Chapter Text
Sunday, the weather was gray and cloudy.
The wind blew slowly, carrying the scent of wet earth and fallen leaves.
The pounding of footsteps on the asphalt along the sidewalk, pounding in rhythm with the sound of birds chirping in the distance, added to the serene silence.
Seungmin stepped forward, his gaze dull, holding a fatigue that was difficult to hide. Every step faltered, as if the cold and exhaustion would melt him into the street.
The scent of oil paint, which once always faithfully accompanied him, had now become a ghost, a faint memory clinging to the worn canvas bag carried by Seungmin.
Five years. Five years since Seungmin proudly held his diploma from Seoul National University, his Fine Arts degree as proof of his dedication for years and supposedly a passport to a bright future. Yet, reality felt more like a cruel joke. The future, which once was a canvas of brilliant potential, had now become a monochrome stain of disappointment.
He still remembered his graduation speech, full of spirit and conviction. He imagined a solo exhibition, a gallery of achievements, praise from renowned art critics. The reality? Gallery owners, art critics, curators, were more interested in big names and trends, not in raw talent struggling to find its place. He began to belittle himself. Was his talent really not good enough? Or was this system indeed designed to crush the dreams of young artists like him? Now Seungmin learned that talent was no guarantee. Talent did not fill the emptiness gnawing at his stomach, nor silence the shadows of bills piling up in his cramped room in Seoul.
Until now he had tried everything. Everything, it seemed, except giving up. Various professions, he had undertaken. Starting from convenience store clerk to porter at the train station, from car washer to construction worker, from substitute driver to valet attendant at a luxury mall—witnessing how luxury was a million miles away from his own life.
His body, often hungry, bore a burden that was disproportionate to his income.
That burden was not only physical. Since his parents died three years ago, Seungmin had become the backbone of the family. Debts piling up, the suffocating cost of living in Seoul, and the cost of education for his younger sister, Jiwoo—who was still in high school—all became a burden that seemed never-ending. Every won he earned always felt insufficient. Every drop of sweat that fell only managed to reduce a little from the towering amount of debt.
Seungmin remembered Jiwoo’s face, her smile that was still able to endure in the midst of hardship. That was what kept him going, what became his drive to keep moving, even though his legs felt heavy, and the hole screamed to be filled.
Today, he worked overtime. Again.
Carrying a heavy sack of potatoes, the throbbing pain in his lower back stabbed like thousands of little ants biting. A different day, yet another mountain of produce to be unloaded at the bustling Namdaemun Market. The smell of spices, salted fish, and kimchi mixed with the scent of wet earth and the sweat soaking his clothes. His fabric clung to his back, market dust sticking to his cheeks and jet-black hair. Seungmin exhaled, carefully placing down the sack of potatoes. The faint thud was swallowed by the market’s commotion. His weary eyes immediately shifted, scanning—looking for a figure already familiar with his complaints: Mr. Choi, the plump, pot-bellied vegetable shop owner, with his smile that always seemed half-hearted, never adding a bit more pay even though Seungmin had to wrestle with sacks of potatoes and garlic until late at night.
'Ah, there he is,' he said in his heart, while approaching Mr. Choi who was standing in front of his shop, laughing broadly with a customer, both his hands nimbly weighing a yellow pumpkin. So contrasting with the sour expression he usually wore when meeting Seungmin.
"Already finished?" asked Mr. Choi, without looking. His broad smile immediately faded, replaced by the flat expression he usually showed his workers. Seungmin nodded, his back still aching.
"Yes, Sir. All the sacks have been unloaded and neatly arranged."
"Good. How many in total?" he asked again, his body pacing back and forth, busy inspecting several red chilies.
Seungmin mentioned the number of potato sacks he had unloaded. He already memorized those numbers. The calculations that never really changed, making him feel like a machine.
Mr. Choi pulled out his worn leather wallet. Counting money slowly, his fat fingers looked trembling.
"This is your pay," said Mr. Choi, handing the money to Seungmin. The amount was exactly as he had anticipated. No extra.
Seungmin bit his lower lip. "Sir…" he said hesitantly, stepping a little closer.
Mr. Choi furrowed his brow, raising one eyebrow. "What is it now?"
"Ehmm… today the sacks were more and heavier, Sir. I also had to wait for the truck that was delayed for two hours. Maybe… maybe it could be added just a little? For dinner."
Mr. Choi’s eyes narrowed. A thin, cynical smile appeared at the corner of his lips.
"Added?" he clicked his tongue. "Seungmin-ah, in this market, there are many people who can replace you tomorrow morning. Many who are stronger and younger who need this job."
"I know, Sir, but…"
"But what?" cut off Mr. Choi, his voice louder. "Do you think my business is easy? Look around! Competition is getting tougher. Chili prices are rising, pumpkins ruined by last night’s rain. I’m the one who has to bear all those losses. Still being able to give you work every day already should make you grateful."
"Here," said Mr. Choi, handing back the money in his grip, this time he pressed it into Seungmin’s hand, the amount remaining the same, neither less nor more than usual.
"Don’t become greedy, young man. Loyalty is paid with steady work, not with extra money."
Seungmin’s fingers gripped the crumpled bills. It felt tasteless. He looked at Mr. Choi, who had already returned to busying himself inspecting the quality of mustard greens, as if their conversation had never happened.
