The sky was still dark when his eyes opened at 5:03 a.m.
He didn’t need a clock.
The rhythm had been carved into him years ago—first as punishment, then as structure, now simply as breathing.
Lee Jin-ho sat up.
The bed was made before his feet touched the floor. Blanket folded into a tight rectangle, pillow centered, corners sharp.
He moved through the motions without thinking.
Running clothes—black long-sleeve, black joggers, black shoes.
Cap pulled low.
Mask up.
Glasses on.
The apartment was cold.
He didn’t turn on the heater.
He preferred it that way.
He stepped outside at 5:12.
The residential streets of Seongbuk-gu were empty except for the occasional streetlight and the first delivery scooters of the day.
His breath fogged in front of the mask.
He started running.
Same route he had traced the night before, but slower now, deliberate.
Past the shuttered bakery that would open in an hour.
Down the gentle slope toward the small park with the pond nobody visited in winter.
Forty-three minutes out and back.
Not a second more.
Not a second less.
When he returned, sweat was cooling on his neck.
He didn’t feel accomplished.
He felt… present.
Shower. Cold water.
No music.
No phone.
Only the sound of water hitting tile and his own steady breathing.
Breakfast was always the same: steel-cut oats cooked with water, one boiled egg, half an apple sliced thin, black coffee.
He ate standing at the narrow counter, looking out the single window.
The view was mostly other apartment buildings, a slice of gray sky, one ginkgo tree that had already lost most of its leaves.
He didn’t hate the view.
He didn’t love it either.
After breakfast he opened the notebook.
Small. Black. No brand.
The pages were still mostly empty.
He wrote one line:
Still no one saw me.
He closed the notebook.
Put it back in the drawer beside the envelope that held one thin silver ring.
He didn’t open the envelope.
He never opened it more than once every few months.
The morning passed in quiet segments.
Laundry folded.
Desk wiped.
Books straightened on the single shelf.
A quick look at the calendar on his phone.
The date stared back at him.
He dressed again—dark coat, cap, mask, glasses.
He left the apartment.
The streets were waking up now.
Office workers in suits.
Students in uniforms.
Ajummas pulling carts to the market.
He walked among them like smoke—head down, pace even, hands in pockets.
He stopped at a small convenience store two blocks away.
Bought bottled water, a banana, a pack of instant coffee.
The clerk—a young woman in her early twenties—scanned the items without looking up.
“Bag?” she asked.
“No. Thank you.”
She handed him the change.
He bowed slightly and left.
No one looked twice.
No one paused.
No one asked if they knew him from somewhere.
That was the point.
He kept walking.
The city felt both familiar and alien.
The same street layout he had once known by heart.
The same smell of grilled fish and kimchi jjigae drifting from small restaurants.
But the buildings were taller.
The signs were brighter.
The people moved faster.
He passed a playground.
Children in puffy coats ran in circles, laughing.
A teacher stood nearby, clapping her hands.
He slowed for half a second.
Then kept walking.
By noon he had returned to the apartment.
He prepared lunch—rice, stir-fried spinach, grilled mackerel.
Simple.
No waste.
He ate alone, slowly, chewing until everything was quiet inside his mouth.
After eating he sat at the desk.
He opened his laptop.
Searched for the wedding venue.
A small, private hall in southern Seoul—exclusive, expensive, booked months in advance.
He found photos online.
White flowers.
Soft lighting.
A garden view.
He memorized the address.
The nearest subway exit.
The back entrance.
The parking lot with tall trees that could provide cover.
He mapped out a route that would let him stand far enough away to see without being seen.
He closed the laptop.
Stood.
Walked to the window again.
The afternoon light was pale.
The sky was the color of old paper.
He thought about the countryside house.
The old wooden gate.
The persimmon tree in the yard that used to drop fruit every fall.
The narrow porch where his grandmother still sat every evening with a cup of barley tea.
He hadn’t been there in eight years.
He hadn’t told her he was coming.
He hadn’t decided if he would go at all.
The guilt rose again—quiet, familiar, almost comforting in its persistence.
He pushed it down the way he had learned to push everything else.
He left the apartment again.
This time he walked farther.
Past the park.
Past the convenience store.
Past the small stationery shop where children bought pencils and erasers.
He ended up at another small park near the river.
He sat on a bench.
Pulled the mask down slightly.
Watched the water.
A group of middle-school boys ran past, laughing, kicking a soccer ball.
An elderly couple walked slowly, arm in arm.
A young woman jogged by with earbuds in.
He watched them all without envy.
He had stopped envying people who could live normally a long time ago.
The sun dropped lower.
The air grew colder.
He stood.
Began the walk back.
When he reached the apartment, the sky had turned the color of bruises.
He removed the cap.
The mask.
The glasses.
Looked at himself in the small mirror above the sink.
A stranger looked back.
He turned off the desk lamp.
Lay on the bed.
Stared at the ceiling.
The water stain shaped like a bird with one wing bent.
He thought about the countryside house again.
The train schedule.
The bus route.
The long walk from the station to the old gate.
He could go tomorrow.
Or the day after.
Or never.
The thought of seeing his grandmother—seeing the house he had left behind, the porch, the persimmon tree—felt like stepping onto broken glass.
He wanted to go.
He didn’t want to go.
He wanted to see her face light up.
He didn’t want to see the questions in her eyes.
He wanted to tell her he was sorry.
He didn’t know if he could say it out loud.
He rolled onto his side.
Pulled the blanket up to his chin.
Whispered into the dark—so quietly even he could barely hear it.
“I’ll decide tomorrow.”
The silence answered.
But tonight, the silence felt heavier than usual.
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