TTDOTO 1.7

Flashback – 18 Years Ago

Sniffling, Jae-rim pulled cash from his pocket. Nervously glancing between the money and the taxi meter, he spoke up the moment the numbers matched.

“Stop here, please.”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

The driver, checking the crisp bills handed over, told him to get out. Jae-rim bowed politely and stepped out of the taxi.

Streetlights alone pierced the darkness, but the familiar neighborhood was a relief. Recalling the route he’d taken by car many times, Jae-rim trudged along.

It hadn’t seemed far by car, but walking felt endless. Breathing heavily, he climbed a gentle slope, his heavy backpack threatening to tip him backward. Leaning forward, he pressed on.

Entering the familiar apartment complex, the tension in Jae-rim’s large eyes eased slightly, a small sigh escaping his chubby lips.

Finding the building where Lee Jae-an lived, he pushed through the automatic door and boarded the elevator, pressing the memorized floor. Unit 1004—a number impossible to forget. He sniffled once more.

Stepping out, Jae-rim stared up at the imposing door, like a fortress wall. His shoulders ached, so he set down his backpack, its weight thudding against the floor.

Hoping against hope, he tugged the handle, but it was locked, as expected. Knocking took some courage. Crouching by the door, he deliberated until his legs numbed, then stood, clenched his fist, and rapped on the iron-like door.

Knock, knock. Nothing happened. Of course—his timid taps were barely audible.

After several deep breaths, he reached for the intercom button. Pressing it, he waited, but no response came. Eyes squeezed shut, he pressed again.

It was late. The thought hit him—Jae-an might be asleep. What then? His flimsy plan hadn’t accounted for Jae-an not hearing the knock. After what felt like hours but was mere minutes, the old intercom lit up, a crackling voice breaking through.

[“Who is it?”]

“…Jae-rim.”

He looked up at the intercom screen, as if meeting Jae-an’s eyes. Soon, rustling sounds approached, and the door opened.

“…What?”

“…”

“Seo Jae-rim? You came here alone? At this hour?”

The concern in Jae-an’s voice was so warm that Jae-rim’s eyes welled up. As his sniffles turned to sobs, Jae-an, flustered, opened the door wider and stepped out.

“Are you crying? What’s wrong?”

Repeating the question, Jae-an didn’t wait for an answer, bending to pull Jae-rim into a deep embrace. He must’ve taken the tears streaming down as a reply enough.

As Jae-an’s hand gently rubbed his back, Jae-rim, reassured, let more tears fall. Despite the grief he’d bottled up, he made no sound, used to crying silently.

Thankfully, instead of telling him to stop, Jae-an whispered, “It’s okay.”

Thinking Jae-rim had calmed, Jae-an pulled back, only to sigh softly at the sight of teardrops still falling from his big eyes.

“Let’s go inside.”

Jae-an grabbed the heavy backpack and quickly punched in the door code. Even with the door open, Jae-rim hesitated. Jae-an nodded toward the interior, urging him in.

Jae-rim slipped off his sneakers at the entrance and stepped inside. Though the early spring air was chilly, the apartment felt warm, like it had stored the day’s sunlight. His eyes roamed over the lived-in space, finding comfort in details matching his memories of visiting with his father.

Setting the backpack on the sofa, Jae-an put his hands on his hips.

“Want something to drink?”

Mentally scanning the fridge, he added,

“Milk okay?”

“…Yes.”

“I’ll heat some up. Wash your hands and feet.”

Jae-rim scrubbed his hands and feet thoroughly with soap, dried them, and sat on the sofa. From the kitchen, sounds of Jae-an rummaging—microwave humming, fridge door opening—filled the air.

Turning from the kitchen, Jae-rim studied the apartment more closely.

“Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins. 1 Peter 4:8”

The Bible verse on the dining room wall hung in its familiar spot. Love, love. Repeating it to himself, Jae-rim’s gaze shifted to a family photo by the TV.

Jae-an’s father, mother, and young Jae-an smiled in the frame. Jae-an’s mother, her hand on his shoulder, and his father, arm around her, all beamed. It felt sad that only Jae-an remained from that photo.

Young Jae-an, clutching a fake apple ornament, grinned brightly, his round cheeks and youthful face seeming not much older than Jae-rim. The unfamiliar, adorable sight held his gaze.

“Eat.”

As Jae-an set a tray on the table, Jae-rim snapped his head away.

Jae-an, noticing Jae-rim staring at the photo, pretended not to, knowing neither wanted to dwell on their lack of family. Seeing Jae-rim reach for the food, Jae-an frowned.

“Did you wash your hands properly?”

“Yes. With soap.”

Glancing at Jae-rim’s tear-streaked lashes and grubby cheeks, Jae-an scratched his head and handed him a tissue.

“…Wipe your face.”

Jae-rim cleaned his tears and blew his stuffy nose. Sitting beside him, Jae-an placed a fork in his small hand. Jae-rim stuffed two bite-sized pieces of roll cake into his mouth at once.

“Didn’t eat dinner?”

“I did.”

“Growing kid, huh.”

Chewing frantically, Jae-rim choked, gulping milk to wash it down.

“My aunt gives me a small bowl.”

“…”

“So I’m hungry at this time.”

