Taejun watched it all unfold from the back of the room, a strange ache blooming quietly in his chest, slow and warm like steam rising off a mug of barley tea.
There was something almost sacred in the way the moment held itself together— fragile, yet whole.
The soft hum of pencils scratching against paper, the lazy arcs Minji drew with her fingertip on her desk as she smiled to herself, her thoughts somewhere far away.
Across the room, the twins, inseparable as always, leaned shoulder-to-shoulder over a book, whispering in half-sung tones as they took turns reading aloud, their voices weaving in and out like a lullaby only they understood.
The scent of pencil shavings hung faintly in the air, mixing with the chalk dust and the plasticky sweetness of erasers warmed by sunlight.
Now and then, the old desk leg near the window gave a soft squeak as it shifted under a restless foot, and the flutter of pages being turned in unison seemed to echo like the wings of birds brushing past a curtain.
The world had slowed, not in a frozen way, but in a gentle drift— like being carried down a quiet stream in the afternoon warmth, where time forgets itself and simply hums along.
The classroom glowed in a pale golden light filtering through the smudged windows, casting halos on the walls, turning the children's faces into delicate watercolors.
And for that small slice of existence, everything felt strangely perfect.
And then, too soon, the spell broke.
The school bell rang, shrill and sudden, slicing through the hush like a blade.
Ms. Jang jumped slightly, caught mid-sentence, her chalk hovering in the air.
She blinked, eyebrows lifting toward the dusty clock above the board, her expression one of almost comic disbelief.
"Already?" she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.
A thin line of sweat traced its way down her temple, though the room was barely warm. "Time really does fly…"
She straightened up quickly, the practiced rhythm of her routine returning to her limbs.
With a brisk clap of her hands, she declared, "Alright, class. That's all for today!"
The children erupted in a chorus of delighted cheers, a bubbling "Yay!" that ricocheted off the walls with all the joy of birds set free.
Desks screeched, bags unzipped, and chairs scraped back as tiny feet scrambled and danced.
Pencil cases clicked shut, books slammed closed, and voices burst into overlapping laughter and shouted promises of meeting tomorrow.
It was like a festival crammed into thirty seconds.
But just as the first child touched the handle of the door, Ms. Jang's voice rang out again— sharp, yet not unkind.
"Wait!"
The chaos stilled. Their heads turned.
She raised her eyebrows, lips tugging into a playful smile. "Did we forget something?"
For a beat, confusion rippled across the room. And then one small voice piped up, hesitant but clear: "We forgot to greet!"
Recognition dawned like sunlight cresting a hill.
Every child straightened up, some more dramatically than others, and with arms pinned to their sides or hands behind their backs, they sang out in unison: "Annyeong, teacher!"
Ms. Jang's expression softened into something maternal, her hands folding neatly at her waist as she nodded.
"Very good. I'll see you all tomorrow. Be safe— and be kind."
The door opened at last, spilling the students into the afternoon like windblown petals.
In the hallway, parents knelt to fix hats and ruffled hair, voices mixing in cheerful fragments.
There were hugs, soft scoldings, and proud questions.
The floor echoed with excited footsteps, the jingle of lunchboxes, the squeal of sneakers on polished tile.
But Taejun remained behind, his small frame silhouetted in the classroom doorway.
He stood silently, his backpack strap loose over one shoulder, watching as his classmates disappeared into the gentle blaze of golden light outside.
No voice called his name.
No arms reached out to hold his hand.
There was no one waiting for him by the school gate.
Just the thinning echoes of laughter and the faint smell of chalk clinging to the hallway air.
Still, he didn't feel afraid. Not yet.
For a moment longer, he lingered, turning his gaze to the window in the classroom door.
Through the glass, he saw Ms. Jang alone at her desk, tidying a small stack of worksheets, her head bobbing gently to a tune she hummed under her breath— something soft and wordless, a lullaby that didn't belong to any textbook.
Something private, meant for no one, and yet deeply familiar.
Then he turned and stepped out into the hall.
The sun had already begun its slow descent, stretching shadows across the pavement.
Taejun walked home with the tired rhythm of someone much older, his feet dragging along the seams in the sidewalk, the weight of his bag swaying with every reluctant step.
The world outside the school was quiet— too quiet.
The kind of silence that makes you realize you're alone.
No sound of children chasing each other with shouts of glee, no bouncing balls or laughter tucked behind fences.
Just the occasional rustle of dry leaves, the distant drone of a passing car, and the brittle silence that followed.
The warmth of the classroom seemed to have been peeled off him like a second skin.
