rustling of her dress the only sound in the quiet room.

  The veranda was bathed in the golden light of the te afternoon, the warm glow filtering through the wooden ttices, casting shifting patterns on the stone floor. The scent of freshly brewed tea lingered in the air, mingling with the crisp, earthy scent of the garden beyond. The soft clink of porcein punctuated the silence as Kiho and Chairman Choi sat with cups of tea before them. The liquid inside shimmered a deep amber, its fragrance both soothing and sharp, curling into the cool air like a fleeting memory.

  A quiet breeze stirred the leaves, rustling through the trees that had stood witness to years of unspoken words. Despite the peaceful ambiance, there was a tension beneath it, like a bowstring pulled taut, a stillness heavy with the weight of unspoken history. Neither man spoke, their silence stretching long and deep, as if acknowledging that words had long lost their pce between them.

  Then, from a distance, the low hum of an approaching car disrupted the quiet. The sound grew closer, steady and unhurried, until the sleek bck vehicle rolled smoothly into the estate. The engine cut off, leaving only the lingering echo of its arrival. Yet the veranda remained unchanged, its hush undisturbed, save for the faint rustle of tea leaves settling at the bottom of the delicate porcein cups.

  Footsteps approached. Slow, measured.

  Chairman Choi barely lifted his gaze as Jisung stepped into view. There was no urgency in his movement, only the controlled grace of a man accustomed to being watched, to being in control. He adjusted the cuffs of his tailored suit before exhaling, smoothing his tie as he spoke, his voice calm yet distant.

  “Oh, you’re here now,” Chairman Choi said, finally setting down his teacup with a quiet clink. His voice carried no accusation, no warmth, only the simple acknowledgment of presence.

  Jisung gave a small nod. “Yes. I just finished meetings at work.” His tone was polite, businesslike. “But I have a dinner meeting ter, so I can’t stay long.”

  His eyes flickered toward the man sitting across from Chairman Choi. The moment their gazes met, the world around them seemed to slow.

  Time unraveled in an instant.

  Jisung’s eyes, sharp with scrutiny, searched the face before him—the man he had barely any memory of. He studied the strong jawline, the unreadable gaze, the air of quiet detachment. There was something faintly familiar in the way he carried himself, a certain presence, a resembnce to someone Jisung knew but couldn’t quite pce. But it was only when he truly looked, when he traced the harsh yet striking angles of his face, that it clicked—

  He looked like their father.

  Not just a little. Almost hauntingly so. The strong brow, the firm set of his lips, even the way he held himself, rigid and composed—it was as if their father had been brought back in the prime of his youth, standing before him in the form of this stranger.

  A stranger. Yet—

  No. Not a stranger.

  Jisung knew, without needing to ask.

  This was his brother.

  A Face from a Faded Memory

  Across from him, Kiho sat unmoving, but beneath the surface, his mind was anything but still. The moment he id eyes on the man before him, the memories came unbidden.

  A small boy, barely five years old. His wide, innocent gaze, filled with childish wonder—the same gaze Kiho had despised back then. Those eyes, round and deep, carrying an unspoken longing, had always reminded him of the mother he had lost too soon. They were hers. The same shape, the same quiet sadness lingering in them, as if they had seen sorrow too early in life.

  Back then, Kiho had hated those eyes. Hated the way they mirrored the woman he had loved most, the woman who had once been his entire world before she slipped away, taking with her the warmth he had clung to. He had despised how, even in her final days, her gaze softened whenever they nded on this boy—her youngest son, the one she left behind.

  But now, standing before him was no longer that fragile child, but a man. And yet, Kiho could still see it. Even with the years that had passed, even with the hardened features and the weight of adulthood on his frame, Jisung was still their mother’s son. His face was a strange fusion of their parents—the sharp, commanding lines of their father, but softened by the unmistakable traces of their mother.