Milk clung to his lips. Jae-an tore another tissue, dabbing his mouth.

“Finish it and eat more. I’ve got plenty of bread.”

A friend’s bakery sent near-expired bread daily, Jae-an explained. Jae-rim, unhesitatingly, shoved more cake in. Jae-an patted his back, urging him to slow down.

Jae-rim refilled his plate once before setting the fork down. Jae-an cleared the tissues, plate, milk glass, and fork, placing them in the sink. Returning to the now-quiet Jae-rim, who sat subdued, he asked,

“How’d you end up here?”

Jae-rim blinked silently. Jae-an leaned closer, lowering his head.

“Hm?”

“I was scared.”

“Scared of what? A nightmare?”

The childlike answer softened Jae-an’s lips, but Jae-rim, staring at the floor, mumbled,

“…My cousin.”

His sunken voice and darkened expression hardened Jae-an’s face. A grim suspicion deepened his tone.

“Did he hurt you?”

Unable to answer, Jae-rim’s lips trembled before he nodded slowly. Sensing trouble, Jae-an lifted Jae-rim’s clothes, revealing bruises on his shins and scratches on his side. Biting his lip hard, he released it.

“He hit you?”

“He calls it wrestling… Even when I say it hurts, he keeps going…”

“Is he insane?”

Jae-an’s blunt curse, so unlike him, made Jae-rim want to spill everything—how his middle-school cousin locked the door at night, beating him under the guise of play; how telling his aunt and uncle changed nothing.

Grievances poured out in small details: meals served in a tiny, half-filled bowl; given only a spoon when chopsticks were “short”; sometimes told to fend for himself. School notices were often thrown out.

Items his father bought—expensive ones, like his game console and backpack—vanished. The day his beloved backpack disappeared, Jae-rim searched the house, finding it in his cousin’s room. Demanding it back, he was hit on the head and scolded by his uncle, told to be grateful for being taken in, to learn to share.

Worse than his uncle’s harsh voice was his aunt’s grumbling—Jae-rim’s father was wasteful, leaving little behind.

That day, a month after his father’s death, Jae-rim realized he was a burden to them.

“Did the adults there just let it happen?”

Jae-rim stayed silent. As he fiddled with his fingers, head bowed, Jae-an sighed deeply.

“So you just ran away?”

“…Yes. I left while they were asleep.”

“You’re a runaway.”

Jae-rim bit his lip. Runaway sounded like a delinquent from a drama, making his heart race. Fearing Jae-an would send him back, panic surged, his stomach aching. Clutching it, he asked,

“Do… I have to go back?”

“Why would you?”

Hearing the fear in his voice, Jae-an gave a wry, incredulous laugh. Picking up the remote, he casually turned on the TV, flipping to a rerun of a comedy show.

“Can you sleep alone?”

Ten was old enough to sleep alone—Jae-rim had before his father’s death and at his aunt’s. But he shook his head, a lie slipping out.

Watching him, Jae-an’s lips curved into a grin, like watercolor spreading. Jae-rim couldn’t look away.

Jae-an fetched blankets from the bedroom, pushed the living room table to the balcony window, vacuumed up cake crumbs, and spread the blankets wide.

Unlike the moldy blankets at his aunt’s, these carried Jae-an’s scent, warm and comforting. As Jae-rim moved to lie down, Jae-an grabbed his arm, frowning.

“Hey, you can’t just lie down.”

“…”

“Come brush your teeth and wash your face.”

Jae-an handed him a new toothbrush from the bathroom cabinet. They stood side by side in the cramped bathroom, brushing and washing. Jae-an dried Jae-rim’s soaked forearms, muttering about the sink’s height.

Jae-rim left first, followed by Jae-an, who grabbed his collar as he tried to flop onto the blankets, telling him to show his palms. Squeezing lotion onto them, Jae-rim spread it on his cheeks. Jae-an’s warm hand touched his chin.

“You missed a spot. Gotta teach you everything.”

“…Sorry.”

“Pajamas?”

Jae-an opened Jae-rim’s backpack.

“Why carry this? It’s heavy.”

Finding a bulky angel statue, Jae-an chuckled, setting it aside and pulling out a clean T-shirt and pants.

Jae-rim changed silently. At his aunt’s, skipping face-washing or sleeping in socks went unnoticed, but Jae-an’s fussing felt oddly nice.

With the lights off, they lay side by side on the blankets. The mismatched pillows and worn but thick blankets were warm enough.

Pulling the blanket to his chin, Jae-rim, unable to look at Jae-an, stared at the ceiling, his voice small.

“Hyung.”

“Yeah.”

“…Can I sleep here tomorrow too?”

“Sure.”

The reply came without a second’s hesitation. Jae-rim’s heart pounded, warmth rising to his neck. Clearing his throat, he whispered,

“…Thank you.”

“Sleep. I’m on class duty tomorrow, gotta go early.”

“Yes.”

That night, for the first time since his father’s death, Jae-rim fell into a deep, peaceful sleep. The kindness, like rain in a drought, stretched from one night to two, then three, then a week. Thus, ten-year-old Jae-rim stayed with Jae-an in that home until he was twenty-three.

The sweet dream of knocking on Unit 1004 that night felt like it would never break.