The following day, after washing up, Park Tae-hyun went to the noodle House next door, as usual. This routine had quietly become part of his existence, not so much out of joy but necessity. When eating ceases to be pleasurable, it becomes a task — a mechanical routine to keep the body from collapsing.
For that, no place was quicker or more convenient than Baek Cheong-won's noodle shop.
"Bitter melon juice," Baek Cheong-won announced, placing a tall glass down in front of him. Then came a steaming plate of egg fried rice.
Park Tae-hyun raised the glass and took a tentative sip. The bitterness that spread across his tongue was immediate and vicious.
It gripped his throat like thorns, curling deep into his guts, as if even his intestines were trying to reject it.
He didn't grimace. Not visibly. He just sat there for ten long seconds, eyes half-lidded, before letting out a low sigh.
A bitter breath for a bitter brew.
"…It's weak."
"Hah! Not strong enough for you?" Baek Cheong-won chuckled and took a seat across from him, his smile teasing.
"You've got a twisted palate, hyung-nim. Can't eat unless you torture yourself first?"
Without answering, Park Tae-hyun lifted the glass again and downed the rest in one go. Then, with almost military discipline, he attacked the egg fried rice, chopsticks clacking in efficient rhythm.
One minute later, his plate was clean. He set it down, leaned back, and closed his eyes.
"You eat like a ghost freshly risen from hell," Baek Cheong-won quipped.
Whether it was a joke or something else entirely… was left hanging.
Park Tae-hyun's eyelids opened, slow and sharp, gaze falling on the other man. He hadn't forgotten — that night when the five construction workers returned from the dead.
His wife and sister-in-law couldn't see them, naturally.
But the noodle shop owner? He had seen. Had made five servings of braised pork rice, no questions asked.
Neither of them had spoken about it.
Maybe that was the only way two men like them could coexist.
Understanding without confession.
Seeing without acknowledging.
"Why aren't you taking orders today?" Park Tae-hyun asked.
Even on New Year's Eve, Baek Cheong-won's phone never stopped ringing.
Yet today, the air was oddly still. No delivery drivers, no calls, no fuss.
"Taking a break."
Baek Cheong-won lit a cigarette, passed one to him.
"Even machines need rest. And I'm not a machine. I'm a landlord with twenty-something houses."
He said it with that arrogant composure only someone truly rich could manage.
"Ever heard of ghosts carrying a sedan palanquin ?" Park Tae-hyun asked, voice low and distant.
His mind drifted to the scene from the night before — the girl in the lily-patterned dress, the chilling procession.
He hadn't done anything. Just rescued her, came home, curled up in the freezer, and tried to sleep.
It wasn't his problem anymore.
He'd decided to live a life that was careful, deliberate. He wouldn't chase ghosts or hunt down strange cases.
If the stranger came to him, he'd deal with it.
But he wasn't looking for it.
Even if that little girl was in trouble.
Even if she was the kind of trouble that left claw marks on your soul.
"Ghosts carrying a sedan palanquin ?" Baek Cheong-won blinked.
"Ha! Must be New Year's jokes. People say that when they burn sutras and money for the dead, ghosts get a little rich and start taking taxis."
"They say if you see a palanquin with no shadows carrying it, you better run the other way."
He laughed it off. But there was something odd in the laugh.
Something... tiring.
"Why isn't your bookstore open?" Baek Cheong-won asked, changing the subject.
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"Business' not good in the day."
"Pfft, you're just as lazy as ever." Baek Cheong-won checked his phone.
"Wanna catch a movie this afternoon?"
There was a long silence.
"No."
"You're so ungrateful. I make you a new drink — put my heart and soul into it — and you won't even go to the movies with me. Men are all the same."
"…"
"Oh, right. I forgot I'm also a man. Dammit," Baek Cheong-won sighed dramatically, like a jilted lover in a soap opera.
"…Did something traumatic happen to you as a kid?" Park Tae-hyun asked.
"I know a psychologist who might help."
Baek Cheong-won burst out laughing.
"Heterosexuality is just a flawed institution built for population control. Homosexuality is real love."
"I beg to differ," said Park Tae-Hyun Sternly.
"We can't work together if we don't share the same ideals."
That concluded the post-meal conversation on a predictably sour note.
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Back at Kim's Bookstore, Park Tae-hyun fumbled with the keys, the cold metal biting into his palm. He unlocked the door, hesitated, then left it ajar, as if inviting the world to interrupt his solitude.
The bell above the door gave a faint jingle, swallowed by the quiet of the empty shop. He sank behind the counter, the worn wood familiar under his elbows, and pulled out his phone.
His thumb hovered over the screen, tracing the edge of a message he wasn't sure he had the courage to send.
Finally, he typed to 'His Wife' Dr. Im Yoo-jin:
"Free this Afternoon? We could go to the Movie."
He hit send and waited, staring at the screen as if it might betray him.
The shop was still, save for the distant hum of Seongbuk Middle Road outside, where life moved on without pause.
Ten minutes dragged by, each second heavier than the last.
"Work."
The reply landed like a stone in his chest. Of course. Hospitals didn't bow to holidays—Chuseok or otherwise. He knew that better than anyone. He'd worn the same white coat once, felt the same unrelenting pull of duty.