  It unsettled Kiho. A wave of nostalgia crashed over him, bringing with it something heavier, something bitter. Sadness. Regret. And beneath it all, the old anger that had never truly faded.

  Because no matter how much time had passed, Kiho could never forget—this was the boy who had stolen the st remnants of their mother’s fleeting affections. The boy who had been the symbol of everything Kiho had resented in his childhood.

  And now, he stood before him, a man. A stranger.

  Yet somehow, in a cruel twist of fate, also the closest reminder of the home Kiho had lost.

  The silence between them grew heavier, charged with something neither of them could name.

  Jisung stood frozen in pce, his breath catching as his gaze fixed on the man before him. Recognition settled over him like a slow-moving tide, pulling at the edges of his memory, dragging forth fragments of a past he had never fully grasped. He had been too young to remember much, his recollections vague and blurred, but some things had stayed with him—things he could never forget.

  The man standing before him looked uncannily like their father. Not in every way, but in ways that mattered. The same straight, defined nose, the same firm-set lips that rarely betrayed emotion. It was those features—sharp, severe—that made Jisung feel as though he were looking at an echo of their father’s younger days, a ghost of a man long gone.

  And yet, beyond that uncanny resembnce, Jisung could still see traces of the boy from his earliest memories.

  A boy who had hated him.

  He could remember the coldness, the way that thirteen-year-old boy—his older brother—had looked at him, not with fondness, not with care, but with something harsher. Something cruel. Jisung had never understood why. He had only been a child, wanting nothing more than to be acknowledged, to be accepted. But Jihoon—now Kiho—had never given him that.

  The small slights had been constant. Drawings ripped and tossed aside without a second gnce. Words that cut, not in their volume, but in their deliberate detachment. A quiet rejection that spoke louder than any insult could.

  But there had been moments that had not been quiet at all.

  Jisung swallowed, his fingers curling at his sides as a memory surfaced—one he had not allowed himself to think about in years. The push. The sudden loss of bance. The sheer terror of weightlessness as he tumbled down the stairs, limbs filing, a sharp, searing pain shooting through him as he hit the floor below. He had cried then, not just from the pain, but from the realization that his brother had not reached for him.

  And now, that same brother stood before him. No longer a boy, but a man.

  A man who still bore the face of the one person Jisung had been taught to respect, but had never learned to love.

  The past, long buried, now stood in front of him, alive and breathing. And for the first time in years, Jisung wasn’t sure what to do with it.

  Jisung finally broke it, his voice quiet, measured. “So, you’re really still alive.”

  Kiho said nothing. His expression did not change, nor did he flinch.

  Chairman Choi, who had been quietly observing from his seat, finally stood. His movements were slow, measured, as though he were weighing each word before speaking. The afternoon light cast long shadows over the veranda, painting his expression in a solemn hush. His voice, when it came, was gentle but firm.

  “He won’t be staying long,” he said, his tone carrying the weight of a decision already made. “He’ll be returning to the hospital ter.”

  Jisung’s brows furrowed, confusion flickering across his face. “Why?” he asked, his voice edged with something he couldn’t quite define. “If this is his home, why send him away?”

  Chairman Choi’s gaze remained steady, unreadable. When he spoke again, there was no hesitation. “He doesn’t belong here anymore.”

  The words settled heavily in the air, sinking into the silence between them.

  Kiho, who had been staring bnkly at his younger brother, suddenly let out a quiet, humorless chuckle. It wasn’t truly amusement—it was something else, something distant and bitter, like the aftertaste of something long since soured. His lips curled into a faint smirk, but his eyes held no warmth.

  Jisung clenched his jaw. The weight of his grandfather’s words pressed against something deep in his chest, something he had yet to name. “He’s not as scary as you made him out to be,” he muttered, almost to himself.

  Kiho tilted his head slightly at that, as if turning the thought over in his mind, as if considering whether it was worth responding to at all. Then, in a voice light yet ced with something unreadable, he finally spoke.

