Han Jihoon lay flat on his small apartment bed, watching the ceiling fan spin slow circles.
Outside, Seoul murmured its night rhythm—rain gutters dripping, neon signs buzzing, a delivery bike whining through puddles.
He had finished work early, but instead of sleeping, his mind wandered.
The city lights blurred into the fog beyond his window, and memories slipped through like old photographs.
"How did I even end up as a detective?" he whispered to himself.
"Was it really a choice… or did I just never stop asking questions?"
He chuckled. A tired, fond laugh.
And before he realized it, the present melted away.
The playground dust clung to his socks. The world smelled of chalk and metal swings.
"Hey, road baby!"
"Maybe your real parents dumped you 'cause you're weird!"
The boys laughed, and little Jihoon clenched his fists. He wanted to shout, but he only frowned—memorizing every face like evidence at a crime scene.
When school ended, he walked home slow.
His mother waited at the church steps, hands in her apron pockets.
"Jihoon-ah, did they tease you again?"
He nodded, lips wobbling but eyes stubbornly bright.
"It's okay, Mom. I think they're just… insecure witnesses."
She blinked, then burst out laughing.
His father came out of the chapel carrying bread rolls from the donation table.
"Detective talk again?" he said. "Maybe our son will be a lawyer."
"Detectives are cooler," Jihoon said through a mouthful of bread. "They find out who's lying."
His father raised a brow.
"Last week you wanted to be a doctor."
"Doctors fix bodies," the boy replied seriously. "Detectives fix the truth."
That night his parents told the story over dinner, both laughing until their rice went cold.
Every few weeks the school would lose something—a missing pencil case, a stolen lunch box—and Jihoon would start an investigation.
He carried a small notebook labeled "Truths Only."
Each page had doodles, suspects, and dramatic conclusions.
"Case solved," he would announce, holding up a chewed eraser like evidence.
"The culprit was stress during math class!"
The teachers groaned; the students giggled.
He didn't mind being laughed at—it meant people were listening.
During choir practice, his voice always cracked.
"Jihoon, maybe you should lip-sync,a member her name Ji-hyun teased, plucking a note on the church piano.
"No way," he grinned. "Detectives don't hide the evidence."
After rehearsal, he'd stay behind, watching sunlight scatter through stained glass.
The colors always fascinated him—how one beam of light could split into many lights.
He didn't understand it then, but that was the moment he fell in love with contradictions.
His family's house sat near the edge of the city, humble and warm.
On weekends, his father taught him how to fix radios while his mother hummed old ballads in the kitchen.
"Everything broken has a reason," his father would say. "Find the reason, and you can fix it."
"Even people?" Jihoon asked once.
"Especially people," his father replied.
Sometimes the church children visited. They would sit in the yard, eating tteok while Jihoon told horribly exaggerated detective stories.
"Then I found the missing wallet… in the pastor's shoe!"
Everyone laughed; even the pastor couldn't keep a straight face.
Those were golden days—the kind that smelled like detergent and sunshine, the kind that make you believe the world is small and kind.
By middle school, Jihoon had turned his curiosity into a habit.
He read mystery novels under his desk, filled diaries with theories about everything from politics to the weather.
His teachers said he was smart but distracted.
His classmates said he was weird but fun.
Only Ji-hyun and Minseok really understood him.
They would hang out after school at the pojangmacha near the bus stop, eating spicy tteokbokki while Jihoon rambled about human nature.
"People lie because the truth's heavier," he said once, mouth red from sauce.
"You sound like a grandpa," Minseok teased.
"No," Jihoon replied, grinning. "I sound like a future detective ,Ji hyun rolled her eyes, but there was affection in the gesture.
That night, walking home, he told his mother again,
"I've decided. I'm going to solve real mysteries one day."
"Even if it's hard?"
"Especially if it's hard."
She smiled, brushing his hair back.
"Then promise me one thing—don't forget to laugh while you're solving them."
He nodded solemnly. "Detectives never forget."
He really believed that.
The hum of the ceiling fan pulled him back.
Jihoon blinked, realizing he'd been smiling at nothing.
He sat up, stretching, and reached for the old family photo on his desk.
His mother's smile seemed brighter than memory.
"You were right, Mom," he murmured. "Laughing does help."
He opened his fridge—half-empty, of course—and found leftover kimchi stew.
While it warmed, he leaned on the counter, watching rain trickle down the window.
He set his phone aside and sat by the window, eating straight from the pot like he used to as a student.
Somewhere below, kids were laughing, chasing each other through puddles.
For a heartbeat, he saw his younger self among them—mud on his knees, magnifying glass in hand, eyes bright with questions.
"Detectives fix the truth," the boy said again in memory.
"Yeah," Jihoon answered softly. "Still trying."
He leaned back, full and content, a rare peace settling over him.
The fog outside curled lazily, almost protective, reflecting the amber of streetlights.
He thought about the case files waiting at work, the strange visions that sometimes flickered behind his eyes, the laughter that now carried more meaning than comfort.
But he also thought about his parents' warmth, his friends' teasing, and the simple dream that started it all.
For once, truth didn't feel heavy.
It felt… human.
"The world's changed a lot," he murmured. "But I guess the kid in me never stopped looking."
He closed his eyes, listening to the city breathe.
Tomorrow would bring its mysteries, but tonight he allowed himself the gift of remembering—
the boy who searched for truth,
the laughter that kept him human,
and the love that made him start the journey in the first place.