The Ghosts That Linger

Yoon Ji-ho wakes up before his alarm.

The early morning light filters through his apartment, stretching thin shadows across the walls. He blinks up at the ceiling, body motionless, mind heavy. Sleep has become an afterthought, something he only remembers when exhaustion forces his limbs into stillness. But even then, rest doesn't come easy.

The past few nights have been like this. He lies in bed, his thoughts tangled in a haze of images and feelings that don't make sense. Something always lingers at the edge of his consciousness—something half-remembered, half-forgotten.

He pushes himself up and moves through the motions of his morning routine. Shower. Clothes. Workout. Normalcy. Routine. Stability. These are the things that keep him grounded, that keep him from questioning too much.

His phone vibrates against the counter. A message notification flickers at the top of the screen.

Ji-ho doesn't reach for it. He already knows what it is.

The text is still there. The one that called him Soo-min.

He simply pretended it never happened. But instead, his fingers hover over the screen, his breath shallow.

Why does it feel like something does?

A knock on his door jolts him from his trance. Ji-ho exhales, forcing himself back into reality. He grabs his coat and bag and leaves without looking back.

The Bookstore

The bookstore is only a twenty-minute walk from his apartment. Normally, Ji-ho finds the fresh air comforting, but today it feels stifling. The world around him is too bright, too loud. The sharp morning chill cuts against his skin, but the weight in his chest is heavier.

By the time he arrives, the tension in his shoulders hasn't eased.

"Ji-ho-ssi!"

One of his coworkers waves him over as soon as he steps inside. Ji-ho forces a small smile, rubbing at his temple as he makes his way behind the counter.

"Morning," he mutters.

The coworker, a man slightly older than him, smirks. 

"You look like you didn't sleep. Again."

Another voice chimes in from behind the shelves. "That's because he's always buried in his books. I swear, I've never seen him outside of this place."

Ji-ho exhales through his nose, shaking his head as he starts organising the receipts from last night's shift. 

"I have a life outside of here, you know."

"Really? Could've fooled me."

The first coworker leans against the counter, arms crossed. 

"You coming to the company dinner later?"

Ji-ho hesitates. "Dinner?"

"You forgot, didn't you?" 

The man sighs dramatically. 

"You always forget to show up to these things don't you? Just come, for once. It's not that serious."

Ji-ho glances at the schedule taped to the counter. The dinner. Right. He had heard them talking about it last week but hadn't given it much thought.

"You're coming, right?"

Ji-ho hesitates, then nods slowly. 

"Yeah… I guess."

His coworkers exchange glances, then burst into laughter. 

"Yah, Ji-ho-ssi! Look at you being social for once."

He rolls his eyes but doesn't argue.

His shift ends as the sky begins to dim. Ji-ho pulls his coat tighter around himself and steps outside.

Then—

He collides with someone.

Not a light bump. A full, solid collision that nearly knocks him off his feet. Ji-ho stumbles, hands instinctively reaching out.

"Joesonghamnida (I'm sorry—)"

As he bows, the words die in his throat.

Because the man in front of him isn't just anyone.

His face is worn, lined with exhaustion. His eyes—sharp, searching, aching—lock onto Ji-ho's with an intensity that makes his breath stutter.

Jung Hyun-seok.

The one-man protester.

For a second, neither of them moves. The world around them fades. The only thing Ji-ho can hear is the distant rush of traffic and the pounding of his own pulse.

Then—

"You…" 

Hyun-seok's voice is rough, quiet, but layered with something unreadable.

His eyes flicker, scanning Ji-ho's face like he's trying to grasp onto something just out of reach. Then, barely above a whisper, 

"…Algo inna? (Do you know?)"

Ji-ho doesn't understand the question. Or maybe, he doesn't want to.

"Ah, anniyo (Ah, I do not). I think you have the wrong person."

But his voice is too stiff. Too forced.

Hyun-seok doesn't move. His grip on the sign in his hand tightens. Ji-ho feels his chest clench with an unfamiliar pressure.

Then, suddenly, Hyun-seok exhales. The weight of whatever passed between them settles unspoken. Ji-ho takes a step back, bows as his hands curl into fists.

"…Joesonghamnida. (…I'm sorry.)"

He turns and walks away.

The restaurant is packed when Ji-ho arrives. His coworkers are already gathered at a long table, drinks in hand, laughter spilling over the hum of conversation.

"Ji-ho-ssi! You came, over here!"

He forces a smile and takes a seat at the edge of the table.

As the night drags on, the conversations around him blur. People pour drinks for each other, clinking glasses, sharing stories. Someone nudges him.

"Ani, Ji-ho-ssi. Why do you always sit so stiffly? You act like you don't belong."

He chuckles lightly. 

