The passage of time at Haeteul was no longer measured in years, but in the gentle, cumulative layering of quiet moments. Min Jae existed in a state of profound simplicity. His world had distilled to the scent of Seo-jun's favorite herbal tea, the texture of sun-warmed wood beneath his palm on the deck railing, the specific cadence of the ocean's breath against the shore—louder in winter, a whisper in summer. The vast, complex narrative of his life had resolved into a single, sustained note of gratitude.
He found his greatest pleasure in observation. He watched the resident pair of red-crowned cranes, their annual dance now a ritual he felt part of. He noted the precise day the first swallow returned to its nest under the eaves, a promise kept. He saw the way the light, in its late afternoon slant, turned Seo-jun's silver hair into a luminous crown. These were the scriptures of his old age, and he read them daily with reverence.
