The light in Jeju, Min Jae decided, was the truest light in the world. It didn't obscure; it revealed. It showed the silvery grain of the weathered deck wood, the intricate map of lines around Seo-jun's eyes when he laughed, the dust motes dancing in a silent, sunlit room. This was the light of his life now—clear, honest, and deeply cherished.
Time had softened the edges of everything, including memory. The sharp, jagged pain of his lost years had long since faded, replaced by a quiet, almost philosophical acceptance. It was a part of his history, like a scar from a forgotten fall, no longer painful but a permanent part of his landscape. He no longer fought the ghosts; he had made his peace with them. They were quiet tenants in the vast house of his past.