"I'm just tired."

A woman across from him leans in. 

"You know, Ji-ho, you're a bit of a mystery."

He blinks. 

"What?"

"You're polite, but you never talk much about yourself. It's like you're always watching from the outside."

Another coworker grins. 

"What if he's a secret chaebol kid who ran away from his rich family?"

The table erupts in laughter, but Ji-ho just grips his glass.

They're joking.

But for the first time, he wonders if there's something true in the idea that he is someone else.

Ji-ho excuses himself and heads to the bathroom. The cold water against his skin does little to clear his thoughts.

Outside, at the table, his coworkers continue talking.

"Ji-ho-nim is nice, but don't you think he's a little… distant?"

"Right? He never talks about his family."

"Maybe he's just private."

"Or maybe he's hiding something he can't share openly."

The laughter continues. Ji-ho doesn't hear it.

When he returns, the night continues as if nothing has changed. More drinks. More cheers. But Ji-ho barely hears any of it.

Because all he can think about is the way Jung Hyun-seok looked at him.

Like he knew him.

Jung Hyun-seok wakes up alone.

The sun barely filters through the curtains, casting muted grey shadows across the room. His bed is too large. The silence is too loud. The house—too empty.

His body feels heavier these days, as if grief has settled into his bones, making itself a permanent resident. He lies still for a moment, staring at the ceiling. He doesn't remember the last time he slept properly.

The bed beside him remains untouched. He hasn't changed the sheets in years.

Not since she left.

Not since everything left.

He forces himself to sit up, running a hand through his hair. His reflection stares back at him from the dresser mirror—sharper cheekbones, faint lines near his eyes. He still looks young, younger than most men his age, but grief has a way of aging someone from the inside out.

A framed picture sits by the nightstand. He doesn't need to look at it.

He already knows what it is.

A woman with warm eyes and a kind smile. A child, bright and full of life.

Himself, standing behind them, his arms wrapped around them both. A family that was once whole.

Now nothing but a past life.

He showers in silence. Dresses in silence. His mornings always start this way.

There are no voices filling the house, no laughter drifting through the rooms.

Only the quiet hum of a life that once was.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

He was never meant to be alone.

Once, He Had Everything.

Years ago, Jung Hyun-seok had everything.

A wife who loved him. A son who adored him. A business empire that bore his name.

SOJiUN & Co

A name he had built from the ground up. A name that combined the two most important people in his life—Seo Ji-hyeon and Soo-min.

It started as a small real estate venture. It should have taken decades to grow into a multimillion-dollar powerhouse, yet within ten years, SOJiUN & Co had dominated the market. Commercial properties across Seoul, Busan, and beyond bore its name. Investors trusted him. Competitors respected him.

People knew the name Jung Hyun-seok.

But no one knew his face.

He had never been the kind of CEO who craved attention. He didn't do media interviews, didn't attend flashy galas. His focus was on his work and his family—the two things that mattered most.

Then, Soo-min was born.

He still remembers the first time he held his son—so small, so fragile, yet somehow the strongest thing in the world.

From that moment on, his world shifted.

Every morning, he woke up to the sound of small feet running down the hall.

Every evening, he came home to a child who would throw himself into his arms, giggling, shouting "Appa!" as if he had been waiting all day just for that moment.

They were a family.

Until they weren't.

Until one day, he came home to an empty house.

Until Soo-min was gone.

At first, Seo Ji-hyun tried to be strong.

She smiled through it, held his hand, told him she believed they would find him.

But with each passing day, her voice wavered.

With each passing week, her smile became thinner.

With each passing month, her hope turned to something else.

She stopped eating. Stopped leaving the house. Stopped answering the phone.

She stared at Soo-min's toys for too long. Folded his clothes and unfolded them again.

And then, one night, she walked to the Han River Bridge.

There was no hesitation.

No note.

Just grief.

They told him she jumped.

She wanted to be with her son.

Grief for a child she would never see again.

Grief for the life they had lost.

Hyun-seok had searched for her. He convinced himself she wasn't gone.

That she had run away, just like Soo-min.

But they found her body a week later.

And that was the moment he knew—

He had lost everything.

Now, this is all he has.

A sign. A name. A cause that no one cares about.

For 19 years, Every day, he stands on the same street corner, holding the same sign, repeating the same words.

"MY SON DID NOT RUN AWAY. MY SON WAS TAKEN."

No one listens.

People pass by without looking. Some whisper about him. Some shake their heads.

But he doesn't care.

He has no company. No wife. No son.

All he has left is this fight.

And then—

He sees him.

Jung Hyun-seok doesn't believe in ghosts.

But the man standing in front of him is a dead man walking.

Yoon Ji-ho.

Except that isn't his name.