  “Don’t worry,” he murmured. “I wouldn’t want to stay here either.” He let out a breath that sounded almost like a sigh, almost like a ugh. “This isn’t the home I remember.”

  Chairman Choi’s expression remained impassive, untouched by the words. He inhaled slowly, then turned on his heel, walking away with the same quiet authority he always carried. No further expnation. No lingering gnce. Just the sound of his retreating footsteps against the polished wood.

  Silence crept back in, thick and suffocating, settling over them like dust on forgotten memories.

  Jisung stood rigid, his fists curling at his sides, his mind a storm of unspoken thoughts. There was so much he wanted to say, but none of it found its way past his lips.

  And Kiho—Jihoon remained perfectly still. The past, the one he had convinced himself he had let go of, wrapped around him once more. And now, standing here, face to face with the brother he had once pushed away, he realized something painfully simple—

  The past was never truly gone. It had only been waiting to return.

  As Jisung stepped off the veranda, his shoulders were tense, his thoughts weighed down by the encounter he had just left behind. The afternoon air was cool, carrying the scent of earth and blooming flowers, but he barely noticed. His steps were brisk, purposeful, as if eager to put distance between himself and the past that had resurfaced.

  As he neared the driveway, a small voice broke through his thoughts.

  “Appa!”

  Jisung looked up just in time to see Lyn rushing toward him, her pale yellow dress fluttering with each hurried step. Her face was bright, eyes wide with excitement at his arrival. A faint smile touched his lips, but something hesitant lingered in his expression. He crouched slightly, brushing a gentle hand over her neatly tied hair. “Did you see the man who came this morning?” he asked, his tone careful.

  Lyn nodded eagerly. “Yes! We had lunch together. He’s still here I think, drinking tea with Grandfather.”

  Jisung’s fingers lingered against Lyn’s hair for a moment before pulling away. His gaze drifted toward the mansion, where ghosts of the past still lingered, waiting in silence. A flicker of something unreadable passed through his expression before he finally spoke, his voice quiet but firm.

  “Don’t think about him too much. And don’t go near him,” he said. “It’s dangerous to be around strangers.”

  Then, after a brief pause, he added, almost as an afterthought, “You have a responsibility to always be careful, Lyn.”

  Lyn frowned slightly, her small fingers tightening around the hem of her dress. “But Grandfather said he’s my uncle.”

  Jisung’s expression remained unreadable, but for a fleeting moment, a shadow crossed his eyes—something unspoken, something Lyn couldn’t quite name. He didn’t answer her. Instead, he straightened, resting a brief but gentle hand on her head before stepping away. Without another word, he turned and walked toward his car, his posture composed, yet carrying a weight she could almost feel.

  As Lyn and her friends neared the mansion, their steps unconsciously slowed. The Choi residence loomed ahead—an imposing sight of polished stone, towering iron gates, and gardens so perfectly manicured that not a single leaf dared to be out of pce. It was familiar, yet today, something felt different.

  Lyn’s father.

  A few steps away, hidden behind a shrub, Aky and Yna crouched together, whispering.

  “What do you think they’re talking about?” Yna squinted, trying to make sense of the movement of their lips.

  Aky tilted his head. “Something about… responsibility?”

  “No, I think he said ‘careful’—wait, was that ‘danger’?”

  Before they could decipher any more, the car’s engine roared to life. The heavy iron gates groaned open, and within moments, her father was gone, disappearing behind tinted windows as the driver pulled onto the street. Lyn exhaled softly before turning. She knew her friends were there even before she spotted them peeking from their not-so-subtle hiding spot. With a sigh, she made her way toward them.

  Aky didn’t wait. “So, what was that about?”

  “Nothing serious,” Lyn said, shaking her head.

  “You sure?” Yna pressed, watching her carefully.

  Lyn forced a small smile. “It’s fine.”

