The house finally grew quiet.
After the tears and the shaking voices and the heavy truths that spilled across the dining room table like water released from a cracked jar, everyone drifted away slowly. His mother retreated to her bedroom, eyes swollen and steps unsteady. His father followed her silently, his hand resting on her back as if he feared she might fall if he let go. Sae Rin stayed in the living room for a while, watching him with eyes full of sadness she was trying not to show. His younger sister Ji Hye retreated to her room after giving him the smallest, softest smile that carried more affection than she knew how to express.
And then the house fell into a blanket of silence that wrapped itself around the walls and ceilings and doorframes.
Ha Jun sat alone on the edge of the sofa.
He stared at the floor.
The quiet inside him felt different tonight. Not lighter. Not easier. But different. It felt like a crowd of emotions stood in his chest instead of a single familiar darkness. Fear. Guilt. Relief. Uncertainty. Shame. Love. Exhaustion. They moved around inside him like restless figures pacing in a small confined room.
He rubbed his palms together slowly. His heart still felt raw.
The clock on the wall ticked softly. A steady sound. A patient one.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
The kind of sound that made the mind wander to places it tried to avoid.
He closed his eyes and leaned back against the sofa. The cushions felt softer than usual. Almost protective. He did not know how long he sat like that, just breathing slowly and trying to steady the tremor inside his chest.
Eventually he stood and walked to his room.
The door closed behind him with a quiet click that echoed louder than it should have. Inside, the air felt cold. He switched on the lamp by his bed. A warm circle of light spread across the blankets, touching the edges of his desk, his shelves, and the framed photograph he kept near the lamp.
He reached for the photo.
It was a picture of himself with all his sisters. Sae Rin on the left with her bright grin, Ji Hye in the center holding a tiny flower, and their youngest sister beside him with her arm wrapped around his waist. Her smile was so wide. So radiant. So alive.
He swallowed.
Her absence still lived in this house like a ghost. Her laughter still echoed in forgotten places. Her empty seat at the dining table. Her drawings tucked in boxes. Her clothes folded neatly in a drawer that no one opened anymore.
He looked at her face for a long time.
Long enough for the ache inside him to deepen.
He placed the photograph back down carefully, as if afraid it might break.
He sat on the edge of his bed and bent forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His breath came out unsteady.
A gentle knock sounded at his door.
He straightened.
"Come in," he said quietly.
Ji Hye stepped inside. Her eyes were still puffy from crying earlier, but her expression was softer now. She walked toward him and sat beside him without speaking. Her presence had always been like a warm candle. Small, quiet, but enough to keep the cold from swallowing everything.
For a moment they just sat in silence.
Then she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper, "I am sorry you have been suffering alone."
He stared at the floor. "It was not your fault."
"Maybe not," she said gently, "but it still hurts to know you were carrying so much without anyone to hold even a little piece of the burden."
He felt something inside him give way. A small, almost imperceptible shift.
"You know," she continued, "when we were younger, I always thought you were made of something stronger than the rest of us. You seemed like someone who could take care of everything. You laughed easily. You lifted us up. You carried things we did not even notice."
She paused.
"But you were still a child who lost someone. You were still a child who needed someone to lean on."
His fingers curled slightly.
Ji Hye placed a hand on his shoulder. "You do not have to be strong in front of us anymore."
He closed his eyes. Her words felt like warm rain on a cold day.
Then she asked quietly, "Does she still visit your dreams."
He opened his eyes slowly.
"Yes."
"How often."
"Almost every night," he whispered.
Ji Hye nodded. She was not surprised. She leaned her head against his arm, a gesture filled with the tenderness that only siblings understood.
"What does she say," she asked.
He inhaled shakily. "Sometimes she does not speak. She just stands there. Sometimes she calls my name. Sometimes she cries."
Ji Hye tightened her grip on his arm. "And what do you do."
"I stand there too," he said. "I never know what to say. I just watch her. And then she disappears. Every time."
The room fell into stillness.
Ji Hye whispered, "She loved you more than anyone."
A soft pain passed through him. "I know."
"And she never blamed you," Ji Hye added, her voice trembling slightly. "Not for a single moment."
He blinked slowly. "I know that too."
But something in him did not fully accept it. Something deep and unresolved still held onto the fear that he should have protected her somehow, even if the world had given him no chance to. Guilt had a way of creating its own story and refusing to let go.
Ji Hye seemed to sense his thoughts. "One day you will forgive yourself," she said. "Maybe not today. Maybe not this year. But one day."
He did not answer. He did not know how.
After a long silence, she stood and touched his shoulder again.
"If you ever feel like you are drowning," she whispered, "wake me. Even if it is the middle of the night. Even if you cannot explain what you feel. Wake me."
His throat tightened. "You need your sleep."
"I need my brother more," she said simply.
He felt something warm move through him. A kind of comfort he had forgotten existed.
Then she walked to the door and paused. "Good night, Ha Jun."
He murmured, "Good night."
When she left, the room felt quieter. But the silence no longer felt cold. It felt like a blanket placed gently over him.
He lay down slowly and stared at the ceiling. The lamp cast a soft glow across the room, touching the corners gently.
He thought about his youngest sister again. He thought about the way her voice used to sound when she ran through the house calling his name. He thought about the last day he saw her. The last laugh. The last moment.
His eyes grew heavy.
He closed them.
The room breathed around him. The quiet settled deeper. And eventually, exhaustion pulled at his thoughts until sleep began to claim him.
But as he drifted, he heard a sound.
A soft sound.
A faint echo of a voice.
A child's voice.
Calling his name.
The same voice he heard in his dreams.
The same voice he had never been able to escape.
Ha Jun.
He opened his eyes again, heart racing, breath sharp.
The room was empty.
The night was still.
But the echo lingered, soft and cold.
And he knew with a certainty that frightened him:
The past was not done with him yet.
The quiet season was darkening.
And something was coming.
Something that waited beyond the edges of sleep.