But he doesn't know that.

Hyun-seok's hands tighten around the sign, his pulse roaring in his ears.

"You…" His voice is rough, quiet. The young man flinches, looking at him like he's done something wrong.

"…Algo inna? (Do you know?)"

Ji-ho's face goes blank. His mouth opens, then closes.

"Ah, anniyo (Ah, I do not). I think you have the wrong person."

A lie.

There's a saying—every parent recognises their child.

Hyun-seok had always believed that.

But his voice is too stiff. Too unnatural.

Hyun-seok steps forward, gripping the sign so tightly his knuckles turn white.

His mind is spinning. His heart is begging him to believe it.

Is it him? It's him!

But then—

Ji-ho takes a step back.

"…Joesonghamnida. (…I'm sorry.)"

And then he's gone.

Jung Hyun-seok doesn't want to go.

He doesn't belong at weddings anymore.

There was a time when he did. A time when he was the groom standing at the altar, watching his bride walk toward him with the softest smile in the world. A time when he held his wife's hands and promised her forever.

But forever had never been real.

And now, here he was, alone.

Still, Kim Daon is his oldest friend—the only person who refuses to treat him like a ghost, like a cautionary tale people whisper about in quiet voices.

Daon had begged him to come, said it wouldn't feel right without him there.

So he does what he always does.

He forces himself to show up.

Hyun-seok dresses well, as he always does. A sharp black suit, pressed and perfect, a mask of the man he used to be. Even now, he still looks like the successful businessman he once was—not the grieving father, not the man who stands on street corners holding a sign no one reads.

He steps into the venue, and immediately, the whispers start.

"Is that him?"

"The one with the missing kid?"

"He still looks so young, but… isn't he in his forties?"

"His wife, too. Didn't she…?"

Hyun-seok ignores them.

He's used to it by now.

But then—"Hyung!"

Kim Daon finds him immediately. The groom himself, dressed in an elegant tuxedo, his face glowing with happiness. His energy is the same as it always was—warm, genuine, and too stubborn to ever let Hyun-seok disappear completely.

"You came."

Daon's voice is filled with relief, like he had been afraid Hyun-seok would break his promise.

Hyun-seok forces a small smile.

"I almost didn't."

Daon exhales, then pulls him into a brief hug—something that takes Hyun-seok by surprise. But before he can react, Daon grins and pats his shoulder.

"Come on, sit with me."

The main reception continues behind them—guests clinking glasses, laughter filling the space—but Daon leads him to the main table, the one reserved for family and closest friends. Hyun-seok hesitates for a moment, but Daon doesn't let him refuse.

"Don't make me beg, hyung. My wedding, my rules."

Hyun-seok sighs but sits.

Later in the evening, after the main courses have been served and the drinks are flowing, Daon stands at the head of the room, microphone in hand.

The crowd settles, attention turning toward the groom.

He grins, clearing his throat. "First off, I want to thank everyone for being here tonight. To my family, my friends, and of course, to my incredible wife, who somehow decided I was worth keeping forever."

A round of applause and laughter ripples through the crowd.

Daon chuckles, but then his expression softens. "But there's one person I need to acknowledge tonight. Someone who—honestly—was one of the first people to ever teach me what family really means."

Hyun-seok freezes.

Daon's gaze locks onto him.

"My best friend, Jung Hyun-seok."

The room falls silent.

"When we were younger, I was convinced he'd be the first one to settle down.

He had that perfect, put-together life. A wife who adored him. A son who thought the sun rose and set with him."

Hyun-seok's fingers tighten around his glass.

Daon's voice softens. "But life doesn't always go the way we expect."

The crowd is completely still. No whispers now. No judgment. Just silence.

"But let me tell you something about this man," Daon continues, his voice steady. "He is the strongest person I have ever known. He is the kind of man who, even when life takes everything from him, still stands tall. Who still fights. Who still keeps going."

Hyun-seok feels something heavy press against his ribs. He swallows, looking away.

Daon's voice doesn't waver. "Hyung, you were always the one looking out for me. The one who kept me from making a complete mess of myself. You taught me how to get back up. And I just want you to know…"

He exhales, his next words softer.

"You're still my best friend. My brother. And I miss you."

The applause is deafening.

But Hyun-seok's ears ring with silence.

Then—someone from the crowd calls out.

"Sing for us!"

Another voice joins in. "Yeah, we heard you used to sing back in the day!"

Daon smirks, looking directly at him. "Hyung… just once. For old times' sake."

Hyun-seok swallows. He hasn't sung in years.

But something about tonight, something about this moment, makes him want to.

Slowly, he stands.The microphone feels foreign in his grip.

The room is quiet. Waiting.

He closes his eyes for a second.