"Thank you, Mr. Choi," he whispered, his voice barely audible, drowned in the bustle of Namdaemun Market that never cared.
Mr. Choi only waved without turning. "Yes, yes. Don’t forget to come earlier tomorrow. There’s a shipment of radishes that must be unloaded before sunrise."
On his way home from the market, Seungmin did not forget to stop by his usual small jajangmyeon shop near his house. The distinctive aroma of the black soybean paste always wafted temptingly from behind the slightly foggy glass door.
Tonight, cooking was the last thing he wanted. His body felt shattered; dull, perhaps because of squeezing through the crowd of the market all day or perhaps because of the weight of unspoken worries. He only wanted to lie down and forget all the fatigue that gripped him, at least for a while.
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the thick, natural, and familiar aroma of jajangmyeon envelop him. The small noodle shop was almost empty, only an old man slurping his food in the corner. The owner, Auntie Park, barely glanced when Seungmin entered, because she already knew his order.
"Two portions, right? One extra large for Jiwoo," she said while wiping her hands on her apron before stirring the boiling black bean sauce.
Seungmin nodded, forcing a tired smile. His arms ached from carrying crates all morning at the market.
Oh God, he thought, today is really unlucky. After the struggle at the market, now the rain began to fall, its drops troublesome enough, not too heavy, but not light enough to be called drizzle. Seungmin chuckled softly, recalling a bad joke about bad luck. What could be more unfortunate than this? Now the clock showed ten at night. Too late for dinner, but Jiwoo surely had not gone to sleep yet.
He decided to break through the rain. The streets of Seoul in the late night were not as crowded as during the day, only a few cars passing by occasionally. His hurried steps on the wet Seoul sidewalk avoided puddles that glistened under the streetlights. His simple umbrella was not enough to protect his whole body from the downpour that began to intensify. In his hand, a plastic bag filled with jajangmyeon still gave off a warm aroma—the only comfort in the cold night.
Upon arriving at their small apartment, a small unit on the outskirts of Seoul. With a trembling body, Seungmin unlocked the door and pushed it open. He was greeted by the warmth of the room clashing with the cold that clung to his skin. His gaze immediately fell upon the figure at the study desk. Jiwoo, his younger sibling, sat with her back to the door. The desk lamp shining reflected the tense back and the tips of hair damp with sweat. She was engrossed with her book and her headphones, fully secured in her own world. There was nothing special about that pose other than the indifference she usually showed.
"Jiwoo-ah," Seungmin greeted, his voice hoarse from the cold.
No response. Jiwoo perhaps didn’t hear, or chose not to.
Seungmin sighed inwardly. He placed his still-dripping umbrella on the floor near the door and walked past his sibling toward the small kitchen to put down the jajangmyeon. His wet clothes left little marks on the floor.
"I’m home," he said again, this time louder.
Jiwoo finally lifted her head. Her eyes, which usually shone, looked dim and tired. She removed one side of her headphones. Her gaze swept over her brother’s drenched body, from messy hair to the tips of shoes still dripping. Seungmin’s face looked bluish.
Then, something almost unnoticeable happened. A very quick flicker in Jiwoo’s eyes—not attention, not concern, but more of a disturbance. Like seeing a wet cat blocking her way, something bothersome yet unavoidable.
"Oppa," she said, her voice flat, almost without emotion, so different from the concern Seungmin had hoped for. "You’re wet." It wasn’t a question, more a cold statement of fact. An observation that required no further explanation.
Seungmin only nodded, trying to smile. "The rain was heavy," he said, his voice slightly trembling. He hoped for a little response, a little care, a little… something. "Eat, I bought jajangmyeon for you."
Jiwoo practically ignored it—diverting her attention back to her book, her fingers already preparing to put her headphones on again. "Put it on the table. I’ll eat later," she said briefly before sinking back into her studies, ignoring her brother still standing there wet and cold.
Seungmin exhaled a long breath. He knew, expecting empathy from Jiwoo was the same as waiting for the sun to rise from the west. For Jiwoo, this was normal dynamics. Her oppa would always be there, would always come home wet or not, would always bring food, and would always clean up her mess. It was a law of nature that didn’t need questioning. For her, affection was an abstract and awkward concept, something that didn’t need to be expressed or conveyed. Attachment was a burden she didn’t want to carry in her teenage years already filled with pressure. She had exams, she had friends, she had her own world. Seungmin was just a constant background in her life.
And for Seungmin himself, those little disappointments had long become a solid rock in his heart. He didn’t expect hugs or sweet words. If anything, excessive concern would feel strange. Jiwoo’s indifference was a shield that protected them both from the shame of showing how much they actually needed each other.
He let his sibling be with her indifference. That was his way of loving. By quietly cooking meals, by quietly working part-time until late, by quietly standing in the rain just to make sure Jiwoo had a warm dinner. Seungmin turned and entered the bathroom, leaving behind trails of water and a sibling pretending not to care. In the living room, Jiwoo stared at the still-warm bowl of jajangmyeon. He heard the shower turn on. For a moment, his fingers stopped writing. His eyes glanced toward the bathroom door, a vague feeling—maybe guilt, maybe gratitude—trying to break through the solid wall of his puberty. But he quickly suppressed it. It wasn’t important. His Oppa would be fine. He always was.