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Chapter 32 - 31 | Between Two Houses

It was a quiet Sunday afternoon in Gapyeong, the air sharp with the dry chill of late November. The hills that once blazed in autumn color now stood muted in rust and gray, bare branches etched against a pale sky.

Lexie parked along the sloped street and stepped out, tugging her coat tighter as a gust of wind slipped past her collar. She paused, gazing up at the house that had quietly become a secret chapter in her life.

It still startled her sometimes — how much it looked like home. Not her home now, not Vancouver anymore, and certainly not the Philippines where memory was soft-edged and warm. But this house — nestled beside the Lees' property, just over the fence — mirrored the soul of the one she grew up in. The one her adoptive parents still owned. The one with too many layers of memory to untangle.

Lexie had bought it quietly, a month after she finished overseeing the renovation of Woori eomoni and Seungmin abeoji's home next door. She hadn't planned on staying involved in the neighborhood. But then again, she hadn't planned on the house showing up in a real estate listing like it had been waiting for her.

She still hadn't told her parents about it.

The idea of surprising them with the keys — as a gift, a future rooted closer to her current world — had taken shape slowly. She wanted to wait until Ethan's legal documents were done. Until the work stress had eased. Until she could picture them standing here, in this house, with her.

The key clicked easily into the front door. She stepped inside, breathing in that untouched, new-old smell: clean wood, plaster, a faint trace of the rosemary candle she had lit last time she visited. The furniture was sparse but intentional — a soft rug, a reading chair, a handmade dining table she'd ordered from a workshop in Jeju. It was home-shaped, even if no one lived in it yet.

Her phone buzzed in her bag.

Woori eomoni 🌷

You coming over today?

I made hobakjuk.

A few minutes later, she was letting herself through the back gate of the Lees' house, feet crunching on gravel. The back door was open, as always. A gust of soup-scented warmth met her halfway up the path.

Inside, Woori eomoni turned from the kitchen, cheeks pink with cooking heat, sleeves rolled up to her elbows.

"Lexie, dear!" she called out with a grin that made Lexie's heart soften. "I thought I heard the gate."

"Didn't want to text back while walking," Lexie said, stepping inside. "I missed your hobakjuk."

"And I missed feeding you. You've lost weight again." Woori eomoni tsked softly and reached for a bowl before Lexie could argue. "Sit. Your abeoji's in the garden."

Lexie did as told, taking the seat by the kitchen window where afternoon sun slanted in gently. The table held sliced persimmons and tea already cooling in a ceramic pot. Everything about the moment was quietly perfect.

She liked being here, with them. Always had.

Even when she first returned to Korea back in January, it was this house — these people — who had made her feel tethered. Sungmin abeoji's steady voice. Eomoni's quiet understanding. And the familiar traces of Mark in every room, even if he'd long since moved out.

She hadn't expected anyone else that day.

So when the gate clicked again—sharp against the quiet—Lexie paused mid-step, a mild jolt running through her. Footsteps crunched lightly over the gravel path, slow and familiar in rhythm but wholly unexpected.

"Hi," came a familiar voice behind her, breathless but casual.

Lexie turned halfway in her chair. "Mark?"

Mark stepped in through the open door like he had every right to be there — which, technically, he did. He was still their son, after all. His hoodie was half-zipped, camera bag slung across his chest, and he looked just slightly winded like he'd jogged up the hill.

"What are you doing here?" Lexie asked.

He blinked. "I could ask you the same."

"I was invited," she said.

"So was I," he said with a grin. "Kind of."

Woori eomoni didn't look surprised. "He called me earlier he'd drop by," she said as she stirred the pot. "Apparently they were filming nearby."

"With 127," Mark added, dropping his bag gently by the table. "It wrapped around noon. I was already close, so... I thought maybe I'd stop by."

Lexie looked at him closely. His eyes were a little tired — not in a dramatic way, but in the way people looked when they were trying to hide they hadn't slept well in days. His hands, folded neatly on the table, fidgeted slightly with the edge of the tea napkin.

"You missed church," Woori eomoni said gently, setting down a second bowl of soup in front of him.

"I know," Mark said. "I thought I'd stop by the one nearby. The old church down the slope. You know the one."

"Ahh, the Our Lady of Heaven Church," she nodded.

Mark turned to Lexie. "You ever been?"

"Drove past it a few times," she said honestly.

"It's open this time of day. Short rosary service. Nothing too heavy." He paused. "Want to come with me?"

Lexie blinked. "To church?"

He scratched the back of his neck. "It's not a trick question."

She hesitated. "You just happened to show up... and now you want me to go with you to mass?"

"I just thought..." He exhaled. "I've been thinking about... grounding things again. And I'm not saying this like some set-up. I just — I remembered how you used to light candles with your mom. You told me that once. Before high school exams."

Lexie's heart flickered.

Woori eomoni, sensing something delicate at the table, wiped her hands and said gently, "You two go. Soup will still be here when you come back."

* * *

The walk to the church was easy, unhurried. The crisp November air carried the scent of pine and something faintly sweet from the neighbors' chimneys. Lexie fell into step beside Mark without thinking, their strides naturally in rhythm. No words were needed—just the quiet understanding that they were okay now, moving forward in the same direction, however slowly.

"Why here?" she asked after a moment.

Mark looked ahead. "It felt like a pause I needed. I don't know. I've been thinking too much lately."

"About?"

