The Vanishing Threads

There is no pattern to disappearance. Not in the way people expect. The missing are not always the ones society thinks should go missing—the troubled, the reckless, the ones who make 'bad decisions.' The missing are the people no one expects to disappear. The ones who were supposed to go home after work, supposed to show up for their morning classes, supposed to meet a friend for coffee but never did. The ones who left their homes without ever knowing it was the last time.

They are not connected. Not by class, not by gender, not by age, not by background. But they are connected by something else. Something invisible. Something no one noticed.

Cha Ji-hwan, 22. A university student. The top of his class. A life planned out with precision—internships lined up, a job offer waiting, a girlfriend who sent him texts that would never be read. He was last seen leaving the university library just past 10 p.m. Security cameras captured him walking toward the bus stop. He was alone. There was nothing unusual about his movements. And then he was gone. His phone was found in a gutter two blocks away, screen shattered, still showing the unread message from his girlfriend: Are you on the way?

Park Hae-rin, 7. She loved peaches. When asked what she wanted to be when she grew up, she said a farmer, because she thought that meant she could eat peaches every day. She went missing on the way home from school. A five-minute walk. A walk she had taken every day, waving to the elderly shopkeeper outside the convenience store, stopping to pick up fallen leaves because she liked how they crunched under her shoes. Her backpack was found near a drain. Her shoes were neatly placed beside it. As if she had simply stepped out of them and walked away.

Oh Jung-hee, 64. A retired professor. He was known for always carrying a book, even when going out for groceries. His students remembered him as the kind of man who never forgot a name, who made even the quietest of students feel seen. One day, he left his house for an afternoon walk and never returned. His wife waited at the door with his slippers, expecting him back before dinner. She reported him missing that evening. His glasses were found in a flower bed near the park, the lenses cracked. His favourite book was left open on a bench, the pages fluttering in the wind.

Lee Jun, 15. A quiet boy. Too quiet, his teachers had once said. His parents thought he was just shy, that he liked being alone. He disappeared on his way to his after-school academy. CCTV showed him stopping at a vending machine. Jun bent down to pick up a dropped coin. He never straightened back up. The cameras glitched for exactly three seconds. When the footage resumed, the vending machine stood alone. The coin was still there. He was not.

Park Mujin, 41. A businessman. A father of two. His colleagues described him as efficient, dependable. The kind of man who never left his desk messy, who always had his tie perfectly aligned. He left the office at 8:30 p.m., just like always. He texted his wife to tell her he was on his way home. He even stopped to buy pastries for his children, something he did every Friday. The pastries were found sitting untouched in the passenger seat of his car, which was still running in an empty parking lot. His wallet was on the dashboard. His phone was still in his hand, the message to his wife unsent.

There is no pattern.

They are young, old, male, female, students, workers, parents, loners. They vanish from bus stops, from sidewalks, from well-lit streets. Some disappear in broad daylight, in places crowded with people. Others fade away in the dead of night, their last movements barely captured on grainy surveillance footage.

No struggle. No signs of violence.

Only absence.

And the world forgets them.

At first, there are search parties, news reports, desperate pleas from loved ones. But time is cruel. Attention shifts. The missing posters that were once plastered on every wall start to curl at the edges, the ink fading, the faces becoming unrecognisable under layers of dust and grime.

Soon, new posters cover the old ones. New names. New faces.

And the cycle continues.

Because when people disappear, they don't just vanish physically. They disappear from memory.

The names fade.

The grief of those left behind becomes a whisper. A shadow that lingers in the empty spaces. A name that no longer sparks recognition. A question that no longer demands an answer.

But someone still remembers.

Someone keeps track.

And someone—somewhere—knows exactly where they went.

The city moves without him.

Buses exhale thick clouds of exhaust, their doors hissing open and shut. The neon lights from street signs flicker against the darkened storefronts, distorted in puddles that ripple beneath hurried footsteps. Conversations weave through the air, half-heard and meaningless. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn blares, impatient and unrelenting.

But Jung Hyun-seok doesn't hear any of it.

For nineteen years, the world has moved on without him.

He walks down the city street, past the line of cafés with their glowing windows, past the convenience stores with their endless shelves of packaged meals. His steps are slow, deliberate. Familiar. He has walked this same route a thousand times before.

The same sign clenched in his hands. The same plea written in fading ink.

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

He doesn't know why he still holds it.

Maybe because it's all he has left.

Maybe because putting it down would mean accepting something he cannot—will not—accept.

His fingers tighten around the wooden handle, his grip aching from years of repetition. The edges of the sign are worn, softened by time and weather, but the words remain. He makes sure of that. He rewrites them, retraces each letter whenever the ink begins to fade, as if reinforcing their truth will somehow make the world listen.

