The Weeks That Followed
After Min Hyun and Jihoon left that morning, the air around the small Busan apartment felt unusually still. The clock on the wall ticked on, the sound echoing faintly through the quiet room. Soojin sat by the window for a while, watching the buses and cars pass by. Her cup of barley tea had long gone cold.
For a moment, she just stared ahead — then sighed softly, stood up, and said under her breath, "No... I can't live like this."
That sentence marked a beginning.
She cleared the table, folded the blanket, and opened her study books. The ink of her pen glided across old notes, the margins already full of underlines and quick reminders. She whispered to herself, almost like a quiet promise —
"It's okay even if I'm tired. Consistency is the key."
The next few weeks shaped her around that promise. Her life began to move with a kind of rhythm — not loud, not dramatic, but steady, like the sound of waves breaking on the shore.
Every morning, she woke just after dawn. The sky outside her window would still be tinted morning sun, the streets silent except for the hum of the early trams. She'd splash cold water on her face, tie her hair neatly, and prepare a simple breakfast — steamed rice, kimchi, a fried egg, and sometimes leftover soup from the night before.
She always ate sitting by the window, watching the faint line of orange spread across the sky as the city woke up. Then, she'd pack her bag and step out, her shoes clicking softly against the pavement as she walked toward the bus stop.
Soojin's office was a little far — a modest government building, pale walls and large windows that looked out onto a busy street. Her desk sat near the corner, piled with neatly arranged folders. Most of her work involved typing reports, sorting documents, and answering calls. The office air always smelled faintly of paper and warm dust.
She worked quietly, efficiently. Her coworkers often joked that she was the only one who never complained about Mondays. During short breaks, she didn't go for coffee like the others. Instead, she'd take out her study notebook — flipping through pages of exam material, reading a few points at a time.
"Even ten minutes is progress," she'd remind herself.
Sometimes, when she was tired, she'd rest her head on her arms and just listen to the faint chatter of the office. But no matter how sleepy her eyes felt, she'd go back to reading again.
After work, she walked straight to the bakery — a small shop with yellow-tinted windows and the warm scent of butter and sugar that lingered in the air. Her apron hung on a hook near the door, always waiting for her.
The moment she entered, the world seemed to shift. The tiredness from the office faded into the background. The radio played faintly — old Busan love songs — while she and her coworkers laughed over trays of dough.
She loved the feeling of kneading — the soft resistance of the dough under her palms, the way it slowly became smooth and alive. The bakery made red-bean buns, soft milk bread, and sugar-dusted rolls that customers lined up for after sunset.
"Yah, Soojin-ah, your buns always look perfect!" one of her coworkers teased.
"Because they're scared of me," Soojin replied, grinning, wiping her flour-covered hands on her apron.
Their laughter filled the small shop as the ovens ticked and hummed behind them.
When the last batch was done, she sometimes stayed back a little longer, helping clean the counters or packaging the next morning's bread. The scent of freshly baked bread clung to her clothes as she walked home — warm, sweet, comforting.
Her nights were quiet. She'd return home, take a quick shower, and sit by the small desk under the yellow lamp. That light had become her silent companion. She'd review exam questions, make small notes, or rewrite summaries. Sometimes, she dozed off mid-sentence — pen still in hand — but she never let herself give up.
Even on the days when her eyelids felt heavy, she'd still whisper, "Just one more page."
Weekends were different. Saturdays were often her "catch-up" days — she'd clean the apartment, do laundry, and spend a few hours baking something new for herself. On Sundays, she almost always went to the orphanage near the edge of the city.
The children knew her well by now. "Soojin noona!" they'd call, running up to her. She always brought small gifts — bread from the bakery, a few pencils, some coloring books she bought from the market.
She loved watching them laugh, their energy filling the dull courtyard. Sometimes she'd sit on the steps, just watching the sunset while the children played, her hands clasped loosely in her lap.
It made her feel peaceful — and grateful.
There were days she met friends too, mostly by the beach. Busan's sea breeze carried a mix of salt and life, and their laughter often got lost in the wind. They'd sit on the sand with paper cups of coffee, talking about work, about dreams, about things they still wanted to do.
The evenings always ended with someone saying, "Let's meet again next week," though everyone knew how hard it was to find the time.
Still, Soojin always made time. Somehow, she managed.
Some nights were spent with Grandma Hanna. The older woman's health had been unsteady lately, so Soojin often went over to help with dinner or sort her medicines. She liked those nights — the small kitchen glowing with the light of a single bulb, the faint hum of the television in the background.
