The hospital hallway was too bright.
Ji-Soo sat upright on the plastic chair, hands folded neatly on her lap, her short bob framing a face that looked calm—but only on the surface. Her leg bounced slightly, the only sign that her body hadn't caught up with her composure.
The doors slid open.
"Ji-Soo."
She looked up.
Mi-Ju stood there, breath uneven, jacket half-zipped like he'd rushed without thinking. His eyes went straight to her, scanning her face before he relaxed just a little.
"How is she?" he asked quietly.
"She's inside," Ji-Soo replied. Her voice was steady. "They said she's stable for now. They're running tests."
Mi-Ju exhaled slowly and sat beside her, close enough that their shoulders almost touched.
Neither of them spoke for a moment.
"I should've noticed sooner," he said. "She kept saying she was fine."
Ji-Soo shook her head once. "She always says that."
A nurse passed by, and Ji-Soo's fingers tightened briefly against her palm before relaxing again. Mi-Ju noticed.
He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. "You did the right thing. You brought her here. You didn't panic."
"I did," Ji-Soo said. "Just not out loud."
Mi-Ju glanced at her and gave a small, gentle smile. "That sounds like you."
The doctor finally approached. Ji-Soo stood first.
"She'll be staying overnight," the doctor explained. "We'll need further examinations."
Ji-Soo nodded, absorbing every word without flinching. "Can we see her?"
"Yes. One at a time."
Inside the room, Mrs. Han lay resting, pale but awake. Her eyes softened when she saw Ji-Soo.
"You shouldn't have worried so much," Mrs. Han murmured.
Ji-Soo took her hand carefully. "You scared me."
Mrs. Han smiled faintly. "I'm still here."
Outside, Mi-Ju waited.
When Ji-Soo came back out, he stood immediately. "She okay?"
"For now," Ji-Soo said.
He nodded, then gently placed a hand on her shoulder. "You don't have to be strong all by yourself."
Ji-Soo looked at him — really looked — then nodded once.
"I know," she said.
And for the first time since the coughing started, the tight pressure in her chest eased just a little.
--
The apartment was modest, but warm.
Ji-Ho stood awkwardly near the doorway, his shoes neatly aligned as if he didn't want to take up too much space.
The lights were soft, yellow, nothing like the harsh glow of his house. It smelled like soup—simple, comforting.
"Come in," Mr. Yoo Joon said quietly. "You must be hungry."
Ji-Ho nodded, though he hadn't realized it until the word was said out loud.
From the kitchen came the sound of footsteps.
A woman appeared, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She looked tired, but kind—her hair loosely tied back, a few strands falling around her face.
Her eyes softened the moment they landed on Ji-Ho.
"Oh," she said gently. "You must be the student Yoo Joon mentioned."
Ji-Ho bowed slightly without thinking. "Yes, ma'am."
She smiled. Not polite. Not forced. Warm.
"I'm glad you came," she said. "Dinner's almost ready. Sit down."
He obeyed, settling at the small table. The chair felt solid beneath him. Safe.
She placed a bowl of rice in front of him, then soup, then side dishes—nothing extravagant, but everything carefully arranged.
When she set the spoon beside his hand, her fingers brushed his knuckles for just a second.
Ji-Ho froze.
It was nothing—but something in his chest tightened.
A strange warmth spread through him, unfamiliar and unsettling, like stepping into sunlight after being cold for too long.
"Eat slowly," she said. "There's plenty."
He nodded and took a bite.
The food tasted… gentle. Like someone had made it thinking about who would eat it.
"Is it okay?" she asked, watching him closely.
"Yes," Ji-Ho said quickly. Then, after a pause, softer, "It's really good."
Her smile deepened, and for a moment her eyes shone like she was holding back something she didn't want to spill.
She turned away to busy herself with the stove.
Ji-Ho watched her back, the way she moved carefully, like she didn't want to disturb the air around him. His chest felt tight again—not painful, just full.
He didn't know why.
He just knew that for the first time in a long while, his shoulders relaxed without him telling them to.
And he didn't know that the warmth he felt—
was home.
Later, after Ji-Ho excused himself and left the kitchen, Yoo Joon joined her in the living room.
She sank into the chair, hands still clasped tightly, heart still racing. Yoo Joon sat across from her, silent, his eyes soft but intense.
"He's…" she started, voice breaking slightly, "he's here. And he's… perfect. I can feel it."
Yoo Joon leaned back, watching her carefully. "You feel it because he is. He's your son."
Her head shot up, eyes wide, but not in surprise—only in confirmation, in relief.
"I know," she whispered. "I've always known. From the moment I saw him… everything about him. The way he moves, the way he carries himself… it's him. My boy."
Yoo Joon nodded slowly. "And he doesn't know yet. He doesn't know who we are."
She pressed a hand to her lips. "He will. But not yet. Not tonight. I can't… I can't tell him yet. I just want to watch him, just for a moment, before the world crashes in on him."
Yoo Joon's expression softened. "That's enough. Just let him be here tonight. Let him feel this home, even if he doesn't know it's his."
She exhaled, letting the tension leave her body for the first time in years.
"It's strange," she said quietly, almost to herself, "to see him… and know that he's mine, yet he doesn't know me. Yet… I feel him."
A pause.
"He'll understand one day," Yoo Joon said. "And when he does… it'll be worth every moment we've waited."
She nodded, eyes drifting back toward the kitchen doorway, imagining Ji-Ho there, sitting at the table, eating quietly, unaware of the bond that already tied their hearts together.
And in that soft, golden light, for just a moment, she allowed herself to simply watch him, her son, finally home—even if he didn't know it yet.