The city pulsed with its usual frenetic energy—a buzzing, blurred, brilliant tapestry of life—but to Hyun-seok, it was transformed.
Every corner became a potential vantage point, every street a silent witness, every reflection a possible glimpse of the truth.
He followed his usual route, coffee in hand, protest sign tucked under his arm, but the words painted boldly across the placard no longer resonated with the same urgency. They were no longer meant for strangers; they were a message for one person—Ji-ho. Or Soo-min.
It was him, his son, the realisation settling like a weight lifted after years of unanswered questions, endless files, and false leads.
The boy with the strained smile and haunted eyes was his Soo-min, alive, not a faded image on a worn flyer, not a child lost in time, but a man now, lost in plain sight.
Hyun-seok hadn't cried dramatically, just a few quiet tears, a release of something that had lingered too long in the darkness.
But this new reality presented a challenge he hadn't prepared for: what do you do when your son doesn't know you? You wait. You stay close. You don't break him open; you let him come to you. That's what Hyun-seok had been doing—showing up at the bookstore, asking about books, laughing at the right moments, never pushing too far. Ji-ho didn't talk much about himself, but he listened, always listened, sometimes glancing at Hyun-seok as if trying to place a memory that didn't exist. That was the look that cut Hyun-seok to the core.
Today, Hyun-seok didn't go inside the store; he watched from across the street, hidden behind a café window, his coffee growing cold. He told himself it wasn't stalking, it was protection. Ji-ho didn't notice at first, but over the next few days, something shifted. A pause. A glance over his shoulder. A subtle hesitation when locking the bookstore door. Paranoia, perhaps, or instinct. Ji-ho walked faster now, took different streets, cut across corners. Once, he stopped mid-step, staring into a mirror in a shopfront window, his reflection frozen, his breath heavy, as if he didn't recognise himself. Hyun-seok didn't call out; he just watched.
The city seemed to warp around them in subtle ways. Familiar shops appeared out of place. Street-lamps flickered erratically. Posters vanished overnight. Faces in the crowd lingered too long before turning away.
Ji-ho noticed these things, and Hyun-seok saw him notice, yet he said nothing.
What could he say?
"I'm your father. You were taken. I've been looking for you for over a decade."
No. That would shatter the boy. He was already fragile, too still, too polite, like someone clinging to rules he no longer believed in.
So Hyun-seok kept his distance.
Lately, however, Hyun-seok had started feeling watched too.
It happened when he was alone, in the evenings, walking home from the protest line.
The hair on the back of his neck prickled. Alleyways felt narrower. Street signs seemed wrong.
A woman passed him once, humming softly.
Kkogkkog sumeora. Meolikarag boila.
He froze, turned, but she was gone. He didn't sleep that night.
The next day, and the one after, Ji-ho didn't show up at the store. Hyun-seok walked past three times, pretending to be heading elsewhere.
On the fourth pass, Ji-ho stepped out to take the bins to the curb. Their eyes met. Ji-ho hesitated, then smiled.
The smile cut Hyun-seok open in a way no scream ever could. He crossed the street slowly.
"Annyeong, Jiho-ssi, (Hello, Ji-ho)" he said gently, "Didn't see you at lunch this week."
"Yeah," Ji-ho replied, rubbing the back of his neck, "Weird few days."
"Gwaenchanayo, Jiho-ssi (Are you okay, Jiho)?"
Ji-ho shrugged. "You ever feel like the city's... watching you?"
Hyun-seok blinked. "Sometimes," he admitted.
"You see anything strange?"
"Aniyo, (No)" Ji-ho said, too quickly, "Just tired."
They stood in silence, the sounds of the city—a roaring train, a honking car, a dog's bark—continuing around them.
"You know that book, The City & The City?" Ji-ho asked suddenly, his eyes fixed on a distant point.
Hyun-seok turned to him. "By Mieville?"
Ji-ho nodded slowly. "It's about two cities coexisting in the same physical space. But the people are trained not to see the other one. Like... the truth's right there, but no one's allowed to acknowledge it."
"Sounds... painfully accurate," Hyun-seok murmured.
Ji-ho tilted his head, half-curious. "Have you read it?"
A pause. "Yeah," Hyun-seok said, his voice cracking. "I used to read it to my son. He liked all-sorts stories."
Silence hung heavy, raw. Hyun-seok cleared his throat, his eyes dropping. "Mianhaeyo. (Sorry) Got carried away."
"It's okay," Ji-ho said softly, politely. "I liked it too."
That was the end of it. Ji-ho didn't ask more, didn't pry, and Hyun-seok ached with quiet gratitude.
The next day, Hyun-seok didn't protest. He sat near the store, out of sight, watching, waiting, not just for Ji-ho, but for anything.
Just before noon, he saw them—a man and a woman—passing by without looking at the store, without looking at Ji-ho. But Ji-ho changed.
The way he shifted, the way his shoulders tensed. He looked down at his register as if he'd forgotten what money was. Something deep inside Hyun-seok twisted.
He didn't know who they were, not yet, but he knew what that look meant—the way Ji-ho stiffened, the way his hands shook for a second too long.
He'd seen that look on survivors before.
He'd worn that look himself.
The city felt wrong again, as if folding in on itself.
And the boy inside the bookstore—his boy—was drifting further from the truth each day he pretended not to see it.
Hyun-seok gripped the edge of the café table, his knuckles white.
They were running out of time.
And he didn't know how to stop what was coming.
The city, once a source of comfort, had become a place of constant unease, a place where he felt watched, followed, hunted. Every sound was amplified, distorted, imbued with a hidden meaning he was only beginning to decipher.
The conversation about The City & The City resurfaced in Ji-ho's mind, the concept of parallel realities, of hidden worlds existing alongside our own. He wondered if his dream was a glimpse into such a world, a world where he was Soo-min, a world he couldn't remember but couldn't escape.
The city itself felt like a stage set, meticulously crafted, every detail carefully placed to create a sense of unsettling familiarity. The city that once held his memories now held his fears, a city that does not remember, a city that has forgotten.