Grandma Hanna always said the same thing, smiling tiredly,
"You work too hard, Soojin-ah. Don't wear yourself thin."
Soojin would laugh softly, stirring the soup.
"I'm fine, Grandma. I just need to keep moving forward."
When Grandma's cough got bad, Soojin stayed the night, sleeping on the floor beside her bed. In those quiet hours, the world outside seemed far away — just the sound of ticking clocks and the faint scent of herbal medicine.
And so the weeks passed — filled with the rhythm of movement and effort.
Work. Study. Bake. Care. Repeat.
The days weren't easy, but they were hers.
Sometimes, when she walked home alone, Busan's city lights glittering in the distance, she thought of the people who had left that morning — Min Hyun, Jihoon — and wondered how their days were unfolding. Whether they were laughing somewhere, or struggling quietly, just like her.
But she didn't dwell too long. Life was already moving forward, and she was learning to move with it — steadily, one small effort at a time.
At the end of each night, as she closed her books and turned off the lamp, the faint sounds of the sea reached her window — steady, calm, constant.
Just like she wanted to be.
Three Weeks Passed After Min hyun Pulled His Friend Dying Act
[Three Weeks Later – Seoul, 1990s]
The city was alive with spring's restless energy. Cherry blossoms lingered stubbornly in hidden alleys, and the air carried the faint smoke of grilled street food mixing with diesel from the delivery trucks. Seoul's streets were a battlefield of taxis, bicycles, pedestrians, and stray cats—each one seemingly conspiring to test Min Hyun's reflexes.
He was late, of course. Again. Jogging down the sidewalk, tie flapping and briefcase swinging, he narrowly avoided a street vendor's cart that nearly toppled.
"Three weeks of peace… gone," he muttered, skidding to a halt. "And now Jihoon thinks I'm the city's miracle worker."
Two nights ago, Jihoon's panicked call had thrown him into this mess:
"Hyung! My cousin's delivery company—half the paperwork's missing, drivers are threatening mutiny, the accountant's crying in the bathroom. Please! You're good with people!"
Min Hyun had hesitated. And then Jihoon added, "You'll get paid per day! Plus… boss-like powers."
That had sealed it.
The delivery company, Dohyun Logistics, was tucked behind a dusty alley, its mid-sized office merging with a modest warehouse. A faint diesel scent mingled with the smell of ink, coffee, and fried snacks from a nearby stand. Phones rang constantly, a fax machine sputtered, and a ceiling fan lazily cut through the heat of mid-morning.
Jaeho, Jihoon's cousin and the manager, looked like he had aged a decade in the past week. Glasses sliding down his nose, untucked shirt, clutching a cup of instant coffee like it was an antidote for stress.
"Thank god you're here," Jaeho said as soon as he saw Min Hyun. "Half the supplier sheets are missing, one client's threatening to cancel our monthly route, and my accountant is crying in the bathroom. Literally crying."
Min Hyun blinked. "Sounds like a great first day."
"You're good with organization, right?" Jaeho said, desperate. "Just… make sense of this nightmare."
Min Hyun rolled up his sleeves. "Let's see the battlefield."
Inside, the warehouse was a microcosm of controlled disaster. Drivers argued over delivery routes, stacking boxes with the intensity of chess players. One driver waved a clipboard like a weapon. Another slept under a truck, hat over his face. Sticky notes covered every wall. Somewhere, a radio played a 90s pop hit, barely audible over the chaos.
Min Hyun dove in. Color-coded invoices. Clear logs. Sticky-note reminders. Each correction accompanied by a running commentary that made Jaeho stare like he was watching magic.
"Kim driver's route overlaps with Lee's — merge them. And whoever wrote in green ink on yellow paper… I respect your courage, but not your handwriting!"
The drivers began noticing his efficiency. One sturdy man, baseball cap tilted sideways, leaned over a partition.
"You're like… a general. Are you staying?"
Jaeho, sipping coffee as if it contained courage itself, muttered, "If he fixes Friday's shipment, I'll build him a statue."
By noon, the disorder was untangling. Boxes moved smoothly, trucks lined up correctly, invoices made sense. Min Hyun's inner monologue was a mix of pride and absurdity:
"I should have been doing this years ago. Or maybe I'm secretly meant to herd humans instead of spreadsheets. Either way, it's strangely satisfying."
Jaeho returned from a call, pale but slightly relieved.
"You—actually did it. That client called. Everything makes sense. Are you some kind of wizard?"
Min Hyun smirked. "No, just desperate and moderately charming."
