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[Warning] This is legendary long. (Approx. 9,700 characters) Please read it as if you're reading a novel...

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Da-on: A pure Korean word meaning 'all good things come' or 'good things will find you.'

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That person gave me that name and died as soon as she gave birth to me.

I have never even directly faced the person who pushed me up into this world as light. The face I saw only in photographs grew more distant the longer I looked at it, and though it felt like I could reach it if I stretched out my hand, it always remained beyond the glass. No matter how long I stared, that person's warmth never reached me. I called the person whose face I couldn't remember and whose voice I couldn't recall 'Mother.'

They said Mother was poor, often sick, and had very little. Even so, they said she hoped that for me, at least, good things would be full. So she gave me the name Da-on. Meaning for all good things to come.

She must have hoped that even the things that didn't come to her would reach me. That poverty, illness, and loneliness would at least pass me by. That I would receive the things the world ultimately didn't give her and live my whole life without ever losing them.

...Probably, that's what she hoped for.

I couldn't know the heart of the person who had to leave without even holding me in her arms once, and only the warmth I couldn't touch remained for a long time like an afterimage. What was left was a single photograph and a name that hoped for good things to come. That name was given like a blessing, and strangely, it remained like a curse and never left my side.

I couldn't fathom the depth of what she hoped for, but at least I have remembered my name for a long time.

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The name that said all good things would come strangely didn't suit me.

On the day I was born, Mother died. I was the child who came into the world by consuming my mother, and I was a sinner from the moment I was born. After Mother left, Father drowned himself in alcohol, and the sound of something breaking became frequent in the house. Cups broke, bottles broke, and sometimes the things I owned broke.

That sound wasn't just the sound of objects being destroyed.

It was a sound that told me a person cracks little by little from the inside, and once something has collapsed, it can never return to its original shape.

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When Father was drunk, he seemed to forget who I was.

While calling my name, he had a face that searched for a completely different person, shouted at me when I had done nothing, and got even angrier seeing me say nothing. I learned to hold my breath, quiet my footsteps, and swallow my tears even when they rose to my throat. The moment a cry became a sound, it made someone angrier, and even breathing sometimes became too large a movement.

I guessed the length of the night just by the sound of the front door opening, and measured how far I had to retreat just by the sound of a liquor bottle hitting the floor. I remembered every sound in the house. The sound of the door closing, the staggering footsteps, the wet voice, the sound of a hand searching for something rummaging through a drawer. Until those sounds passed, I had to pretend to be a person who wasn't there.

Home was no longer a place to return to. It was the inside of a dark, old night that I had to endure until Father fell asleep, and a place I had to slip out of again when morning came, as if nothing had happened.

I grew up inside that. Carrying the name that meant all good things would come, while hoping that nothing would come.

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One day, my left eyebrow was torn by a soju bottle Father swung.

Along with the sound of the bottle breaking, one side of my face became hot, and blood flowed down my eye. The blood that fell on the floor looked strangely black. As if something that had been stagnant for a long time had finally burst and flowed out.

The wound was stitched, and time passed slowly over it. The bleeding stopped and the flesh knit together. I thought that wounds like that heal over time, and that everyone lives carrying one or two of these things. What ultimately remained was a scar. The scar didn't disappear. Every time I looked in the mirror, it was the first thing that caught my eye, and whenever someone stared at my face for a long time, I instinctively turned my gaze away from it. As if something that hadn't ended yet remained inside it.

I wasn't okay. But I said I was okay. Pretending to be fine was more convenient than I thought. If I said that, I didn't have to explain anymore, and no one asked how much I hurt anymore. It was easier to live like a person to whom nothing had happened than to remain as a person who was hurting. So I left the scar on my face and acted like a person for whom only that day's event didn't exist.

If I didn't at least do that, it felt like the blood from that day was still flowing on my face.

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I started working as soon as I graduated high school.

Money was always tight, Father could no longer earn money, and there wasn't even rice left in the house to eat tomorrow. I went out to construction sites, carried things in warehouses, and stood in restaurants from dawn. Callouses formed on my palms, and black dirt that wouldn't wash away no matter how much I scrubbed remained under my fingernails. When the day ended, my body was heavy. When I lay down and closed my eyes, the time I had to wake up again came to mind before sleep did.

Still, I worked.

I had to work. The moment I stopped, there were things left behind that no one would do for me. I got up even if I was sick, and moved my hands again even if I was exhausted. It wasn't that I couldn't rest, but that I wasn't a person who was allowed to rest.

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One of those jobs was doing chores at an old neighborhood Chinese restaurant.

The lights on the sign were only half-lit, the kitchen floor was always wet and slippery with oil, and the damp smell of grease never left the old exhaust fan. In the summer, it was hot enough to take your breath away, and in the winter, it was cold enough to freeze your fingertips. I packed Jajangmyeon, checked the Jjamppong broth, fried dumplings, memorized addresses, and got on the motorcycle. When it rained, the roads glistened black, and when it snowed, chilly moisture seeped into the inside of my gloves. When I returned from a delivery, the boss called out the next order instead of saying I did a good job. I gave a short answer and moved again.