  Aky didn’t seem convinced, but she didn’t press further. Instead, the three of them turned and made their way upstairs, heading to Lyn’s room.

  A Room Frozen in Time

  As Jisung walked away, Kiho remained seated on the veranda, staring into the distance. The quiet returned, but it was no longer peaceful—it was heavy, filled with echoes of the past. Memories stirred like dust unsettled by an unseen breeze, creeping back into the corners of his mind. He let out a slow breath before rising to his feet.

  The mansion loomed before him, unchanged yet different. Chairman Choi was nowhere in sight, likely retreated to his room-turned-office, where he spent most of his days handling business matters. His secretary was surely with him, keeping track of schedules and taking calls. Lyn, too, was gone—probably in her room, leaving the house in a stillness that pressed against Kiho as he made his way inside.

  The moment he set foot on the staircase, familiarity struck him. The polished wood beneath his fingers, the soft creak of the steps—it was all the same. His gaze traveled along the hallway as he ascended. The flower vase near the railing, the intricate decor along the walls—they had been there since his childhood. Their colors had dulled with time, but they remained, preserved yet aged, just like the house itself. Above him, the grand chandelier hung in its usual pce, but now adorned with more bulbs and embellishments, making it brighter, almost excessive compared to the simpler glow he remembered from twenty-five years ago.

  At the top of the stairs, two doors stood directly ahead—the master bedroom, once belonging to his parents. But earlier, he had noticed Chairman Choi had cimed a downstairs room for himself. To the right, two more doors lined the hallway. His chest tightened slightly as he approached them.

  The first door stood before him, unchanged by time. Painted in a soft pastel green, its surface was smooth yet bore faint traces of age, a subtle testament to the years that had passed. The Western-style doorknob gleamed under the warm hallway light, its brass finish polished but worn, a quiet reminder of the hands that had turned it countless times before. He could still picture the pque that had once been affixed just above the handle—Choi Ji Hoon’s Room—engraved in elegant lettering. But now, the space where his name had been was bare. Stripped of identity, yet unmistakably his. No one had needed to tell him; he had known the moment he id eyes on it. This door was still his.

  Just a few steps away, the second door stood in quiet contrast. It had once been painted in a muted pastel brown, the shade he associated with his younger brother. But now, it had been repainted—a soft pastel yellow, warm and inviting. The doorknob remained unchanged, still matching the Western-style fixture of his own door, but above it, a delicate namepte had taken residence. Choi Lyn. The name was carved in elegant script, framed by intricate floral embellishments, small painted roses curling around the edges in shades of soft pink and green.

  This was no longer Jisung’s room. His younger brother’s presence had long been erased from this space, just as Jihoon’s had from the house. But unlike his own door, which remained untouched save for the missing pque, this one had been transformed—recimed by someone new, someone who had never known the past that once lived beyond it.

  Kiho stared at it for a long moment before a voice broke through his thoughts.

  “Ji Hoon,” came Madam Yoon’s gentle yet firm voice.

  He turned to find her standing nearby, watching him with an expression that was both warm and knowing.

  “Your room has never changed,” she said softly. “The master bedroom is now used by Jisung and his wife. Chairman Choi moved downstairs some time ago due to his knees. Your room, however, has remained untouched. No one has used it, but it has always been kept clean.”

  Kiho gnced back at the door. No namepte, no indication that it belonged to anyone. Yet, it had been waiting. Madam Yoon's grip tightened briefly around the small key before she exhaled softly, as if steadying herself. Her voice was calm, yet there was a quiet weight to her words.

  “The young miss, Lyn, only knows that this room once belonged to her father's older brother—the one she was told had already passed,” she murmured, gncing at the door with a faint sense of nostalgia in her eyes.

  She traced the edges of the key with her fingers, the cool metal worn smooth from time. “This door has remained closed for many years,” she continued gently. “It was only unlocked for a short time, once every two months, just for cleaning. After that, it was locked again, just as it had always been. No one has ever stayed in this room—not even for a single night.”

