Chapter Text
In-ho arranged the tray with the careful precision of someone who understood that small acts could carry enormous weight. Two slices of toast, golden and still warm from the toaster. A jar of homemade strawberry jam, the kind his grandmother used to make, thick with fruit and memories. A cup of tea, steeped exactly three minutes, the steam rising in delicate spirals.
He carried the tray carefully to the dining table, his heart beating with the nervous energy of someone performing a ritual whose outcome remained uncertain. For weeks now, he had been bringing breakfast to this table, and for weeks, the response had been the same: reluctant acceptance, mechanical consumption, or sometimes outright refusal.
But recently, things had been different. Gi-hun had let him cut his hair. Had sat still under his hands, had thanked him with something approaching warmth. And late at night, when their eyes would meet across the darkened living room, the nursery or the kitchen as In-ho held Sae-hee, there was understanding there. Not forgiveness, perhaps, but recognition.
Gi-hun was already seated at the table when In-ho arrived, his shortened hair catching the morning light. He looked younger somehow, less haunted, though the shadows under his eyes spoke of another sleepless night.
"Good morning," In-ho said softly, slowly pushing the tray toward Gi-hun across the table's surface. The movement was deliberate, unhurried, giving Gi-hun time to accept or refuse without pressure.
"Good morning," Gi-hun replied, his voice rough with sleep. He reached for the tea first, wrapping his hands around the warm ceramic as if drawing comfort from its heat. In-ho watched him take that first sip, saw the way his shoulders relaxed fractionally, and felt something ease in his own chest.
Gi-hun didn't speak as he ate, but he didn't retreat into the vacant stare that had become his default either. Instead, he seemed present, aware, his attention occasionally drifting to the sounds of Sae-hee babbling in her crib down the hall. When he finished the first piece of toast, he reached for the second without hesitation, and In-ho had to suppress a smile of triumph.
"Thank you," Gi-hun said when he was done, and this time the words carried weight. "For... all of this. I know it's not easy."
In-ho felt his throat tighten. "It's not a burden," he said quietly. "Taking care of you, of her... it's the only thing that makes sense anymore."
The admission hung between them, vulnerable and true. In-ho had built his life around control, around the careful orchestration of outcomes, but here in this small apartment, tending to the man whose life he had shattered and the daughter they both loved, he had found something approaching peace.
Later that morning, as In-ho was cleaning up the breakfast dishes, he found himself talking. Not the careful, measured words he usually chose, but something more spontaneous, more real.
"When I was little," he said, rinsing a plate under the warm water, "I used to love reading in closets. I'd drag a flashlight in there and make a fort out of coats and blankets. My stepmother would find me hours later, completely absorbed in some book, and she'd say I was going to ruin my eyes."
He glanced over at Gi-hun, who was sitting at the kitchen table with Sae-hee on his lap, helping her grasp a soft toy. The baby was making pleased little sounds, and Gi-hun's face had softened in the way it always did when he was with her.
"That sounds nice," Gi-hun said, and In-ho was surprised to see the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Having your own secret place."
"What about you?" In-ho asked, encouraged by the response. "Did you have a hiding spot?"
Gi-hun was quiet for a moment, his fingers absently stroking Sae-hee's dark hair. "The bathtub," he said finally. "The empty bathtub in our tiny bathroom. I'd pile pillows in there and pretend I was a ship captain sailing to distant lands. My mother thought I was crazy, but it was the only place in our apartment where I could be completely alone."
The image was so vivid, so achingly innocent, that In-ho felt his chest tighten. He could picture it perfectly. A small boy with Gi-hun's serious eyes, creating adventures in the confines of a cramped bathroom, dreaming of places beyond the poverty that surrounded him.
"A ship captain," In-ho repeated, and this time he didn't try to hide his smile. "I bet you were a good one."
Gi-hun's smile widened fractionally. "I never lost a single crew member to pirates. Though I did lose a few to my mother calling for dinner."
The joke was small, gentle, but it sent a surge of joy through In-ho's chest. When was the last time he heard Gi-hun make a joke? When was the last time he had seen him smile about something from his childhood, something untainted by the weight of their shared past?
"Your mother sounds like she was a good woman," In-ho said, drying his hands on a kitchen towel.
"She was," Gi-hun replied, his voice softening. "She deserved better than what I gave her. Better than the worry, the sleepless nights wondering if I was safe. She never stopped believing I could be something more than I was."