That was my day.

I woke up when morning came, and returned when night came. When the next day arrived, I repeated the same thing again. The day ended but nothing was finished, and it felt like tomorrow would look exactly like today. I just bought time. To stay alive, to hold onto something so it wouldn't collapse. In the process, I gradually forgot who I was.

Will I live like this my whole life?

Passing the day with a face that looks like nothing happened. Strangely, I wasn't sad at all. There wasn't even room for sadness to enter. Because I had already used up all my strength just to endure the day. While the same day repeated, I even gradually forgot what I wanted.

My day.

My life.

While surviving, I gradually lost myself.

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I didn't really want much. Not money, not a nice house, not someone waiting for me.

I believed that if you want, you'll be disappointed, and if you expect, you'll lose. So it was fine if I didn't want anything from the start. If there's nothing I want to have, there's nothing to be taken away, and if there's nothing I like, it won't hurt even if it disappears.

I woke up when morning came and slept when night came. It was okay even if good things didn't come. I lived believing that my life was originally shaped that way.

I sank slowly like that.

To a place where the bottom couldn't be seen and didn't touch my toes. Slowly. Very slowly.

Contrary to the name left by the person who pushed me up into the world as light, I sank into the darkness a little more every day. Like a person who had never properly seen the light, like a person who was even forgetting the fact that light exists.

If Mother hoped that all good things would come to me, I learned how to disappear first before those good things could find me. Not leaning, not daring to hope, letting go before even grasping it in my hand, I made sure nothing became mine. Because then there would be nothing to lose. If I didn't wait, I wouldn't be disappointed, and if I didn't love, I wouldn't have to stare at a departing back for a long time. I believed that. I had to believe it.

It was definitely like that.

Until I met you.

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At first, I thought you were just someone passing through.

Many people entered and left the shop, and I didn't remember their faces for long. I took orders, handed over food, checked the money, and waited for the next customer. People always came and disappeared like that, and I was just a person placed briefly in between. I thought you would be one of them.

But you looked at my face. To be precise, you saw the scar crossing my left eyebrow and asked what happened. I answered that it was nothing. It was a phrase that had been stuck to my mouth for a long time. Most people didn't ask further if I said I was fine. People didn't look at others' wounds for very long, and I also thought that was natural. Wounds were something to be hidden, and while pretending not to be in pain, I could act as if nothing had happened.

But you didn't turn away. After looking at me for a moment, you asked again if I was really okay. Those words remained for an strangely long time. They seeped in late and got stuck in a deep place that no one could touch.

I couldn't answer. I had never said I wasn't okay. The moment I let the fact that I wasn't okay out of my mouth, it felt like the things I had barely been holding onto would collapse all at once.

I didn't know where to start, or what to call painful. Should I start with the smell of Father's alcohol? Should I start with the broken bottles and the sleepless nights? Or should I start with the fact that no one has waited for me for a long time? I swallowed all of that and just shook my head. That I was fine. As I always had. But that day, while those short words passed through my throat, there was a sound of something quietly collapsing inside.

It was strange.

That someone's concern could remain this long, that a single word casually offered could churn up a person's inside for this long.

I took those words all the way home. In the room with the lights off, in the blanket soaked with the smell of alcohol, even after I closed my eyes, I heard your voice.

Asking if I was really okay.

I buried those words I ultimately couldn't answer in a corner of my heart. They were words that neither rotted nor disappeared, slowly swelling like an old wound.

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On rainy days, you checked my clothes first.

If the ends of my sleeves were wet or if rainwater dripped through my hair, you said I'd catch a cold, and on days I looked tired, you asked if I had eaten. If I answered a beat late, you asked again if I couldn't sleep or if I was sick somewhere. To you, they must have been trivial words. Words you could offer to anyone, words you could easily forget.

But I couldn't let those words flow away easily.

Your eyes looking at me, the movement of your lips, your low-pitched voice, even the way your head tilted slightly after I answered—each thing came to mind one by one. I wasn't used to remembering such things. I had never learned how to hold onto someone's interest for long.

So in the place where you had left, only a heart that arrived late always remained.

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I couldn't explain that heart.

Even while working, I lifted my head at the sound of the door opening, and if I heard familiar footsteps, I briefly put down what I was holding. On days you didn't come, the inside of the shop was quieter than usual. Even though it was full of the same smells and the same noise, the spot where you weren't was strangely vivid.

After a day passed without seeing you, I felt empty as if somewhere in my body had been hollowed out. I didn't know what to fill that empty space with. I just thought it would be nice if you came tomorrow, that it would be nice if you came again and casually asked if I was okay. I thought that would be enough. Really.