Jihoon wandered in mid-snack, holding a sandwich like a peace offering. "So… did you burn it down, or fix it?"
"Fixed," Min Hyun said, tossing him a folder. "You owe me dinner."
Jihoon grinned. "I'm impressed. You sure you're not secretly thirty-five with a mortgage?"
"Don't age me prematurely," Min Hyun said, scanning a now-perfectly stacked pile of invoices. "But, yeah… it feels good. Real, earned satisfaction."
By the second week, Min Hyun had settled into a rhythm. Early mornings, organizing shipments, juggling drivers' complaints, and making sense of supplier calls.
By noon, he had three things figured out:
Half the chaos came from overlapping delivery routes recorded in different handwriting.
The drivers used personal notebooks instead of one logbook.
Someone had accidentally double-billed a major client for last week's shipment.
It was chaos, yes — but the kind of chaos Min Hyun weirdly enjoyed.He started sorting invoices by color-coded tabs, making piles, cross-checking truck schedules. His handwriting filled sticky notes, his voice snapping directions faster than Jaeho could process.
"Kim driver's route overlaps with Lee's — merge them. And please, whoever used green ink on yellow paper, I hope they're proud, because I can't read a single word!"
Even the drivers began to notice. One of them, a sturdy man with a baseball cap, leaned over the partition."Hey, this new guy—he's like a general," he said. "You hiring him full time, boss?"
Jaeho, now sipping instant coffee like medicine, sighed. "If he saves the Friday shipment, I'll build him a statue."
By late afternoon, the mess started untangling. The warehouse moved smoother, the office quieter. Min Hyun stretched his arms, cracking his knuckles with satisfaction. It wasn't glamorous, but it felt earned — cleaner than the games he usually played at work.
When Jaeho came back from a call, he looked stunned."You—actually did it. That client just called to say the invoice finally makes sense. Do you do this for a living?"
Min Hyun chuckled. "No, I fake illnesses and talk my way out of trouble."
Jaeho laughed weakly, not sure if he was joking. "You know, I could use someone like you long-term."
That night, Jihoon showed up with snacks and his usual grin. "So? Did you burn the place down or fix it?"
Min Hyun tossed him a folder. "Fixed it. You owe me dinner."
Jihoon peeked at the tidy files. "I'm impressed. You sure you're not secretly thirty-five with two kids and a mortgage?"
"Don't age me prematurely," Min Hyun said, smirking. "But… it was weirdly satisfying. Like… maybe I'm actually good at this."
By the second week, Min Hyun had settled into a rhythm—or, as close to a rhythm as chaos in a mid-sized Seoul delivery company would allow. His mornings started with a sprint: coffee in one hand, tie crooked in a deliberately stylish way, dodging a taxi, three bicycles, and a rogue delivery cart that seemed determined to take him down.
"Why do I live like this?" he muttered under his breath, narrowly avoiding the spinning wheel of a bicycle courier. "I'm officially a professional obstacle dodger. My diploma didn't cover this, but I guess life does."
Inside the office, the orchestra of mild chaos awaited him. Drivers were engaged in a heated debate over fuel expenses. One waved his clipboard like it was a sword.
"Listen," Min Hyun thought, ducking under a swinging arm, "if I go over, it's my problem? Buddy, it's all our problem. Everyone calm down before I personally invent a fuel tax. Or worse… a penalty involving push-ups. Yes, push-ups solve everything."
The accountant, a frail man who had clearly been hiding in a pile of ledgers since 1992, peeked out and sniffled.
"Oh, are you crying again? Or just rehearsing for a theater show called Ledger Blues?" Min Hyun murmured. The man didn't answer. Min Hyun imagined a spotlight on him, dramatic music swelling.
Meanwhile, the fax machine chose that exact moment to jam spectacularly, groaning like it had just been asked to run a marathon.
"Perfect. Show me exactly how much you hate progress," Min Hyun muttered. He gently patted it as one might a sad, stubborn dog. "There, there. We'll survive this together."
And then there was Jihoon.
Jihoon was sitting on a crate with a half-eaten sandwich in one hand, a stack of invoices teetering precariously on his knee. Every time Min Hyun turned around, a different invoice had moved three inches to the left, as if it were practicing a slow-motion escape.
"Hyung," Jihoon said, chewing, "why is there a receipt for a pineapple shipment in the envelope labeled motor oil?"
"I don't know, Jihoon," Min Hyun said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Maybe the pineapple needed lubrication."