It never does.

The wind shifts, tugging at the hem of his coat, sweeping past him with an indifference that mirrors the people around him. They do not look at him. They do not acknowledge his presence.

But he sees them.

The others.

The ones like him.

Scattered across different corners of the city, in different districts, holding different signs with different names. Some are parents, like him, their faces hollowed out with loss. Some are siblings, some are friends, some are just strangers who cared enough to keep someone else's memory alive.

But the world has already forgotten them.

The search never ends.

It never does.

A streetlight flickers above him, casting his shadow long across the pavement. He adjusts his stance, shifting the weight of the sign in his hands.

He's exhausted. But exhaustion is meaningless.

He doesn't stop. He never does.

His son is out there.

Somewhere.

And he refuses to let the world erase him.

Hyun-seok sits at his old desk, the wooden surface cold beneath his fingertips. The room is dimly lit, a single lamp casting a pool of light over the scattered papers in front of him. The old wooden chair creaks as he leans forward, his eyes scanning the documents with the sharp focus of a man who has read the same words over and over again.

There are names.

Dozens of them.

Some written in neat, professional print, some scribbled hastily in the margins.

Some crossed out.

Some left untouched.

And at the centre of it all—

A photograph.

It's worn, faded along the edges. The image is grainy, the details blurred from time and neglect.

But the face—the face is unmistakable.

A young man, captured mid-step outside a bookstore, head slightly turned away from the camera. The resolution is poor, but Hyun-seok knows.

He knows.

His breath comes slow and controlled, but his hands betray him, tightening around the edge of the paper until the corners bend beneath the pressure.

His mind flashes back to the night he bumped into him.

The momentary eye contact. The hesitation. The way the young man's shoulders had tensed, as if bracing for something unseen.

The way he had apologised too quickly.

The way his voice had sounded wrong.

Joesonghamnida…

The syllables had been rushed, clipped. Like someone unfamiliar with the weight of the words. Like someone who had spent years unlearning a language that was once natural to him.

The memory claws at the edges of his mind.

That face—the one in the photograph.

It was the same face that had looked at him that night, barely inches away.

But there's something else. Something Hyun-seok can't ignore.

The boy in the picture… he isn't a boy anymore.

He's a man.

His son should be a man by now.

The thought hits him harder than he expects. It lodges itself deep in his chest, pressing against his ribs like something suffocating.

For so many years, he has carried the image of his son as he last saw him—seven years old, small hands clutching his sleeves, bright eyes full of trust.

But time has passed.

He has changed.

Of course he has.

And yet—

Hyun-seok would know him anywhere.

A knock on the door startles him from his thoughts. He stiffens, instinctively pushing the papers aside before exhaling.

When he opens the door, a woman stands outside, shifting uneasily on her feet. She's in her mid-thirties, dressed in simple, practical clothing, her dark hair pulled into a low ponytail.

"Ajusshi…" she hesitates. "I—"

Her eyes flicker to the sign leaning against the wall.

MY SON DID NOT RUN AWAY.

Her lips part slightly before she swallows, looking up at him with something uncertain in her gaze.

"I think… I might have seen someone who looks like him."

The words take a second to register.

Then the world stops.

Hyun-seok's pulse roars. His fingers curl slightly at his sides.

"…Museun mal-eul hago isseoyo? (What are you saying?)"

The woman shifts, clearly second-guessing herself. "I—I don't know for sure, but there's a man. He works at a bookstore near—"

"Eodieoyo? (Where?)"

She flinches at his sudden urgency. "Near Hongdae. I—I just noticed him because he… he looks like—"

She doesn't finish.

She doesn't need to.

Because Hyun-seok already knows.

He saw him.

He knows it was him.

And now, for the first time in nineteen years, he finally has somewhere to look.

The woman lingers for a moment, as if debating whether to say more. 

After a moment, she exhales softly. But then she shakes her head, offering a small, hesitant nod before stepping back.

"…Dangsini chatkko inneun goseul chajeusigil baramnida. (I… I hope you find what you're looking for.)" she murmurs.

Then she turns and walks away.

Then she's gone.

Hyun-seok closes the door slowly, his breath steady but his heart pounding.

He presses his hands against the desk, staring at the photograph once more.

This time, he won't let it slip away.

The city has tried to forget.

But he never will.

Because his son is out there.

And this time—

He's going to bring him home.

The house is warm.

The kind of warmth that comes from familiarity, from a home that has been lived in, that has been shaped by the people who occupy it. The air carries the scent of something simmering on the stove—soy sauce, garlic, a hint of sesame oil.