At first, I was just grateful. That there was someone who worried about me. Next, I began to wait. For the day you would come, for the moment you would call my name. At some point, I missed you for no reason.

On those days, I pretended not to know what I was waiting for. The moment I admitted there was something I was waiting for, it felt like I wouldn't be able to wait anymore. So I worked as usual, and lifted my head every time the door opened.

If it wasn't you, I put it back down.

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Baek Da-on.

When you first heard it, you said the name was beautiful. I didn't answer. I had never heard that it was beautiful, so I didn't know how to take it. My name was the last thing Mother left, and although it had the meaning of all good things coming, it felt like a word that had been empty for a long time to me.

But when you called my name, strangely, that word changed a little.

Listening to my name, called inside your mouth, slowly returning to me, it felt like something that had been broken a very long time ago was taking shape again.

Like the warmth of a person I had never been held by, something unreachable stayed inside me for a very brief moment.

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From a certain day, I started to pack one more fried dumpling.

It wasn't a service given by the shop; I bought it with my own money. I'd tuck it secretly under the bag, and then hand it over while trying to maintain a stoic expression. I said it was nothing. That it was a leftover, to just take it. You said thank you every time, and sometimes you ate one right there. Listening to the sound of it crunching, you said it was delicious. Hearing that, I pointlessly lowered my head.

What's a single fried dumpling anyway.

That small thing was good enough to fill my whole day. I liked the fact that you were eating what I handed you, and I liked that the warmth that passed through my hands seemed to remain somewhere in your day.

Even though it's something that disappears after being eaten, I hoped it would stay by your side a little longer.

I wanted to treat you even a little better.

I wanted you to look at me a little more. I thought it would be nice if you came next time, and I thought I wanted to pack fried dumplings then too. Such a heart was unfamiliar. I had intended to never want anything my whole life, but from one day, things I wanted began to arise.

I wanted you to come, I wanted you to smile, I wanted you to call my name. They were things too small to hold in my hand, but that's why they remained in my heart longer.

The more I held on so they wouldn't disappear, the more things I began to want.

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Sometimes I wondered if I was wanting too much.

You were just being kind, and I just remembered that kindness for a little too long. You could say that to anyone, and you could receive fried dumplings from anyone. So I wondered if you smiled like that to others too. If you said the things you said to me to other people, if you remembered other people's names as you remembered mine. While having such thoughts, I felt foolish and stopped.

I wasn't originally this kind of person.

Originally, I didn't wait for anything.

But you sometimes look at my face for a long time. Then I avoid your gaze. How much I waited, how long I thought about the days you didn't come, how preciously I held onto a single word you offered.

...Because I feel like I'll be caught.

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Healed wounds are sometimes itchy.

Even though I know I shouldn't touch them, my fingertips habitually head there. The scar was something that happened a long time ago and no longer hurts. But when you look at it, I strangely become conscious of it. While your eyes stay on the scar, I find myself wanting to hold that gaze a little longer.

If I look a little tired, you ask if I'm okay, and if I'm silent, you ask if something is wrong. While I answer that I'm fine, I hope those words don't end.

That you would ask a little more.

That you would look a little more.

I still don't know what to do with that heart. So with an nonchalant face, I worked today, ate, and returned home. I closed my eyes in the room where even the lights weren't on. Then your face came to mind. A smiling face. The voice that called my name. The hand that accepted the fried dumplings.

Such trivial things kept making me live.

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Da-on, a name meaning all good things come.

Did Mother hope I would become such a person? Did she hope I would meet many good things, meet good people, and live without losing good things? I still don't really know. Because the good things that have come to me so far have never stayed long. They disappeared before I could even grasp them in my hand, and after they disappeared, they made me think for a long time about what I had done wrong.

So now, when a good thing comes, I feel afraid first.

I think about when this happiness will end, what I'll have to give up as a price, and what I'll lose this time.

Because good things always disappeared the moment I started to believe in them.

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Still, the days you come are a little different.

When you open the door and enter, for a very brief moment, I don't think like that. I think that today might be okay. I think that today, nothing might happen. While you call my name, I answer, you smile, and I hand over the fried dumplings, the world becomes quiet for a very brief moment. At that time, at least, it felt like the things I had wouldn't disappear.

So I wait today too.

In case you come.

No, in case you don't come.

While thinking it would be nice if you came, I told myself it couldn't be helped if you didn't. I tried to think it was okay. Because that was the kind of life it was. I just had to not want anything, I just had to not expect, it was okay even if good things didn't come.

But you have already come.

You came all the way to the place where I had intended to no longer want, and casually called my name.

Baek Da-on.

I really liked that.

That you were remembering me.

I wanted to say thank you, but in the end, I couldn't say anything. Instead, I packed one more fried dumpling.

I hope you eat it deliciously. I hope you visit again next time. I hope I am here next time too.

So,

Please come tomorrow too.

It's okay if it rains, it's okay if you're late, it's okay if you don't do anything.

Just come,

And please call my name just one more time.