The room was so small that silence filled it too quickly.
It was barely wide enough for a mattress, a stove, and a narrow wooden shelf pressed against the wall. The ceiling fan rotated with a tired groan, pushing around warm air that smelled faintly of detergent and old paint.
Sun Jin stood on a stool near the window, adjusting the thin curtain so the evening light could fall neatly across the floor.
He liked things neat.
When everything else in life felt broken, at least the room could be clean.
"Hyung?"
The voice was small. Soft.
Sun Jin turned.
Sun Hu sat cross-legged on the mattress, holding a toy car missing one wheel. His hair was messy, his shirt too big for his thin shoulders. His eyes were round and trusting.
"When will Amma call us?"
The question came gently.
But it hit hard.
Sun Jin stepped down from the stool slowly. He forced a smile — the kind that children believe.
"Soon," he said quietly. "She's working very hard."
Sun Hu nodded, satisfied with that answer.
He always was.
Sun Jin turned away quickly so his brother wouldn't see his eyes.
There had been no calls.
No letters.
No parents coming back.
Just silence.
But Sun Hu didn't need to carry that truth.
Sun Jin would carry it for both of them.
The "kitchen" was only a corner of the room. A small gas stove rested on the floor beside a plastic bucket of water. Sun Jin stirred a pot of thin soup, adding more water than lentils.
He had already eaten leftover bread at the construction site that afternoon.
Sun Hu didn't need to know that either.
"Hyung," Sun Hu said proudly, crawling closer, "when I grow up, I'll buy you a big house. With two windows!"
Sun Jin let out a small laugh.
"Two windows? That's too many. One is enough."
"No! Two! So sunlight can come from both sides."
Sun Jin ruffled his brother's hair.
"You should first learn to tie your shoelaces without crying."
"I don't cry!"
"You do."
Sun Hu pouted.
Sun Jin knelt and tied the laces gently. His fingers were rough, scraped from carrying cement bags and metal rods. They didn't look like the hands of someone in his early twenties.
They looked older.
Tired.
Too used to surviving.
That night, Sun Hu fell asleep quickly, his small hand gripping the edge of Sun Jin's shirt.
He always held on.
Even in sleep.
As if he feared waking up alone.
Sun Jin carefully loosened the tiny fingers and stood by the window.
Across the street, a family was having dinner. He could hear laughter through the open balcony door. A mother scolding. A father pretending to be strict. The television blaring in the background.
Normal life.
Sun Jin tried to remember what that felt like.
He remembered fragments.
A warm voice singing.
A hand holding his.
A hospital corridor.
After that… blank.
He had been old enough to understand what death meant.
Sun Hu had been too small to remember.
Maybe that was a blessing.
Or maybe it wasn't.
A sharp knock broke the quiet.
The landlord.
"Rent," the man said without greeting.
"I need two more days," Sun Jin replied calmly.
"You said that last week."
"I know."
The landlord glanced inside, eyes falling on the sleeping child.
"You can't raise him like this. This place isn't for children."
Sun Jin swallowed.
"I know."
The door shut.
The room felt even smaller.
The next morning, Sun Jin woke before sunrise.
He sat beside Sun Hu and watched him sleep.
Soft breathing. Warm cheeks. Peaceful.
At the construction site the night before, one of the older workers had spoken casually.
"There's an orphanage near the old church. They give food, school, clothes. Good place for kids."
Sun Jin had ignored it at first.
But the words didn't leave him.
Food.
School.
Safety.
Things he couldn't promise.
That afternoon, Sun Hu held his hand as they walked down a narrow road.
"Where are we going, Hyung?"
"To see a school," Sun Jin said gently.
Sun Hu's face lit up instantly.
"Really? Will I get a uniform?"
"Yes."
"Will you come too?"
The question made Sun Jin's chest tighten.
"I'll come," he answered.
He didn't say when.
The orphanage gate was painted blue, the paint peeling at the edges. Children were playing in the yard, chasing each other, laughing freely.
Laughing.
Sun Jin hadn't heard Sun Hu laugh like that in a long time.
A woman approached them with kind eyes.
"Admission?" she asked softly.
The word felt like something breaking inside him.
"Yes."
Sun Hu squeezed his hand tightly.
"Hyung… you'll pick me up in the evening, right?"
Sun Jin knelt so their faces were level.
He memorized everything.
The tiny scar above Sun Hu's eyebrow.
The way his eyelashes curved.
The innocence he didn't deserve to lose.
"You'll stay here for a while," Sun Jin said carefully. "Study well. Eat properly. Don't fight."
"And you?"
"I'll visit."
Sun Hu hugged him suddenly — tightly, desperately.
Sun Jin held him like someone trying to hold onto the last piece of himself.
When the caretaker gently led Sun Hu inside, the boy kept turning back.
"Hyung!"
Sun Jin forced himself not to move.
The gate closed.
The sound echoed louder than it should have.
He stood there long after Sun Hu disappeared from sight.
People passed by.
Cars moved.
Life continued.
But something had ended.
When Sun Jin returned to the room that evening, it was spotless.
Too spotless.
No toy car on the mattress.
No small shoes near the door.
No voice calling "Hyung."
The silence was unbearable.
He sat on the floor, back against the wall.
And for the first time since their parents died…
Sun Jin cried.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just quietly.
Because sometimes love doesn't look like holding on.
Sometimes love looks like letting go…
and praying the person you left behind will grow up strong enough to never need you again.