  She turned her gaze toward Jihoon, watching him carefully as if gauging his reaction. “Your things have never been moved,” she added, a small, wistful smile forming for just a second before fading. “Even after all this time, the room was kept the way you left it. As if…” Her voice trailed off, but the unspoken words lingered in the air. As if it was waiting for you to return.

  Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, she lifted the key to the door, the soft click of the lock breaking the silence between them. The faintest click echoed down the hallway, followed by a quiet creak as the door slowly swung open.

  The air inside was thick with stillness, as if the room itself had been holding its breath for the past 25 years. Sunlight streamed through the rge windows on the right side, illuminating specks of dust that floated zily in the golden glow. The wooden floor beneath his feet, though polished, creaked softly under his step, whispering echoes of the past.

  Against the far wall, his bed stood just as he had left it—a sturdy wooden frame with deep blue covers stretched neatly across the mattress. The fabric, though well-kept, carried the faint scent of age, a quiet reminder of the years that had passed. To the right of the bed, a small wooden nightstand remained in its pce, a simple brass mp sitting atop it.

  His gaze drifted to the left, where a modest desk stood tucked into the corner. A chair, neatly positioned beneath it, had once been his refuge during long nights of studying. The five-tiered bookshelf beside it was still filled with books—textbooks, novels, and even old schoolbooks with his name inscribed on their spines in faded ink. His fingers grazed the edges of the covers, feeling the worn texture of pages that had once been a part of his everyday life. A pencil case sat nearby, untouched, along with a tin filled with colored pencils and art materials. Everything remained as if frozen in time, waiting for a boy who had long since left.

  In the left corner of the room stood his closet, tall and unyielding. Another smaller shelf beside it held a few school bags, their straps slightly stiff from years of disuse. He stepped closer, drawn by something unspoken, and pced his hand on the closet handle. As he pulled it open, a faint scent of old fabric drifted out, wrapping around him like a whisper from the past.

  The memory felt so real, so tangible, that he nearly expected to see his younger self turn around and grin at him. But when he blinked, all that remained was an empty room and a uniform that had waited far too long for its owner to return.

  His fingers brushed over it, and suddenly, he wasn’t just standing in his room—he was seeing it as it had been.

  Jihoon took slow, deliberate steps toward the wooden desk that had been his study space as a child. His fingers traced the edges of its smooth surface, once covered in open textbooks, scattered worksheets, and ink-stained notebooks. The mahogany chair remained tucked neatly under it, just as he had left it all those years ago. The sight of it was almost enough to make him believe that time had simply paused within these walls. A breath hitched in his throat as a familiar image took form in his mind.

  There he was—a younger version of himself, no older than ten, hunched over the desk, his small hands wrapped around a pen he idly twirled between his fingers. His schoolbooks y open in front of him, the neat handwriting from the first page slowly dissolving into zy scribbles. His head bobbed slightly, his eyes drooping as exhaustion crept in.

  “Young master Jihoon,” a firm but warm voice echoed from the doorway. “Sit properly when you’re studying. And stop spinning that pen before you drop it!”

  Jihoon blinked, snapping back to the present. The pen was gone. The books were neatly stacked on the shelf. But the ghost of his younger self still lingered.

  His gaze drifted to the bed across the room. It was still the same—deep blue covers neatly arranged, the pillow fluffed just as it always had been. He stepped toward it, the wooden floorboards beneath him creaking softly. In his mind, the room shifted once again.

  He saw himself lying on that bed, schoolbag tossed carelessly beside the nightstand, his uniform still half-buttoned. He was staring up at the ceiling, eyes lost in thought, mind wandering to pces only a child’s imagination could reach.

  “Madam Yoon, is Father home yet?”

  The question drifted back to him like an old melody, bittersweet and distant.

