Han Myeoru had faced countless mornings where nothing ever goes as planned or something unexpected shows up. But that morning was different; he experienced something altogether different, a feeling he neither knew nor how to handle, and the black envelope on his desk refused to let him breathe.
He had built morae reum entertainment from the ground up over six years to become what it is now, and yet here he sat, chained by a single sheet of paper.
The funeral invitation stared back at it, its white paper stark against the polished mahogany.
"Thursday, June 27th. Yoon Jae-ha."
Her name was carved into him like frost. He whispered it.
The Penthouse Silence
He leaned back, closing his eyes. The penthouse stretched around him, cold and clean but with no warmth. White leather couches, glass walls, steel fixtures — everything chosen for efficiency, for perfection. Yet tonight, it felt like a mausoleum.
He rose abruptly, pacing the length of the room. His reflection in the glass wall stared back — a perfectly fixed suit, perfected hairstyle, it was the image of perfection. Yet beneath it, his chest ached, his breath was shallow. He reached for his inhaler, took two measured puffs, and waited until his lungs loosened.
The city glittered below, Seoul was restless and alive. But inside, he felt trapped between two worlds: the pain of losing your first love, and a family he had never known.
"She kept them from me," he muttered, voice hoarse. "Six years. She decided I wasn't worthy. And now she expects me to stand at her grave?"
His hand trembled as he reached for the letter again. Jae-ha's handwriting was neat, familiar, painfully intimate. Please be kind to them, even when it is difficult.
He pressed the paper to his forehead, as if the paper could give him advice. Why had she left? Why had she hidden the children? Why had she carried his bloodline into the world, only to erase him from it?
But he had no way of knowing. The silence and the helplessness of not knowing anything stung him.
He closed his eyes, and remembered the good times he had with her.
Her laughter — soft, and full of life — filled his ears. The way she tugged at his sleeve when he worked too late, her voice teasing, "You'll marry your contracts before you marry me."
The warmth of her hand in his, the way she leaned against him during winter walks, her breath fogging in the cold.
And then, the sting. The day she walked away.
"Let's stop here, Myeoru. I can't continue this relationship."
He had begged, pleaded, his pride and heart shattered. But her back had disappeared into the snow, and he had never chased her.
Now, six years later, he wondered if he should have.
He poured himself a drink, the amber liquid catching the city lights. He drank slowly, staring at the skyline.
He imagined what the children looked like. Did they resemble him? Did they carry her smile? Did they know his name, or was he just a stranger written on paper?
He thought of Jae-ha's motives. Did she love him, or was he just a mistake? Did she hide them out of spite, or out of fear?
The questions spiraled, unanswered. He drank again, but the burn did nothing to ease the ache.
Hours passed. The city shifted from night to dawn, the sky bleeded pale gold. He had not slept. His suit hung ready, it was pressed and perfect.
Decision at Dawn
Finally, he rose. He dressed in silence, each button was fastened in a hurry but was done with air of elegance. His tie was sharp, his shoes polished. He looked every bit the tycoon — but inside, he was just a boy forced to be matured.
He picked up the envelope, slipped it into his coat pocket, and left the penthouse.
The morning air was cold, freezing. The city roared to life around him, engines humming, voices rising. But he drove alone, each road was carrying him closer to the grave of the woman who had once been his world.
The cemetery was quiet. Rows of mourners dressed in simple white hanbok and black formal wear whispered softly, their somber attire blending into the gray sky. The mourners followed traditional Korean funeral customs, bowing respectfully and offering silent prayers to help the deceased transition peacefully to the afterlife. Myeoru arrived late, slipping past the crowd, his presence unnoticed.
Now, he stood alone before the grave.
The grave was marked by a simple earthen mound, reflecting traditional Korean burial practices. Wooden coffins were used, and the focus was on Confucian and shamanistic rites rather than elaborate stone markers. The name was inscribed with care, honoring the deceased in a humble and respectful manner: Yoon Jae-ha.
His chest tightened. He had imagined this moment countless times, but reality was much crueler.
"Why?" he whispered, voice trembling. "If you didn't love me… why give birth to my children? Why keep them from me? Was I so unworthy?"
The silence pressed down. He thought of her laughter, the way she tugged at his sleeve when he worked too late. He thought of the day she walked away, her back disappearing into the snow.
"Was there something bothering you?" His voice cracked. "Something you couldn't tell me? Something I should have seen?"
The questions spiraled, echoing against the cold stone. His hands curled into fists. Six years of empire-building, of burying himself in contracts and numbers — and none of it had prepared him for this emptiness.
Interruption: Ms. Yurim
A soft voice broke through his storm.
"Mr. Han."
He turned sharply. Ms. Choi Yurim stood a few steps away, her navy coat buttoned neatly, her folder tucked under one arm. Her presence was calm, professional — but her eyes carried sympathy.
"I didn't mean to intrude," she said gently. "But there are matters we must discuss. The children… they will need you soon."
Myeoru's gaze flicked back to the grave. The marble name blurred as his vision burned.
"She left me with questions," he muttered. "And now she leaves me with answers I don't know how to face."
Yurim's expression softened. "Perhaps the children are the answers, Mr. Han. Not the questions."
The wind howled through the cemetery, carrying away his doubts and grief. For the first time, Han Myeoru felt the weight of fatherhood pressing against the walls he had built.
And standing before Jae-ha's grave, he realized: the storm was only beginning.