Jihoon giggled and scribbled a note on the back of the envelope: Pineapple requires oil—don't question it.
"Excellent. Documenting the absurdity. Very professional," Min Hyun muttered, walking over to rescue a stack of papers before Jihoon's next "helpful suggestion" could cause a disaster.
Then, of course, a driver dropped a crate of packages, scattering envelopes and cardboard like confetti.
"Oh, fantastic," Min Hyun said, surveying the scene like a general assessing a battlefield. "It's raining paper. Should I get an umbrella, or just wade through?"
"Maybe both," Jihoon suggested, trying to help but stepping on a stray envelope and nearly taking a nosedive.
Min Hyun caught him mid-fall. "Thank you. Your coordination is… surprisingly average."
By mid-morning, Min Hyun had developed an internal running commentary that rivaled any late-night comedy show:
"Ah, driver Kim is back. Today, he claims his fuel card has been possessed by ghosts. Fascinating. I'll put that in the incident log under paranormal expenses."
"Ah, Mr. Cho, accountant extraordinaire, has emerged with tears and a damp tie. Either the ledger moved itself again, or he's preparing for a solo performance at Seoul Opera House."
"Fax machine still groaning. I think it wants to unionize. I'll leave a motivational Post-it. Fax machine, you can do this."
By noon, a quiet miracle occurred: the drivers actually agreed on their routes, Jihoon had only misplaced one envelope (it was found under the coffee machine), and the fax machine had—begrudgingly—decided to cooperate.
Min Hyun leaned back in his chair, surveying the office like a general surveying conquered territory. "All in a day's work," he muttered. "All in a day's absolutely chaotic, yet mildly entertaining work."
Jihoon, munching another sandwich, looked up. "You know… you're kind of fun when stressed."
"Yes," Min Hyun said, sighing dramatically, "fun. Like a roller coaster built by someone who's slightly insane. Hang on, Jihoon. Next week we fight the forklift."
And the office continued buzzing around them, the chaos somehow under control, Min Hyun's commentary continuing like a secret TV show that only he and a very mischievous universe were watching.
One afternoon, a supplier arrived unannounced — an older man in a worn coat, furious about an overdue payment. The whole office froze as his voice boomed through the hall.
"Where's the manager? You people delay my money again and I'll pull out my trucks!"
Before Jaeho could emerge from his corner, Min Hyun stepped forward.
"Sir, I completely understand your frustration," he said, calm but firm. "If you'll give me ten minutes, I'll show you the cleared payment slips."
The man blinked, still fuming. "And who are you?"
"Temporary damage control," Min Hyun replied with a straight face.
He guided the supplier to the table, pulled out a ledger, and quickly traced back every transaction. Within minutes, he found the culprit — a misplaced decimal on one of the receipts. He corrected it, offered tea, and sent the man off with a copy and a smile.
The staff watched in stunned silence.Jaeho whispered, "He just defused a supplier bomb."
Jihoon, who had dropped by for a snack run, grinned. "Told you he's good with people. Give him a desk already."
By the end of the month, Dohyun Logistics ran smoother than it had in a year.Drivers clocked in on time. Deliveries went out without a single late report. Even the fax machine stopped jamming — though Min Hyun claimed that was due to his "positive aura."
Jaeho was true to his word. He pulled Min Hyun aside one evening as the sun dipped behind the warehouses.
"I mean this sincerely," he said. "You have a knack for this — managing disarrangement, connecting people. Ever think of leaving your office job?"
Min Hyun laughed softly. "Every day."
Jaeho smiled. "If you want, I can talk to my partner. We're expanding into bulk transport. You'd fit right in."
That night, walking home under the orange glow of streetlights, Min Hyun couldn't shake the thought.It wasn't a grand revelation — just a steady, practical spark. For the first time, the idea of earning something real didn't feel impossible.
Later that week, he met Jihoon and Yura at a late-night food stall.Steam rose from bowls of tteokbokki as the three of them sat shoulder to shoulder.
"So, Mr. Delivery Hero," Yura teased. "How's your new empire?"
"Still standing," Min Hyun said with a grin. "And surprisingly, no fake illnesses involved."
Jihoon lifted his chopsticks like a toast. "To progress! And to not getting caught lying again!"
They all laughed — the sound mingling with city traffic, the chatter of strangers, and the smell of spicy sauce in the night air.
For the first time in a long time, Min Hyun felt something new creeping in beneath the laughter — direction.
He didn't know where it would lead yet, but maybe, just maybe, this time the story wouldn't end in an act.
And tomorrow, everything could change......