The landline phone on the dining room wall began to ring. Its shrill tone cut through the quiet hum of evening—a sound so familiar that Madam Seo didn't even flinch. She looked up from her newspaper, folded it neatly, and stood, her slippers making a soft shuffling sound against the polished wood floor.
"Eun-ha," she called gently, glancing toward the hallway. "He's calling."
A thunder of footsteps echoed down the corridor.
"Oppa!" Eun-ha skidded into the dining room, her cheeks flushed, hair in disarray, and a crumpled drawing clutched in her hand. She was barefoot, wearing her bunny slippers like bracelets on her wrists, and her excitement was spilling in every direction. "It's him, isn't it? Don't hang up yet, Halmeoni!"
Madam Seo smiled faintly, lifting the receiver. "Min-jae-yah?"
A soft male voice answered. "Yes, Halmeoni. It's me."
"How are your classes going? Are you eating properly? You sound tired."
"I'm fine. Exams are coming."
His tone was quiet. Controlled. Almost too even.
"How are your studies going? Are you managing alright?" Madam Seo asked gently.
"Busy," Min-jae replied. "There's a lot to cover. Teachers keep piling on assignments, and midterms are coming up."
"Midterms already? Aigoo... Time really flies. Are they giving you a hard time?"
"Science and math back-to-back next week," he muttered. "I've been staying up late revising."
She smiled, though her heart ached at how exhausted he sounded. "Min-jae, don't burn yourself out. You're already doing your best. Just take care of your health, hmm?"
"hmm" he said softly.
"Eat well, hmm? And get enough sleep—that matters too."
There was a faint sigh on the other end of the line. "I know."
She hesitated. "Do you need anything? I can send you snacks, or that herbal tea you like—"
"No, Halmeoni. I'm fine. Really."
He hadn't laughed. He hadn't asked about home. But he hadn't brushed her off either. That was enough for Madam Seo to feel the smallest shift in the air—like ice softening under spring sun.
Before she could say more, Eun-ha began bouncing at her side, tugging her sleeve, her eyes wide with impatience.
"Halmeoni, Halmeoni! Please, let me talk to him! Please!" she begged, hopping in place like a wound-up toy.
Madam Seo chuckled, defeated. "Aigoo, this child. Alright, alright, here—before you sprain your ankles from all that hopping."
She handed over the receiver with a laugh, her heart warmed by the spark in the little girl's eyes, already clinging to her sleeve and bouncing on her toes in anticipation.
"Oppa!" she said breathlessly. "It's me! Did you get my letter? The one with the bunny stickers? I drew a dog that looks like you—because he looks all grumpy and serious, just like your face when you're doing math!"
Silence. Then a brief exhale.
"Yeah. I got it."
Her eyes lit up.
"You saw it? I gave the dog a cape this time! He's Super Puppy! And he has tiny glasses too, just like yours!"
A pause. Then a dry, "Yeah. I saw."
That was it. No laugh. No warmth. But Eun-ha didn't seem to notice. She clutched the phone tighter like it might disappear.
"I miss you, Oppa. Do you miss me?"
There was a pause. Too long.
A shift in the background—someone calling him, maybe. "Take care of Halmeoni. I'll call again next week."
Click.
The dial tone buzzed in her ear. She stood frozen for a moment, staring at the receiver.
Then, slowly, she smiled.
"He got my letter! He said it was funny!" she squealed, running down the hallway, waving her hands in the air. "He kept my drawing! See? I told you he likes it when I send him stuff!"
She didn't walk—she twirled, stumbling slightly, laughter escaping her lips, as if he'd told her he missed her, or that he'd come home soon.
Madam Seo remained by the phone a moment longer, the receiver still warm in her hand. Her gaze drifted toward the hallway where Eun-ha had vanished, her joy echoing behind her like the last note of a fading song.
She slowly hung up the phone, her fingers lingering on the rotary dial.
Her lips curved into a soft, sorrowful smile.
"He didn't say any of that," she whispered to herself. But her eyes—those tired, kind eyes—held a flicker of hope nonetheless.
She reached for the folded letter on the table—the one with bunny stickers on it, smudged crayon drawings of a dog with stern eyebrows and crooked glasses. Carefully, she placed it in a small wooden box beside others just like it. There was a time Eun-ha would send her letters and drawings to his school—each one carefully packed with stickers and ribbon. But the school kept returning them. Min-jae had refused to collect anything with her name on it. Eventually, to spare Eun-ha the heartbreak, Madam Seo stopped sending them altogether.
Instead, she began to store each piece herself. Letters sent, drawings made, stories imagined—all tucked away in a small wooden box with love that couldn't be returned.
That night, the house settled into its usual quiet. The lamps were dimmed, the staff dismissed, and the long hallways of the estate creaked gently under the weight of time and memory.
Eun-ha refused to sleep in her room again. Instead, she wrapped herself in Min-jae's old sweater—one of the few things he'd left behind—and curled up on the floor outside his closed bedroom door. She just laid there, humming to herself, tracing patterns on the fabric with her fingers.
By the time Madam Seo passed the hallway on her way to bed, she found the girl fast asleep, the oversized sleeves bunched beneath her cheek like a pillow. With a sigh, Madam Seo bent down and gently scooped Eun-ha into her arms. The child stirred slightly but didn't wake, her cheek pressing instinctively against the older woman's shoulder. Madam Seo carried her to her bedroom and tucked her in without a word, brushing back a strand of hair from her forehead before quietly stepping out.
