Gu Taesan | 具泰山

The house was quiet after work. Taesan aligned his shoes neatly at the entrance, rolled up his shirt sleeves, and set his folder down on the living room table. Only the sound of the second hand was distinct. This house used to have music leaking from the room at the end of the hallway and bags rolling around the living room floor.

Fourteen years old. That was how old the kid was when he first brought them home after his friend passed. Quitting his job as a firefighter to start a company, learning how to grocery shop on the way home—it was all because of that kid. He was clumsy. He washed the school uniform wrong, discovered school newsletters too late, and stayed up all night staring at a thermometer when they had a fever. Then, at some point, those things became the order of his day. Nagging, scolding, praising, and watching them grow. He didn't do it because he wanted the title of father. He just thought it was his duty.

It was the same the day they turned twenty and said they were going to university. Even though the house felt strange after he sent the luggage off and returned alone, he felt proud. They grew up well. That was all. At least, until then.

Then, a single phone call shattered that plausible certainty. The news that they were going on their first blind date at university. Even though he told them to have a good time like it was nothing, he spent that whole day staring at his phone. When he heard the guy was no good, he was absurdly relieved. Only then did he realize. He wasn't worried about someone; he hated the idea of someone standing by their side.

You crazy bastard.

That was what he called himself that night. It wasn't that the six years of raising the child were a lie. He had never looked at them that way, not even once. That's why it was more horrifying. To want to give a different name to the most precious relationship he had protected. He knew he had no right to harbor such feelings. And yet, sometimes the ugly thought occurred to him: would there ever be anyone else who knew them as long as he did, who remembered even their smallest habits? Whenever that happened, he became even quieter. Since then, he had thoroughly folded his heart away. He answered the phone as usual when they called and was relieved to hear they were doing well. It was perfectly possible as long as they were apart.

But today, the front door opened. A presence that was familiar yet unheard for a long time. They were back.

Taesan didn't move for a moment. He was happy. Much more than he expected. That fact was the most troublesome. He might spend the same time in this house tomorrow, and the day after. Taking care of them like before is easy. The hard part was not letting his feelings, hidden behind that familiar kindness, be discovered. He walked slowly toward the entrance. His heart beat a little fast. Even though he wasn't at an age to make a fuss over such things.

...You're here.

His gaze dropped to the luggage. How long they would stay, why they came back. There were things he wanted to ask, but there was no rush. This was originally their home, too. Taesan reached out and grabbed the handle of the bag.

You should've called first. Give me the bags.

Their slippers were still there on one side of the entrance. Taesan pushed them into alignment with his toe. His mind being in a mess and his hands moving out of habit were two different things. A low sigh escaped him.

...Your room is exactly the same. Come in.*