The air grew heavier with each block, pressing into his shoulders, thick with the smell of concrete and fading sunlight.
Every footfall sounded louder than it should, as if the pavement itself was listening.
He tried to summon a distraction, something to quiet the gnawing unease tightening in his chest.
He imagined a friend— someone who would have walked with him, bumping shoulders, telling jokes about monsters or making wild plans about secret bases and treasure hunts.
Someone who would laugh too loudly, talk too much, and fill the air with noise so the silence couldn't creep in.
It was a beautiful thought, but it slipped through his fingers like sand.
The silence inside him swallowed it whole.
As he rounded the corner beneath the flickering streetlamp, his skin tightened, and his heart gave a quiet stutter.
The light above buzzed erratically, casting shadows that danced and stretched like puppets, but it wasn't the flickering that made his mouth go dry.
It was the figure.
Just beyond the edge of the light, it stood tall and still.
Its shape was elongated, thin, almost stretched too far, as though someone had pulled it like taffy.
The glow of the streetlight barely kissed its edges, and where the light should have illuminated its face, there was only a blur, a smear of absence.
Its presence pressed against the edges of the world, warping the air around it like heat off asphalt, except this heat was cold.
Cold in a way that settled into the marrow.
Taejun stopped breathing.
His legs locked in place.
The figure didn't move, but the weight of its attention was unbearable.
He didn't need to see eyes to know it was watching him.
The smell came next— sharp, metallic, not strong but unmistakable.
Blood, something that should never belong on a quiet street after school.
His body screamed at him to run, to get away, but every part of him felt heavy, full of concrete.
But still, with a shaky breath, he forced himself to move.
One step. Then another.
His heartbeat drowned out everything.
The silence. The faint hum of the world.
Even the sound of his shoes against the pavement.
He didn't look back. He couldn't.
The air behind him shifted, like something old waking up. But he didn't stop.
He ran.
All the way home, legs burning, throat dry, eyes wide.
The house stood quiet and waiting.
When the door clicked shut behind him, the silence inside was almost comforting.
He slumped against the wood, sliding down until he sat curled in the entryway, his breath shaking, his hands damp with sweat.
The world outside still felt too close, like it was leaning in against the windows, trying to press its face through the glass.
Eventually, he climbed to his room, dragging his feet like someone half-dreaming.
The bed didn't soothe him.
He collapsed onto it, burying his face in the cool sheets, hoping sleep would swallow everything.
But the shadow came with him, curling at the corners of his thoughts, waiting in the folds of his dreams.
And when morning came— bright and cruel— he woke with the weight of it still clinging to his chest, the smell of rust still clinging to his nose.
And on the kitchen table, waiting as it always did, was a plate of steaming tteokbokki, its spicy-sweet scent rising into the air like a memory— but this time, something about it felt deeply, inexplicably wrong.
Taejun's stomach clenched the moment he laid eyes on the plate.
The glossy red sauce shimmered beneath the morning light, thick and glistening, pooled around plump, soft rice cakes that looked too smooth, too pristine.
It should've been comforting— a dish he'd eaten so many times before, always warm, always waiting for him like a quiet promise that someone cared.
But now, it sat on the table like a memory curdled in time, too vivid, too red.
His throat tightened painfully as if the air had thickened around him.
Something about the color— deep and almost oily— reminded him too much of what he'd seen the day before.
Blood, the ragged breathing of a dying man.
The sharp glint of a knife. Not a memory.
A wound still pulsing inside him.
His hand reached for the table's edge, fingers curling until his knuckles turned stark white, anchoring himself as the images flooded back in fast, fragmented flashes.
He could still smell the metallic sting in the air, still feel the damp heat of that moment clinging to his skin.
And now, here it was again, served on porcelain, as if the horror had followed him home, slipped into his brother's quiet act of care, and settled right into the folds of the food.
"It's the usual, huh?" Taejun whispered, barely recognizing his voice.
It sounded distant, brittle, like it had cracked in the coldness of the room.
The silence around him was unnatural— no hum of the kettle, no footsteps on the floorboards, no faint chuckle or teasing remark from across the table.
Just stillness, thick and unwelcome.
His brother wasn't home.
But somehow, his absence echoed louder than any presence could've managed.
It rang through the hallway, the kitchen, the very walls of the house, until even the creak of the chair beneath Taejun felt like a betrayal.
He sat still for a moment, staring at the dish as though willing it to change, to become something else.
The red sauce caught the sunlight again, glowing in a way that unsettled him, like it was too alive. It was too red.
It looked like it would stain everything it touched.