And then—

The first notes leave his lips.

"나의 하늘을 본 적이 있을까"

(Have you ever seen my sky)

His voice is steady, rich, but there's a crack in it, a rawness that wasn't there before.

"조각 구름과 빛나는 별들이 끝없이 펼쳐 있는"

(Sculpture clouds and shining stars spread endlessly)

He doesn't have to think about the lyrics. They're buried in his bones.

"구석진 그 하늘 어디선가"

(Somewhere in the corner sky)

His fingers tighten around the microphone.

"그 노래는 널 부르고 있음을"

(That song is singing you)

His eyes are burning. His throat feels tight.

He shouldn't be doing this. Not here. Not now.

But his voice keeps going.

"넌 듣고 있는지"

(Are you listening)

And then—

He sees them.

Ji-hyeon, smiling softly, standing just beyond the crowd.

Soo-min, peeking from behind her, grinning the way he always did when he was younger.

Hyun-seok's breath stutters.

His vision blurs.

"고요한 달빛으로 내게 오면

내 여린 마음으로 피워낸 나의 사랑을

너에게 꺾어줄께"

(If you come to me in the still moonlight. My love that I made with my tender heart. I'll give you a break)

His voice cracks.

Because it's a lie. a lie.

Soo-min won't be there-he can't come.

Ji-hyeon won't be there-she can't come.

And that break. Will it ever be?

Later, when the reception slows, Daon finds him outside.

Then, he speaks. "Hyung, thank you for being here."

Hyun-seok glances away, watching it catch the light. "Daon-ah, I had to, of course you know that."

Daon studies him for a long moment. His best friend—the man who once had everything, the man who people once spoke about with admiration rather than pity. He sees the sharp suit, the composed expression, the quiet strength still lingering in Hyun-seok's posture.

But he also sees the loneliness.

The exhaustion.

The way he never stays in one place too long.

Daon sighs. "You haven't changed a bit."

Hyun-seok huffs out something that isn't quite a laugh. "I think I've changed too much."

Daon watches him for a moment before shaking his head. "You're still grieving, aren't you?"

Hyun-seok stiffens slightly. "It doesn't just go away, Daon-ah."

"I know." Daon's voice is careful. "But that's not what I meant." He leans back, stretching his legs out. "Grief is meant to change over time, hyung. It doesn't vanish, but it's supposed to… shift. To make room for something else. You haven't let it."

Hyun-seok's fingers tighten around his glass. "There's nothing else to make room for."

Daon's eyes darken. "That's not true."

Hyun-seok doesn't respond.

Daon exhales sharply. "Hyung, you act like you're dead."

The words hit harder than Hyun-seok expects.

Daon doesn't let him look away. "You're alive, hyung. But you've been walking around like a ghost for years. You don't work. You don't date. You don't do anything except stand on that street corner, holding onto a sign like it's the only thing keeping you breathing."

Hyun-seok's jaw tightens. "What do you expect me to do, Daon-ah? Move on? Pretend like none of this ever happened?"

"No." Daon's voice is firm. "I expect you to live. I expect you to stop being afraid of everything except your grief."

Silence.

Daon forces a smile. "You know… You were the one who taught me how to get back up. You told me, 'Pain isn't something you run from. It's something you walk through.'" His voice is quiet but insistent. "Why do you refuse to listen to your own advice?"

Hyun-seok closes his eyes briefly. He remembers saying those words. He remembers meaning them.

Daon reaches over, gripping his shoulder. "I miss you, hyung." His voice lowers. "I just… miss my best friend, I want you to be happy, be happy with me.

Hyun-seok's breath is shaky. He doesn't realise it until now.

For years, he has been drowning in his grief. Letting it pull him under, convincing himself there was no way out.

But here is Daon. Still here. Still holding on.

They stand in silence for a moment, both watching the city lights in the distance.

Then Daon speaks. "You know… I wish I had been there more. Back then."

Hyun-seok shakes his head. "You had your own life. Your own problems."

Daon scoffs. "Bullshit. You were drowning, and I barely threw you a rope."

Hyun-seok exhales. "I wouldn't have grabbed it anyway."

Daon sighs, shaking his head. "I miss you, hyung."

A pause.

Then, softer—

"Do you miss yourself?"

Hyun-seok doesn't answer.

Because he doesn't know.

The night is over.

People leave in pairs, in groups, with families.

Hyun-seok leaves alone.

The car pulls up to his house.

His fingers drum against his knee. His thoughts won't let him rest.

Jung Soo-min is alive.

Jung Soo-min is out there.

And someone took him away.

His jaw tightens.

For the first time in years, he feels something other than grief.

He feels rage.

Tomorrow, he will keep searching.

Because his son is alive.

And he will bring him home.