The guilt in his voice was palpable, and In-ho felt the familiar ache of recognition. How many nights had he laid awake thinking about his own parents, about the dreams they'd had for him that he'd destroyed so completely?
"I think," In-ho said carefully, "that she would be proud of you now. Of how you're trying to take care of Sae-hee, of how you're fighting to get better."
Gi-hun looked up at him, and In-ho saw something flicker in his eyes. Not quite hope, but something close to it. "Maybe," he said quietly.
The afternoon had been going so well that In-ho almost missed the signs. Gi-hun had been more talkative than usual, even laughing softly at one of Sae-hee's attempts to grab her own reflection in a mirror. But then, as In-ho was folding laundry in the living room, he heard a sharp intake of breath from behind.
When he looked up, Gi-hun was staring at the laundry basket with an expression of pure terror. His knuckles were white where he gripped the handles of his wheelchair, and his breathing had become rapid and shallow.
"Gi-hun?" In-ho said softly, setting down the shirt he'd been folding.
But Gi-hun didn't seem to hear him. He was backing away from the basket, his eyes fixed on something In-ho couldn't see. The color had drained from his face, and his mouth was moving soundlessly, as if he were trying to speak but couldn't find the words.
In-ho moved slowly, carefully, positioning himself between Gi-hun and whatever phantom he was seeing. He had learned not to ask questions during these episodes, not to demand explanations that only seemed to make things worse. Instead, he simply waited, a steady presence in the storm of Gi-hun's fractured mind.
"It's okay," he said quietly, not moving closer but making sure his voice was calm and steady. "You're safe. You're here with me and Sae-hee. Nothing can hurt you."
Gradually, Gi-hun's breathing began to slow. The terror in his eyes faded, replaced by confusion and then embarrassment. He looked at In-ho, then at the innocent basket of clean clothes, and his shoulders sagged.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I thought I saw... it doesn't matter. I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize," In-ho said firmly. "Never apologize for this. It's not your fault."
The relief on Gi-hun's face was heartbreaking. In-ho wanted to reach out, to offer physical comfort, but he held back. When his fingers had been in Gi-hun's hair, there had been acceptance. But this was different. This was vulnerability in its rawest form, and In-ho wouldn't presume to breach that boundary without permission.
Instead, he simply continued folding clothes, his movements calm and unhurried, showing Gi-hun through his actions that nothing had changed, that his presence was steady and unchanging regardless of what ghosts might visit.
The sun was beginning to set when In-ho made his suggestion. "Would you like to go outside? Just to the balcony. The fresh air might be nice."
Gi-hun looked uncertain, but after a moment, he nodded. In-ho helped him navigate the threshold, careful not to jar his injured leg, and soon they were both settled on the small balcony overlooking the street below.
The evening air was cool and sweet, carrying the scent of blooming flowers from a nearby garden. Gi-hun lifted his face to the breeze, closing his eyes as if he were absorbing something vital that he'd been missing.
"I used to come out here when I first moved in," In-ho said, settling into the chair beside Gi-hun's wheelchair. "Before... before everything. I'd sit here with my coffee and watch the neighborhood wake up. There was something peaceful about it, being part of the world but still separate from it."
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the street below. The evening light was golden and warm, and In-ho found himself mesmerized by the way it played across Gi-hun's face. The gentle breeze lifted his dark hair, and his clothes, a simple cotton shirt and comfortable pants, moved lazily with the movement of the air. There was something peaceful about him at this moment, something that made him look ten years younger than his actual age.
In-ho wanted to absorb this image, to memorize every detail of Gi-hun looking relaxed and almost content. It was so different from the haunted man who startled at shadows, who picked at his food with mechanical precision, who stared at things that weren't there. This was a glimpse of who Gi-hun might have been, might still be, if they could find their way through the darkness.
A few people walked past below; a woman with grocery bags, a teenager on a bicycle, an elderly man walking slowly with a cane. Normal people living normal lives, unburdened by the weight of secrets and horror.
Then, padding down the sidewalk with the unhurried gait of someone who belonged nowhere and everywhere, came a small brown dog. It stopped to sniff at a fire hydrant, tail wagging with simple joy at whatever scent it had discovered.
Gi-hun's expression changed, softening into something wistful. "He had a dog, my father," he said quietly. "Before he left. He called it Lucky. Stupid name for a stupid dog, but I loved that animal more than anything."
He paused, watching as the dog continued its wandering exploration. "I never had much luck after that. Always wondered if he took it with him when he left."