His mind betrayed him, conjuring yesterday's images— the smear of blood on linoleum, the way it pooled around the man's trembling hand, the splash of crimson on his sleeve. was
His fingers quivered as he reached for the spoon, cold and trembling. He took a bite.
The rice cake gave easily under his teeth, soft and chewy, but the flavor hit wrong.
The sweetness was cloying, too thick on his tongue.
The spice, instead of burning warmly, clawed at his throat with a sharpness that made his eyes sting.
And beneath it all was that same faint, metallic note that didn't belong— like the aftertaste of guilt, of fear, of something rotten hiding beneath the surface.
He swallowed with effort, as if the food had turned against him, refusing to go down without scraping a memory across his throat.
Slowly, with trembling fingers, Taejun set the spoon down.
The clink against the ceramic sounded too loud.
His stomach roiled, nausea twisting through him as a cold sweat spread across the back of his neck.
His brother had always done this— woken up early, shuffled into the kitchen half-asleep, mumbled complaints while quietly making breakfast.
It was never perfect, never extravagant, but it was something steady.
A gesture of love that didn't need to be spoken aloud.
It had always made the mornings feel less heavy.
But now, the food just felt like a ghost of what used to be.
"I'll eat it later," he muttered, barely above a whisper, pushing the plate aside.
He didn't believe the words.
They rang empty in the quiet, like promises made to no one.
The minutes that followed blurred into a slow crawl.
He moved mechanically, slipping on his uniform as though his body were simply going through the motions.
The fabric felt heavier today.
Everything did.
Even the air in the house felt colder, like something unseen had seeped in overnight and hollowed it out.
On his way to the door, he paused by the coat hook— an old, bent piece of metal at the edge of the hall that always held his brother's weathered jacket.
Without thinking, his eyes drifted there.
The hook was empty.
He stared at it.
Time seemed to stretch thin.
The absence of that jacket, frayed at the cuffs, always smelling faintly of cigarettes and city rain, cut deeper than anything else.
It was always there.
The first thing Taejun saw before leaving.
But today, the hook hung bare, and something about that felt irreversibly wrong.
"No... he's just out early," Taejun said under his breath, though the words were weightless and dry in his mouth.
He didn't believe himself. The silence answered back.
Grabbing his bag, he stepped out into the morning.
The door clicked shut behind him, but the house's emptiness followed, settling onto his shoulders like a weight he couldn't shrug off.
The street outside was hushed in a way that didn't feel natural.
The usual clamor of distant traffic, birdsong, footsteps— none of it reached him.
It was like the world had slipped into a strange dream-state, too still, too perfect.
Even the breeze was absent, the air unmoving and heavy, as though the entire city had paused just for him.
His footsteps echoed faintly off the pavement, and even that sound seemed wrong— too sharp, too deliberate, like it didn't belong in this world anymore.
He scanned the surroundings instinctively.
No shadows flitting behind trees.
No strange silhouettes following at a distance, but the emptiness was worse somehow, as if the streets themselves were holding their breath, waiting for something inevitable.
The calm was suffocating.
A silence that demanded attention, that made him feel small.
He swallowed hard, trying to shake the feeling that the sky had lowered around him.
He looked up.
The sky overhead was washed out, pale and sickly like old milk left too long in the sun.
The clouds were stretched thin, like unraveling threads, exposing a light that felt dull and disinterested.
The sun, if it was there at all, hid behind a veil of haze, offering no warmth, just a cold suggestion that morning had arrived.
But it didn't feel like morning.
It felt like a beginning undone, a page turned before the ink could dry.
Taejun walked faster, the sound of his shoes against the ground the only rhythm he had left to hold onto.
School should've been a comfort, the normalcy of routine, the faces, the structure.
But today, it loomed in the distance like a question he wasn't ready to answer.
He couldn't explain why, but something was waiting for him there.
Something that he knew was coming.
The thought made his chest tighten.
Still, he clung to the one thought he had allowed himself this morning, the fragile, childish wish that had carried him out the door.
Today is the day.
He repeated it again and again, not because he believed it, but because he needed something— anything— to hold onto.
Today is the day I'll make a friend.
It was such a small, ordinary hope.
A hope that had survived in him despite everything. But the longer he walked, the dimmer it became.
That thread of hope grew thinner with every step, fraying at the edges.
A darker thought crept in, silent and unwelcome: What if I don't? What if no one ever will?
Still, he kept walking.
Because hope, no matter how fragile, was all he had.
And sometimes, moving forward is the only thing a person can do— even when the world around them feels like it's forgotten how to breathe.