Min-jun hauled his suitcase up the narrow staircase, the plastic wheels screeching protest against every step. Third floor. One more. The building smelled of kimchi and a lingering, stale dampness that made him want to wrinkle his nose, but he was already used to it—he had scouted about twenty places like this over the past week.
It was the cheapest option in Gangnam. Well, almost Gangnam. To be honest, it was the part of the neighborhood they never show in K-dramas.
"This one's yours," the ajumma said, stopping in front of a door with peeling paint. Room 401. "One hundred and fifty thousand won a month, utilities not included. Shared bathroom is down the hall. Kitchen, too."
She swung the door open, and Min-jun peered inside. The room was… well, he'd seen roomier coffins. A mattress on the floor, a tiny desk, a single shelf. A window the size of a textbook faced the wall of the adjacent building. You could reach out and practically touch the bricks of the next house.
"I'll take it," he said.
The ajumma raised an eyebrow. "You're not even going to ask about the Wi-Fi?"
"Is there any?"
"There is. Password's on the fridge downstairs."
She handed him a key—a regular metal one, not an electronic card. Min-jun took it; the metal felt unexpectedly warm in his palm.
"Thank you."
The ajumma lingered in the doorway. She looked at him the way elderly Korean women do when they have something to say but aren't quite sure they should.
"Staying long?" she finally asked.
"I don't know. Until the money runs out."
"Do you have a job?"
Min-jun shook his head. She nodded, as if she had expected that answer.
"I see. So, just like everyone else here."
She had already turned toward the stairs when she added, without looking back: "Just don't go up to the roof at night."
Min-jun blinked. "What?"
"The roof is closed after eleven. There's a lock. It's dangerous."
And then she was gone, leaving him standing with his suitcase in hand, staring at the empty room that was now supposed to be his home.
The first two days passed in a strange, viscous silence. Min-jun hardly left the room. He ordered food through an app, ate sitting on the floor, and scrolled through his phone. He ignored his mother's messages. There were twelve of them already. The last one had arrived yesterday: "Min-jun-ah, your father is very upset. At least call me."
He didn't call.
Instead, he lay on the mattress staring at the ceiling, where a yellowish stain from an old leak was spreading. It looked like a map. Or a silhouette of a person. Or nothing at all.
On the first night, he heard the sounds.
The building was old, and sounds were everywhere. Someone's TV. A heated argument a floor above. The groan of water pipes. The city outside—a distant hum that never truly stopped.
Min-jun was used to falling asleep to the noise of Seoul. It was almost comforting. Like white noise.
But at 3:17 AM, he woke up to something else.
Crying.
Soft, muffled. A woman's voice, it seemed. It was coming from somewhere above.
Min-jun rolled onto his side and pulled the blanket over his head. Thin walls, he thought. Someone had a fight. Or they're watching a drama. It happens.
But the crying didn't stop. It was monotonous, without sobs or pauses. Just the steady sound of someone's grief, seeping through the ceiling like that old leak once had.
Min-jun checked his phone. 3:17 AM.
He put on his headphones, turned on some music, and tried to go back to sleep.
The next day, he asked a neighbor.
The neighbor lived in Room 403. He looked to be in his early twenties and worked the night shift at a warehouse, judging by his uniform. They crossed paths by the shared bathroom.
"Hey, sorry," Min-jun caught his eye. "Did you happen to hear... well, crying last night? From the floor above, I think?"
The neighbor frowned. "Crying?"
"Yeah. Around three in the morning. Sounded like a woman."
"I'm already at work by three," the neighbor shrugged. "But honestly, only two rooms are occupied on the floor above us. An old guy lives in one, and he's deaf. Some programmer is in the other, but I've never even seen the guy."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive. Why?"
"Nothing, I must have imagined it."
The neighbor nodded and walked away, leaving Min-jun standing in the hallway, where a single bulb hung for three rooms, casting a yellow, hopeless light.
The second night. 3:17 AM.
The crying again.
It was louder this time. Or perhaps Min-jun just wasn't sleeping; he was waiting for it.
He sat up on the mattress and listened. The sound was coming exactly from above. Directly over his head. But the neighbor had said there were only two rooms on the floor above, and neither was positioned over his.
Min-jun stood up and walked barefoot into the hallway. He climbed to the fourth floor. He pressed his ear against the door of Room 501. Silence. Room 502. Also silence.
But the crying continued.
He tilted his head back. He looked up at the ceiling of the hallway.
And then he realized.
The sound was coming from above. But not from the fourth floor.
From the fifth.
The floor that didn't exist.