"About how things don't fix themselves just because we want them to," he said softly.

Lexie glanced at him. "You sound like you've been praying for something."

"I have," he admitted.

They reached the church a few minutes later. It was old and small, but beautifully kept — stone walls, stained glass, worn wooden pews. Lexie followed him inside, letting the scent of old incense and sun-warmed dust wrap around her like memory.

They sat near the back.

The rosary service had already begun. A small group of women, most elderly, murmured the familiar prayers in soft unison. Lexie let the rhythm of the words wash over her. She didn't recite them. Not this time. But something about the repetition was calming.

Beside her, Mark sat still, fingers lightly clasped.

When the prayers ended, Lexie didn't stand right away.

Mark leaned toward her slightly. "How have you been lately?" he asked, his voice soft with genuine care.

Lexie kept her gaze forward, hands tucked into her coat pockets. "That's a hard question," she said quietly.

"I know."

A beat of silence passed between them, calm but full.

Then, she spoke again, her voice gentler this time. "I have a trip back to Vancouver scheduled next week."

Mark turned to her, surprised. "Really? For how long?"

"Just around three days," she replied. "I need to finalize Ethan's residency paperwork—transferring everything so he can stay with me here, long-term. That's the last step."

His eyebrows rose slightly, but his smile was warm. "So it's really happening."

Lexie nodded. "It's already official. I just need the government to catch up."

Mark let out a quiet breath. "That's big."

"It is." She hesitated, then added, "I'm also thinking of telling my parents about the house. You know... the one next door."

"You haven't told them yet?"

She shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Not yet. I was waiting for the right moment. I bought it for them, really. As a gift."

Mark blinked. "A Christmas surprise?"

"That was the plan," she said. "But now I'm thinking I might tell them early—while I'm home. Just in case they want to prepare papers and fly over. Maybe even celebrate the holidays here this time."

He smiled again, gentler now. "They're going to love that."

Lexie looked ahead at the quiet road, her breath forming clouds in the chilly November air. "I hope so. The house reminds me a lot of home. Not about the structure, but... how it feels. Like something familiar."

* * *

When they finally stepped outside, dusk had settled over Gapyeong in gentle folds. The sky had cooled into streaks of mauve and smoky blue, and the sharp November air carried the faint scent of wood smoke from nearby chimneys.

They crossed the short path between the houses, and this time, Lexie didn't hesitate when Mark slowed his pace beside her.

Inside the Lees' home, warmth greeted them in the form of clinking dishes, the sound of Mrs. Lee humming softly in the kitchen, and Seungmin abeoji calling for Mark to wash his hands before dinner. It all felt achingly familiar, like a scene she'd never lived but had always known.

Lexie helped set the table while Mark peeled tangerines by the window, sleeves pushed to his elbows, laughter in his voice as he bantered with his parents.

Dinner was light but comforting — doenjang stew, grilled fish, and a tray of banchan that seemed to refill itself under Mrs. Lee's watchful eye. They talked easily, even about Ethan, and Lexie felt no pressure to explain more than she wanted to. When Mark's mother touched her hand and said, "It must feel full now, your heart," Lexie only smiled and nodded.

Afterward, they lingered in the living room over tea and chestnut snacks. The TV played softly in the background. Lexie tucked her feet under herself, and Mark sat beside her, quietly peeling another tangerine to split. There was no heaviness between them now — just the gentle rhythm of having returned to something that wasn't quite broken after all.

By the time they stepped outside again, the stars had begun to pinprick the sky, and the quiet of the neighborhood had deepened into a calm hush. Mark rubbed his hands together for warmth as they reached her car.

"I'll drive," Lexie offered, keys already in hand.

Mark gave her a half-smile. "Still not used to you being the one with the license."

"Well, I've had enough reasons to be the designated driver lately," she said, nudging his arm.

The drive back to the city was calm, with the occasional glow of roadside cafés and quiet service stations flashing past the window. Mark dozed off briefly somewhere along the expressway, head tilted slightly toward the window, until a soft playlist stirred him awake again.

When they reached the city, Lexie pulled up in front of Mark's building and shifted into park. He lingered for a second before unbuckling, turning to her with a quiet, unreadable expression.

"Thanks for today," he said.

Lexie glanced at him, lips curving slightly. "For the drive?"

"For everything. For coming back"

She nodded, brushing hair behind her ear. "Get some rest, Mark."

His hand hovered on the door handle, then paused. He turned back toward her, voice a little softer now. "Text me when you get home. I just... want to know you're safe."

"I will," she said gently.

He hesitated — then leaned in to hug her.

It wasn't graceful. His arm bumped into the gearshift, and she wasn't quite sure where to place her hands at first. They hadn't been in years. The last time she could clearly remember hugging Mark was probably back in Vancouver, when they were still kids — when nothing between them was complicated yet.

But despite the initial awkwardness, his warmth settled into her. Familiar. Steady.

When they pulled apart, neither said anything for a second.

Then Mark offered a small smile, one corner of his mouth lifting in that quiet way of his. "Goodnight, Lex."

"Goodnight," she echoed.

He stepped out of the car, shutting the door gently behind him. Lexie watched as he disappeared into the building's lobby, then exhaled, hands resting on the wheel for a moment before she started the engine.

This time, it wasn't about fixing the past.

It was about rediscovering what still remained — and maybe, what could begin again.

~~ 끝 ~~

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