The apartment was always cold.
Not because the heater was broken—though it often was—but because the walls held no warmth. No laughter echoed through its narrow halls, no scent of cooking ever lingered for long. The only consistent sound was the low hum of silence, punctuated now and then by the slamming of doors or the muffled weeping of a child too afraid to make a sound.
At six years old, Oh Jihoon had learned to cook simple meals—egg over rice, ramen from a packet, cold rice with soy sauce when there was nothing else. He didn't burn himself often anymore. The first few times, his small fingers had blistered from boiling water or hot pans, but he'd learned quickly: don't cry, don't complain, and always clean up before Mother got home.
Oh Yejun rarely came home before midnight. When she did, it was only to collapse on the couch or to stagger into her room with perfume-soaked hair and glassy eyes. Jihoon had long since stopped expecting hugs or bedtime stories. What he feared more was the sound of the key turning in the lock followed by uneven footsteps—those meant she'd been drinking. And when she drank, her words turned sharp, her hand unpredictable.
He tried his best to be invisible. He cleaned. He folded laundry. He made sure the ashtrays were empty and the bottles lined up neatly by the door so she wouldn't trip. Still, nothing ever seemed enough.
"You're such a burden," she had slurred one night, grabbing him by the arm so hard that bruises bloomed beneath her grip. "If it weren't for you, I could've had a life."
Jihoon hadn't known what to say. So he'd just stood there, trembling, until she'd pushed him away.
That night, he curled into a corner of his small room—really just a converted storage closet—and buried his face in his knees. The single flickering lightbulb overhead swung slightly, casting shadows across the peeling wallpaper. His pillow was damp with tears by the time sleep finally took him.
Mornings were no better. Jihoon rose before the sun, moving through the apartment like a ghost. He'd sweep the kitchen, throw away the cigarette butts, and boil water for instant coffee. If Yejun was awake, he'd place the mug quietly on the table without looking at her. If she wasn't, he'd just leave it there and hope she wouldn't wake up angry.
School was supposed to be his escape—but it rarely felt that way.
At Hanyoung Elementary, Jihoon was the quiet boy in the back row, the one with threadbare uniforms and worn-out shoes. His teachers barely remembered his name, and the other students remembered him only to tease.
"Hey, rat boy," one of the boys sneered one afternoon during lunch, holding his nose exaggeratedly. "You smell like garbage."
Another chimed in, "His mom's a barmaid. My dad said she's always with different men."
Laughter echoed around him, and Jihoon's ears burned with shame. He stared at his tray of plain rice and wilted kimchi, refusing to meet anyone's gaze.
He never fought back. He never said a word. The bullies eventually lost interest—not because they felt guilty, but because it was no fun to torment someone who didn't react.
After school, Jihoon never went straight home. He lingered at the park, watching other children play with their mothers or older siblings. He sat on the swing, barely moving, clutching his frayed backpack to his chest. Sometimes he imagined what it would feel like to have someone waiting for him—someone who smiled when they saw him coming.
But no one ever was.
Yejun's spiral deepened as months passed. Her bitterness consumed her, and she grew more volatile. At times, she would cry and pull Jihoon into a hug, whispering apologies into his hair. But those moments were rare—and always followed by a worse outburst later.
Jihoon didn't know how to interpret those apologies. He'd started to think they weren't for him at all, but for some version of herself she could never be again.
He began doing more to keep her temper at bay. He learned which groceries she liked, memorized the times she usually woke up, and even figured out how to count the money in her purse so he could return it precisely if he ever borrowed a few coins to buy bread.
But nothing could please her.
One rainy evening, Yejun returned home soaked and furious. Her makeup was smudged, her heels muddy. Jihoon rushed to the door, towel in hand.
"What are you doing?" she snapped, snatching the towel from him. "Trying to pretend you care?"
"I just thought—"
"Don't think." She shoved past him. "You don't know anything. You don't know how hard my life is. You ruined everything."
Jihoon stood frozen in the hallway, the echo of her words carving themselves into his chest like knives.
He never knew what he had done to deserve her hate. He only knew that he had to endure it.
Over time, Jihoon began to dissociate from the world around him. He learned to smile when spoken to and nod when reprimanded. He kept his head down at school, and at home, he moved like a shadow, unheard and unseen. He stopped crying—tears made noise, and noise invited punishment.
He learned how to clean blood from his lip with cold water and how to patch his socks with old fabric. He learned how to read by himself and solve math problems without help. He excelled quietly, unnoticed.
One of his teachers, Ms. Bae, noticed his isolation but mistook it for shyness. She tried once to ask him if everything was all right at home, but Jihoon had smiled and said yes. It was a lie, of course—but it was safer than telling the truth.
Even if he told someone, what would change? No one could fix his mother. No one could give him a new home. Better to stay quiet. Better to survive.
By the time Jihoon turned seven, the hollow ache of loneliness had become a constant companion.
He began writing in a small notebook he found abandoned in a school bin. At first, it was just single words—"cold," "hungry," "quiet." Later, he wrote full sentences, sometimes imagining conversations with a mother who loved him or with an older brother who protected him.
In those pages, he was someone else—someone who mattered.
The notebook became his secret world, a place where he could be safe.
But safety was an illusion.
One night, Yejun stumbled into his room looking for cigarettes. She found the notebook instead.
"What's this?" she snapped, flipping through the pages.
Jihoon reached for it. "Please—"
"Writing lies about me?" Her voice rose, slurring. "Making me the villain?"
She ripped the pages out one by one, laughing bitterly. "You think you're better than me, don't you? Sitting here scribbling like you're some kind of genius."
"I didn't mean—"
"Shut up!"
She slapped him across the face, the sting so sudden it knocked him off balance. He fell to the floor, his cheek flaming, and the sound of torn paper falling around him like confetti.
Yejun stormed out moments later, leaving a trail of cigarette smoke behind her. Jihoon remained on the floor, too stunned to move, too broken to cry.
Later, he gathered the pieces of his notebook, holding them to his chest as if they could protect him. They couldn't.
Nothing could.
One day, during recess, a girl named Ara approached him.
She was in his class, quiet like him, often ignored by the others. She handed him a small packet—rice balls wrapped in plastic.
"My mom made too many," she said. "Do you want one?"
Jihoon hesitated, then nodded. "Thank you."
They sat in silence beneath a tree, sharing the food. It was the first act of kindness he had received in as long as he could remember.
From that day on, they began sitting together during lunch. Ara never asked too many questions, and Jihoon never said much. But it was enough. A flicker of something warm—friendship, maybe—began to stir in his chest.
He didn't tell his mother about her.
He didn't tell her anything anymore.
Jihoon's world remained small—school, home, park, and back again. But something inside him had changed. The bitterness he saw in his mother never grew in him. Instead, he held onto silence like armor. He bore the bruises, the insults, the loneliness—but he endured.
In the darkness of his home, he learned how to light his own candle.
It wasn't much. But it was something.
A flicker.