But knowing didn't dull the ache. It stung, sharp and familiar, like a wound that refused to close.
He leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight, and let his gaze drift to the ceiling.
The words he could never say clawed at him: I'm not Kim Min-woo. I'm Park Tae-hyun.
His fingers tightened around the phone, knuckles paling. He wanted to tell her—God, how he wanted to—but the truth was a blade too sharp to wield. It wasn't her affection he feared losing; he'd never had it, not really.
No, it was the fragility of her world that held him back. One wrong word, one confession, and the delicate thread tying them together might snap.
She'd crumble under the weight of it, and he'd be left picking up the pieces of a life he no longer belonged to.
Some truths were better buried. Some names… better forgotten.
He exhaled, long and slow, and forced himself to sit up. Someone would come for him—he knew it, deep in his bones, a certainty that pulsed like a second heartbeat.
A ghost, a debt collector, or something worse.
But until that moment arrived, he'd live. Not just survive, not just endure.
Live.
Even if it meant clawing his way through each breath, each heartbeat. Anything was better than curling up in the dark like some wretched thing, waiting for the end.
His phone buzzed, jolting him.
"In the evening, maybe."
His heart leapt, traitorously eager.
Ridiculous.
Foolish.
Like he was sixteen again, flushed with the thrill of being seen.
A smile tugged at his lips, the kind you despised yourself for but couldn't stop. Warmth crept into his cheeks, and for a moment, the bookstore didn't feel so hollow.
Then, a flash of red caught his eye through the window.
A car pulled up, sleek and bold against the gray of the street.
Two figures stepped out, and his breath hitched.
A woman, late twenties, maybe early thirties—radiated a quiet grace in her red wool dress, motherhood softening but not dimming her presence.
Beside her, a little girl, bundled in layers of warm overalls, waddled like a rice cake wrapped for winter.
Cute.
Too cute.
Dangerously cute.
His eyes narrowed as they approached. He hadn't sought her out—not this time. But here she was.
Ruri.
The name echoed in his mind, sharp and unyielding.
Dr. Im had mentioned her once, at that thank-you banquet, the girl had asked for him.
He'd had been flattered then, warmed by the innocence of it. Now, it felt like a trap snapping shut.
The bell chimed as the door swung open.
"Hello, Uncle," Ruri said, her voice sweet as spring blossoms.
"Hello," he replied, too calm, too measured.
His pulse quickened, but he kept his face still, a mask honed by years of hiding.
His mind raced.
Could he reach her before she moved? Could he stop her? The thought flickered, dark and fleeting, but he shoved it down.
Not yet.
Not here.
"Hello, I'm Ruri's mother."
The woman stepped forward, setting a gift box on the counter with a gentle thud.
"Thank you for saving my Child."
She bowed, deep and formal, her gratitude heavy in the air.
Too heavy.
"You're welcome," he said, unmoving, his voice flat.
He didn't rise, didn't give her—or Ruri—any hint of unease. But normalcy was a lie he couldn't maintain, not after last night. The driver's face, frozen in terror, flashed through his mind, a ghostly imprint that clung to his fingertips like ash.
Four men, gone because of her.
He'd seen it, felt it, in ways no one else could.
"Mom, I want to read here," Ruri said, tugging at her mother's sleeve.
"Alright. Mom's going to get her hair done. Be good, okay?" The woman smiled at Park Tae-hyun, her eyes warm but distant.
"You and Dr. Im… you're really a good match."
The words landed like a slap, hollow and false. He wanted to laugh, to spit out the bitter truth, but he only nodded.
She left, her heels clicking softly against the floor, abandoning her daughter with a man she thought she knew. Because he was the savior.
The "uncle." And saviors never harmed.
Ruri settled on a plastic stool, a picture book open in her lap.
She was quiet.
Too quiet.
Too still.
The kind of stillness that made the hairs on his neck prickle.
The bell chimed again, and Baek Cheong-won burst in, all energy and chaos. His face lit up when he saw Ruri.
"Oh wow, what a cutie!" he crowed, scooping her up in a whirl of motion.
"Thank you, unni," Ruri giggled, her cheer disarming, perfect.
Baek Cheong-won grinned, utterly charmed, his guard down in a way Park Tae-hyun envied and despised.
"She got you good," he muttered under his breath, the words more for himself than anyone else.
"Come out," Baek said, setting Ruri down with a playful ruffle of her hair.
"Need a word."
Outside, the air was sharp with autumn chill.
They lit cigarettes, the smoke curling into the sky like ghosts of their own making.
"Someone from the Market City stopped by," Baek said, exhaling.
"Asked if we wanted to cancel the lease. said they'd refund the prepaid rent."
"Don't take it," Park Tae-hyun said, his voice firm.
He didn't want to move, didn't want the upheaval of a new start.
This bookstore, this life—it was all he had left to anchor him.
"Thought so. I'll handle it." Baek nodded, and they smoked in silence, the weight of unspoken things hanging between them.
When Park Tae-hyun stepped back inside, Ruri was gone.
The picture book lay abandoned on the stool, its pages ruffled by an unseen breeze.
His heart stuttered.
A faint sound—small leather boots, deliberate and slow—came from above.
The second floor.
His eyes flicked to the staircase, then to the door that led to his freezer.
His coffin.
She was there.
Waiting.
