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In a small, dimly lit hospital room on the outskirts of Seoul, a baby boy was born under silence.
There were no family members waiting outside. No warm hands to welcome him. Only the distant beep of machines and the sterile scent of disinfectant filled the air.
His mother, a thin and pale woman who had struggled through a long labor, passed away minutes after childbirth. Her final breath was a whisper—soft, like the fading of a candle in the wind. She never got to hold him.
A few hours later, a tall man arrived wearing a suit stained with cigarette ash and fatigue.
He didn't look at the child. Didn't ask for the baby's name.
After glancing at the death certificate, he muttered coldly to the nurse, "Send him to an orphanage. I have no time for this."
No name. No cradle. Just a number printed on paper.
At the orphanage, he was raised among dozens of other unwanted children. But unlike the others, he didn't cry often. He learned early that no one listened.
When he turned two, a couple came in.
They smiled brightly for the orphanage staff, saying things like, "We've always wanted a child," and "We'll give him a good home." Their words were sweet, like honey masking vinegar.
He was adopted that day. The papers were signed. His things—just a small blanket—were packed.
The first week in the new home felt like hope.
But by the second week, everything changed.
"You're not here to play," his new mother snapped. "You're here to earn your place."
"Clean the dishes. Sweep the floor," his new father ordered.
At the age of six, he was made to wake before the sun and work until his fingers were red and sore. If he worked too slowly, he didn't eat. If he made a mistake, he was yelled at or slapped.
There was no school. No friends. Just chores.
They had a daughter—a girl one year younger than him—named Ji-Hye. She was treated like royalty. A personal tutor came every morning. Her room was filled with toys and books.
When she spilled something, he had to clean it. When she cried, he had to apologize, even if he didn't do anything.
She rarely spoke to him. But she often watched him from the stairs, from the doorway, from behind her books. Always watching.
He slept on a thin mat near the bathroom. Some nights, they forgot to feed him. Other nights, they simply chose not to.
He cried quietly into his arms. Not because he expected comfort, but because he didn't know what else to do.
Years passed like this.
On the morning of his 15th birthday, he woke up early as usual and began cleaning. No one in the house remembered—or cared.
While dusting a cabinet, a porcelain vase slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor.
The sound echoed through the house like a gunshot.
His stepmother came running. Her face twisted with rage. "Do you know how expensive that was?!"
"I'm sorry," he said, kneeling. "I—I'll clean it—I'll work more—I didn't mean to—"
Her slap came so hard, he nearly fell.
"You've been nothing but a burden!"
She screamed louder than usual. This time, she didn't stop at yelling.
She opened the door and threw his bag—barely filled with a torn shirt and socks—onto the front steps. "Get out! You're no son of mine!"
He turned to his stepfather, hoping for even a shred of sympathy. But the man only folded his arms and looked away.
On the balcony above, Ji-Hye stood, gripping the rail.
He met her eyes, silently pleading.
But she said nothing. She didn't look angry or happy—just blank.
He stepped out the door, his eyes red, heart aching.
He walked through the streets alone, wearing worn-out shoes and an oversized jacket. His head hung low, and tears blurred his vision.
"Why me?" he whispered. "Why was I even born…?"
As he crossed a road, a car turned the corner too fast.
The screech of tires was the last sound he heard.
The car slammed into him.
His body flew several meters before landing with a sickening thud.
People screamed. Someone yelled for an ambulance.
Paramedics arrived quickly, but he had already stopped breathing.
The police marked off the area. Traffic piled up. Cameras flashed. News vans showed up within an hour.
The next day, the news headlines read:
"Teenage Boy Dies in Tragic Hit-and-Run."
"No Known Family. No Identification."
At home, the stepmother clicked her tongue. "Trouble to the end."
The stepfather shook his head. "He should've watched the road."
Only Ji-Hye remained quiet.
She didn't speak during breakfast.
She didn't eat lunch.
That night, she sat alone on the balcony, staring at the stars.
She whispered his name—once—and then silence swallowed it.
He had died unloved.
Or so it seemed.
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