Hye-won stands by the counter, chopping scallions with methodical precision. The knife glides through each stalk effortlessly, each movement identical to the last.

Min-jae leans against the doorway, watching her.

"You never measure anything," he remarks.

Hye-won doesn't look up. "Because I don't need to."

He steps further into the kitchen, taking a seat at the small dining table, stretching his legs out lazily. "You say that, but I remember a time when you burned rice."

She exhales sharply through her nose. "Ani-yah, that was once."

Min-jae smirks. "It was memorable."

Hye-won lifts a single scallion and tosses it at him. He catches it with ease, twirling it between his fingers before setting it down.

She finally looks at him, arching a brow. "Jagiya, do you want to eat, or do you want to reminisce about things that never happened?"

"Never happened?" He feigns offence. "You're rewriting history now?"

She hums, turning back to the stove. "History is just a story people agree on."

Min-jae chuckles, resting his chin on his palm. "Is that your way of saying I should shut up and set the table?"

She doesn't answer, but the slight curve of her lips is enough.

He stands, rolling up his sleeves as he begins retrieving dishes from the cabinet. His movements are unhurried, casual—because that's what this is. A normal evening. A routine they have built together.

A life that, to anyone else, would seem ordinary.

But it isn't.

It never has been.

The first time Min-jae realised he loved Hye-won, they weren't doing anything special.

They were sitting in a car, parked at the edge of a quiet street. The night was heavy, the air thick with the scent of impending rain. The streetlights flickered, casting long, distorted shadows across the pavement.

She had been watching something in the distance—something he couldn't see, something she never explained.

And then, without looking at him, she had said, "Oppa, it's a shame."

He had turned to her, brow furrowing slightly. "What is?"

She had blinked, slowly, deliberately, before tilting her head toward him.

"Everything," she had murmured.

There had been no sadness in her voice. No regret.

Just observation.

And something about that moment had settled in him like a weight.

Not because he disagreed.

But because he understood exactly what she meant.

The meal is quiet. Comfortable.

Hye-won eats slowly, carefully, as she always does. Min-jae eats as if he doesn't care, chopsticks moving lazily, his thoughts elsewhere.

There is no rush.

They are never in a rush.

Hye-won sets down her chopsticks first, reaching for her glass. She takes a small sip, then exhales. "Yeobo..we should go somewhere."

Min-jae raises a brow. "We go places all the time."

"Not for that."

He watches her for a moment, then leans back slightly. "Where do you want to go?"

She swirls the liquid in her glass absently. "Somewhere quiet."

Min-jae hums. "A vacation, then."

Hye-won tilts her head slightly, as if considering the word. "Something like that."

"Anywhere in mind?"

She sets the glass down, tapping her nails against the rim. "Nowhere in particular."

Min-jae studies her. The way her expression remains unreadable. The way her fingers move absentmindedly.

Then, slowly, he nods.

"Alright."

She lifts her gaze to meet his. "That's all?"

He shrugs. "Jagiya, if you want to go, we'll go."

A pause.

Then—

Hye-won smiles.

It's small. Barely noticeable.

But it's real.

And Min-jae—who never cared for grand gestures, who never believed in soft, delicate affections—finds himself thinking, as he often does, that he would do anything for her.

No questions.

No conditions.

Just anything.

The living room is dim, the only light coming from the small lamp near the couch. The record from earlier has stopped playing, leaving only the distant hum of the city outside.

Hye-won sits cross-legged on the floor, absently flipping through a book. Not reading. Just turning the pages.

Min-jae watches her from the couch, one arm draped over the backrest, fingers tapping idly against the fabric.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks.

Hye-won doesn't answer right away.

Then, without looking up, she says, "Do you ever wonder what it would be like if we were different?"

Min-jae's fingers still.

The question isn't strange.

But it isn't normal either.

He tilts his head slightly. "Different how?"

Hye-won lifts a shoulder. "Just… different."

Min-jae exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair.

Then he says, "No."

Hye-won finally looks up. "No?"

"No." He leans forward slightly. "Because we aren't."

A beat of silence.

Then—

Hye-won smiles again.

This time, it's sharper.

Like something between them has settled into place.

Like a confirmation of something they have always known.

She closes the book, setting it aside.

Min-jae watches her movements carefully, his gaze following the way she stretches, the way she tilts her head as if listening to something only she can hear.

Then, she exhales.

"Yeobo! Let's go somewhere," she murmurs again.

Min-jae reaches for his lighter, flicking it open, the flame briefly illuminating his face.

He meets her gaze.

"Alright," he says.

And the decision is made.