  Jihoon sat down on the bed, his hands resting against the fabric. The air smelled faintly of aged wood and the slightest hint of lemon polish, a scent that had always clung to his childhood home. The weight of nostalgia pressed against his chest. But then, his eyes were drawn to something else.

  He stood once more and approached the mirror affixed inside his closet door. Time had dimmed its shine, leaving faint scratches along the edges. Yet, there was one thing that had not changed—a photograph taped to the upper corner of the gss.

  It was his mother.

  She smiled softly in the picture, her dark hair pulled back in a simple style, her eyes warm. Jihoon’s throat tightened. He remembered the day he pced that photo there—he had been only seven, the frame it once sat in shattered by accident. He had begged Madam Yoon for tape, unwilling to part with it even for a moment.

  He stared at it, his reflection barely visible in the closet’s inner mirror. In its gssy surface, for the briefest moment, he could almost see himself again—not as the man he was now, but as the boy he had been.

  A boy standing in front of this very mirror, his small hands fumbling with the pstic name tag as he tried to pin it to his bzer. "Choi Jihoon," it read, the letters crisp and neat beneath the school’s emblem. The uniform, freshly pressed, felt stiff against his skin — the navy bzer just a little too big, the white shirt tucked perfectly into gray scks. His heart thrummed with a mixture of nerves and excitement.

  And then, just behind him, there she was. His mother.

  She smiled softly, her hands reaching over his shoulders to adjust the name tag. “Hold still,” she murmured, the warmth of her touch lingering even in his memory. With gentle fingers, she smoothed down the fabric of his colr, tucking it neatly beneath the bzer. Jihoon gnced up, meeting her eyes in the mirror. They were kind and bright, a reflection of all the love she held for him.

  “You look so grown up,” she said with a small, bittersweet smile. “Middle school already. My Jihoon-ie is getting taller.”

  He had ughed then, though a shy flush crept over his cheeks. “I’m not a kid anymore, Mom.”

  “No,” she had replied, her gaze lingering on his reflection. “But you’ll always be my son.”

  The memory wrapped around him, so vivid it felt as though he could reach out and touch it. He could almost hear the faint hum of her voice, the delicate rustle of her sleeves as she adjusted his uniform one st time. The warmth of that morning lingered — the smell of freshly brewed tea, the sound of birds outside the window, the sunlight that bathed the room in gold.

  But then, as quickly as it had come, the vision faded.

  The boy in the mirror disappeared, leaving only Kiho’s hollow reflection staring back. The empty closet, the silent room — they stood as reminders of all that had been left behind. And in that reflection, he saw not the boy his mother had sent off to school with pride, but the man he had become.

  A man without the warmth of her touch. A man whose name, though still “Choi Ji Hoon,” carried a weight far heavier than the simple tag once pinned to his chest.

  Behind him, Madam Yoon stood quietly, watching. Her eyes held something tender, something reminiscent of the past. As if she, too, was seeing a small boy standing in this very room, his eyes wide with hope as he asked if his father had come home yet. She could almost hear the echoes of her own voice, scolding him for tracking dirt inside with his school shoes. And then, not long after, she would return with a pte of freshly sliced apples or peeled tangerines, pcing them on his desk with a huff of feigned annoyance.

  “Eat while you study, young master. But if you fall asleep on your books again, I won’t wake you next time,” she would say, though she always did.

  Even now, she could almost see him—the small figure, head propped up by one hand, absentmindedly pying with his pen as the warmth of the afternoon sun streamed through the windows. His eyelids would droop, his pencil rolling from his fingertips, and just as his head began to tilt, she'd scold him once more.

  Jihoon exhaled, his voice quieter than before.

  “This is the only part of this pce that reminds me of home.”

  For the first time, Madam Yoon’s lips parted slightly, as if about to say something. A flicker of emotion passed through her face—quick, fleeting.

  But she steadied herself. Her response was simple, spoken with the same quiet strength she had always carried.

  “This is still your home, Jihoon.”

  END OF CHAPTER 16