The night air in Seoul always had a strange chill, even in the peak of summer. It wasn't the kind that crept into your bones, but the kind that lingered under your skin—a phantom cold that came from being too used, too tired, too lost.
Oh Yejun lit a cigarette with trembling hands. Her fingers were still painted red from the cheap polish she always wore to cover the calluses. The neon lights of the bar behind her flickered with a mechanical hum, bathing the alleyway in artificial pinks and blues. Her lipstick was smeared. Her hair, once vibrant, now hung limp around her tired face. The sparkle in her eyes had died years ago.
Inside her run-down apartment, a young boy sat cross-legged on the cracked linoleum floor. Jihoon was no older than six, his frail body dressed in mismatched clothes—hand-me-downs from strangers, charity bins, or stolen laundry lines. He held a small blanket in his lap, patched in various places, clinging to it like it was the last thread tethering him to warmth.
He had waited for her. Again.
Yejun finally trudged inside well past midnight, her steps sluggish, shoulders slumped, and her purse hanging open. The sharp smell of alcohol clung to her like a second skin, mixing with perfume and smoke. Jihoon looked up, his eyes already knowing. He didn't speak. Silence had long become his only form of survival.
Her heels clicked against the floor as she threw her bag onto the table. "Still awake? Why?" she muttered without turning to look at him.
Jihoon said nothing. Just sat there, hands tightening on his blanket.
She sneered. "What, waiting for your dear mommy to come tuck you in? Hah."
There was no love in her voice—only sarcasm and venom. Her dream of climbing to the top had crumbled so violently, so pathetically, that she had nothing left but resentment.
Jihoon didn't flinch when she pulled off her shoes and kicked them aside. He knew her moods better than anyone. When she was drunk, she would scream. Sometimes she cried. Sometimes she hit. But worst of all were the times she just stared at him with those hollow, hateful eyes.
"You ruined everything, you know that?" she hissed suddenly, slamming her hand on the table. Jihoon blinked slowly.
She staggered toward him, crouching so they were eye-level. "You think I wanted you? Think you were some miracle child? Don't flatter yourself."
Jihoon shrank back instinctively, but he didn't run. Running only made her angrier.
"I was supposed to marry rich," she slurred. "He promised me the world. He said I was special. Beautiful. Different from the rest." Her voice cracked, brittle like the mirror she had smashed two weeks ago. "Then I told him I was pregnant with you, and suddenly I was trash. A liability."
Her hand reached out, brushing against Jihoon's cheek. For a split second, the touch was almost tender. Almost. Then her fingers curled, and she slapped him.
Jihoon didn't cry. He hadn't in years.
She rose, wobbling slightly, and stumbled into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. Jihoon touched his cheek, then pulled the blanket tighter around himself.
The next morning, the sun shone mockingly through the curtainless window. Jihoon made himself a breakfast of cold rice and pickled radish. He washed his face with freezing water and packed his tiny bag for school.
Yejun was passed out on the couch, mouth open, a half-finished bottle in her lap.
Jihoon walked to school alone, as always.
The world outside was full of children laughing, parents holding hands, food stalls sizzling with smells he could never afford. He passed by them unnoticed, invisible in his faded uniform and broken shoes. A teacher at school once asked why he always looked so tired. Jihoon said he studied late. It was easier than telling the truth.
Back home that evening, Yejun was awake, and worse—sober.
"How was school?" she asked flatly, sitting at the table, a cigarette between her lips.
Jihoon hesitated. "It was fine."
She snorted. "Still getting those pity scholarships?"
He nodded.
"Good," she said. "Maybe you'll actually be worth something one day."
He didn't reply. He just began cleaning the kitchen, picking up empty bottles and the broken chopsticks she had snapped during a previous rage.
Yejun watched him for a while. Her eyes softened briefly—just briefly.
"I had dreams once, you know," she murmured. "Before all this."
Jihoon paused.
"I wanted to be a singer. Or an actress." She smiled bitterly. "But girls like me? We're only good for one thing. Lying on our backs for men who'll forget our names by morning."
Jihoon didn't understand it all, but he heard the pain in her voice. The kind of pain that came from too many disappointments stacked on top of each other until the whole tower collapsed.
"You ruined me," she whispered, almost gently. "I just wanted to escape. And then you came along, and I was stuck. No man wants a woman with baggage. Especially not the kind who cries and bleeds and begs."
Jihoon resumed cleaning.
Yejun lit another cigarette.
As the years passed, things didn't improve. They got worse.
By the time Jihoon was eight, Yejun barely spoke to him unless it was to bark orders or vent her frustration. Her boyfriends came and went, none of them kind. Some were cruel. One of them tried to touch Jihoon once—Yejun slapped him. Not out of maternal instinct, but because "he was mine, not yours."
Jihoon spent more nights outside, on the rooftop, staring at the stars.
He wondered if his father ever looked for him.
He wondered if he even remembered his name.
One evening, Jihoon came home with a prize—a drawing contest he'd won at school. His teacher had praised his delicate lines and quiet creativity.
He held the certificate like a treasure.
"Mom," he said carefully, "I won something today."
Yejun looked up from her television.
He showed her the certificate, beaming.
She read it slowly, then scoffed. "What the hell is this?"
"It's a prize," he said quietly. "For art."
She rolled her eyes. "You think that's going to get you anywhere? Drawing? Hah. Try making money with that."
Jihoon's smile faded.
She crushed the paper and threw it into the trash.
"You want to impress me?" she said coldly. "Bring home money. Not this useless crap."
By the time Jihoon turned ten, the lines on Yejun's face had deepened. She had started drinking earlier in the day, barely holding down jobs anymore. She didn't try to dress up like she used to. The sparkle, the seduction—all of it had died. She was just another woman ruined by dreams too big for her world.
One rainy afternoon, Jihoon came home to find the apartment empty.
At first, he thought she had gone to work early.
But then he noticed: her clothes were gone. The photo frame with her and a man from last month was missing. Her perfume bottles, her heels, the gaudy necklaces—everything she ever called "precious" had vanished.
There was no note.
No goodbye.
Just the echo of an empty life.
Jihoon stood in the doorway, rain soaking through his thin clothes, staring at the apartment that no longer felt like home.
His mother had abandoned him.
Truly, completely.
He sat on the cold floor, blanket around his shoulders, watching the door.
Hoping, somehow, she might come back.
She never did.
Weeks passed. The landlord kicked him out. The neighbors called the authorities. He was sent to an orphanage. The beginning of another chapter, but still the same story:
A boy no one wanted.
A boy whose name was never spoken with love.
A boy born from a broken dream.