Later that night, Madam Seo sat by her bedroom window, the moonlight pooling on the floor like quiet company. Her eyes lingered on the garden below, but her thoughts were elsewhere.
She often wondered if she had done the right thing by letting Min-jae go to boarding school. He had asked for space, and she had given it—because she had seen the tired weight in his eyes, the quiet resentment he carried like a second skin. But sometimes, in moments like these, she doubted herself. Had distance helped him heal—or had it hardened something in him beyond repair?
And then there was Eun-ha.
Still unable to go to regular school. Still homeschooled. Still afraid to let go of her hand in crowded places. Eun-ha had grown, yes—but the grief had rooted itself deep. Her days revolved around home, and her world had narrowed to two things: her grandmother, and a boy who barely spoke to her.
What would happen to her, Madam Seo wondered, if Min-jae never softened? If he never let go of the past?
What would happen to both of them—these two children she had raised, loved, protected—if they could never truly find their way to each other?
The thought carved a quiet ache in her chest.
And with that, she closed her eyes and left the rest to time. And to God.
Later—much later—Min-jae returned home for a brief school holiday. The house stirred with quiet anticipation, the staff alert, and Eun-ha nearly bursting with joy.
Madam Seo stood at the top of the steps when he arrived, her hands outstretched. "My baby," she said, her voice warm and firm. "You've grown taller again."
Min-jae actually smiled as he dropped his bag and hugged her, letting himself lean into the familiarity of her hold. "You always say that."
"Because it's always true," she chuckled. "Come in, come in. I've made japchae and your favorite kimchi pancakes. You have gotten so thin..."
Eun-ha burst in from the hallway like a confetti cannon. "Oppa! You're home! You're finally home!" she cried, leaping forward to wrap herself around his waist.
He looked down at her, neither smiling nor flinching. "Speak slowly. I am not deaf."
But he didn't move away either.
Eun-ha took that as a good sign. She tugged at his arm, bounced on her toes, and rattled off everything she had prepared: "I cleaned your room! I made this welcome drawing, look! And I cooked dessert all by myself—it's sweet rice with chestnuts!"
She hadn't, of course. The cook had done the work, with Eun-ha proudly clinging to her apron and insisting on stirring once or twice. But in her mind, it was her creation—and no one dared tell her otherwise.
He stepped around her gently. "I'm going to unpack."
"Can I help?" she chirped, following right behind.
"Stay put, Eun-ha," he said without looking.
She stopped instantly. Stood there. Counted to ten in her head. Then tiptoed right after him.
During dinner, she kept stealing glances at him, trying to see if he'd smile. He didn't. But he ate quietly, answered Madam Seo's questions about school, and even laughed softly once when she mentioned his teacher had called to compliment his essay.
After the meal, one of the house staff brought over a tiny bowl, announcing politely that Eun-ha had specially requested it be served. She beamed as if she had personally prepared it in a chef's hat, bouncing slightly on her toes. "Here! Try this! I helped make it—sweet rice with chestnuts! I made it especially for you."
Min-jae glanced at it briefly. "I'm am full."
"Just one bite! I'll feed you!" She scooped a spoonful and held it up to his lips.
He shifted away. "Later."
Madam Seo intervened gently. "Min-jae, just take a bite for her. She's been talking about this all week."
He sighed and leaned slightly forward, allowing her to feed him a bite. He chewed slowly.
"Good, right?" she asked, eyes wide.
He shrugged. "It's sweet."
Eun-ha lit up anyway. "I knew you'd like it. Tomorrow I'll help make pancakes!"
He stood. "I'm going to Joon-won's."
"Now? But you just got here!"
"I promised him."
He left before Eun-ha could protest further—her mouth already open, eyes wide with disbelief. Madam Seo placed a gentle hand on her back. "It's alright, sweetheart. He'll come around soon."
He returned late. The house was dark. The lights dimmed. The hallway quiet.
And there she was again—curled up outside his door, fast asleep in the same spot. Her mouth slightly open, drooling onto the sleeve of his old sweater. Her hair was a mess, clinging to her cheeks, and her arms were tightly wrapped around a worn-out stuffed bear—his, long forgotten by him, but clearly treasured by her.
He paused.
A breath. Then another.
He stood there for a long moment, staring down at her.
She looked ridiculous. And small. And oddly peaceful.
He sighed, more from habit than emotion, and bent down. Gently, almost reluctantly, he slipped his arms beneath her and lifted her up. She stirred, just a little, her arms curling around his neck with a sleepy instinct.
She smelled faintly of strawberry shampoo and something soft—clean laundry, maybe. Familiar.
He walked slowly to her room. With care, he laid her down on the bed and began to untangle her arms from around his neck. She clung tighter for a second before her fingers loosened.
He reached down, pulled the blanket up to her chin, and stared at her for a long, quiet moment.
His expression was unreadable—caught somewhere between annoyance, guilt, and something softer he refused to name.
She muttered in her sleep.
"Oppa..."
He froze. Leaned in, just slightly.
Then, under his breath, he muttered, "You're such a pain."
But he didn't move. Not right away.
A second passed. Then another.
Finally, he turned off the light and stepped out, closing the door behind him without a sound.