The sadness in his voice was profound, the kind of childhood wound that never fully healed. In-ho felt the familiar urge to fix things, to find some way to ease that pain, but he knew that some heartbreaks were beyond his reach.
"What kind of dog was it?" he asked instead.
"Mixed breed. Looked like maybe part German Shepherd, part something smaller. He was always getting into trouble, chasing cats and digging holes in the tiny patch of dirt behind our building. But he was so... loyal. He'd follow me everywhere, sleep at the foot of my bed every night."
Gi-hun smiled, the expression transforming his face. "I used to tell him all my secrets. About how scared I was that my father would leave, about how I wanted to be a detective when I grew up so I could find all the missing people and bring them home. He never judged me; never told me my dreams were stupid."
"What happened to him?" In-ho asked gently.
"My father took him when he left. Just packed up his things one day while I was at school, and when I came home, they were both gone. My mother said maybe it was for the best, that we couldn't afford to feed a dog anyway, but I cried for weeks."
The pain in Gi-hun's voice was raw, immediate, as if the loss had happened yesterday instead of decades ago. In-ho understood that feeling, the way childhood abandonment could echo through every relationship that followed, coloring every moment of trust with the fear of being left behind.
"I had a dog too," In-ho said quietly. "When I was maybe eight or nine. A tiny thing, this ridiculous little Pomeranian that my stepmother’s friend found abandoned in a parking lot. My brother Jun-ho and I, we argued for hours about what to name him, but in the end, I won. I named him..."
He paused, suddenly embarrassed by the memory. "I named him Professor Whiskers."
Gi-hun turned to look at him, and In-ho saw the exact moment when the absurdity of the name registered. There was a brief flash of judgment in Gi-hun's eyes, a look that seemed to say, 'what kind of child names a dog Professor Whiskers?'. But then his expression softened into something like amusement. A slow smile spread across Gi-hun's face, and then he was laughing. Really laughing, not the polite chuckle he sometimes managed, but genuine, surprised laughter that lit up his entire face.
"Professor Whiskers?" he repeated, and the laughter bubbled up again. "That's... that's terrible. That's the worst dog’s name I've ever heard."
"I was eight!" In-ho protested, but he was grinning too, caught up in the infectious joy of Gi-hun's laughter. "I thought it sounded distinguished. He was very small, but he had this huge personality, and he always looked like he was thinking very important thoughts."
"Professor Whiskers," Gi-hun said again, shaking his head in amazement. "I can't believe you actually called a dog Professor Whiskers. What did your parents say?"
"My stepmother tried to convince me to choose something more normal, but I was stubborn. I said if we were going to give him a home, we had to respect his intelligence. He was clearly a dog of learning."
The laughter continued, and In-ho felt something expand in his chest, a warmth, a lightness he hadn't felt in years. This was what he'd been hoping for, what he'd been working toward through all the careful breakfast trays and gentle conversations. This moment of pure, uncomplicated joy.
"Did he live up to his name?" Gi-hun asked, wiping tears from his eyes.
"He was the smartest dog I've ever known," In-ho said solemnly. "He could open doors; he learned to use the toilet – don't ask me how – and he once saved our neighbor's cat from a tree by barking until the fire department came. Professor Whiskers was a hero."
"A hero," Gi-hun repeated, and there was something wondering in his voice, as if he were trying to remember what it felt like to think of the world in such simple terms. Where dogs could be heroes and eight-year-old boys could choose names based on dignity rather than practicality.
As their laughter faded, they settled back into comfortable silence. The light was golden now, casting long shadows across the street, and the air was filled with the sounds of evening. Distant traffic, the murmur of conversation from neighboring apartments, the soft cooing of pigeons settling in for the night.
"Thank you," Gi-hun said quietly. "For... for this. For making me laugh. I'd forgotten what it felt like."
In-ho felt his throat tighten with emotion. "You don't need to thank me. I just... I want you to be happy. I want you to remember that there's still joy in the world, even after everything."
"I'm trying," Gi-hun said, and In-ho could hear the effort in his voice. "Some days are harder than others. But moments like this... they help."
They sat together until the streetlights began to flicker on, finding small moments of peace in each other's company. When they finally went back inside, In-ho carried with him the sound of Gi-hun's laughter, the memory of his smile, the knowledge that healing was possible even in the darkest places.
Later that night, as he listened to Gi-hun's quiet breathing from the next room, In-ho allowed himself to hope. They had a long way to go, all of them, him, Gi-hun, and little Sae-hee. But today had been good.
And sometimes, after everything, one good day was enough to keep going.