The silence was so dense that even the air seemed to stop moving. In the operating room, the lamps blinded the eyes, and the sound of the equipment was like a countdown—short, relentless, steady.
The surgeons were bent over the body. White gowns, steel instruments, cold light—everything seemed to belong to another world. Do-jun lay motionless, his eyelashes trembling, his lips dry, his breathing shallow.
The Chief Doctor nodded:
— Incision ready. Stabilize heartbeat. Begin.
Somewhere in the back, behind the glass, stood Yun. He couldn't see the face—only the doctors' hands, blood on the gloves, the movement of the monitors. His heart was pounding as if it would burst through his chest. He wasn't breathing. He couldn't. The world had narrowed down to that one frame—a thin line of life on the monitor.
A minute passed. Two. Five.
And suddenly—a cry. High-pitched, husky, desperate. The first.
Yun sharply exhaled, as if he had just remembered how to breathe. His hands were shaking, his eyes filled with tears, but he was smiling—truly smiling for the first time in months.
A nurse held up a tiny bundle, wrapped in white cloth. The doctor's voice sounded quiet, almost gentle:
— Congratulations, father.
Yun approached, and time slowed down again. The baby was tiny, with pink skin, wrinkled like an old man's, its little fists clenched. It cried again, but weaker—as if complaining that the world was too bright.
Yun took him. His fingers didn't obey, his breath caught, but he held on. Warm, alive, weighty. The world finally ceased to be fragile—it became real.
He looked at the child and whispered:
— He looks like you.
A few minutes later, a nurse quietly called him into the antechamber. Do-jun had been moved from the operating room. He lay pale, weak, but alive. Traces of oxygen on his lips, his breathing intermittent, his eyes open.
Yun walked up, and everything in him trembled. He leaned down, touched his forehead to Do-jun's temple.
— Do you hear? He's born.
Do-jun smiled with difficulty. His lips moved, a whisper—almost silent:
— I heard…
He partially opened his eyes, looked at Yun, and then at the small face wrapped in the blanket.
— He looks like you, — Yun repeated, almost laughing and crying at the same time.
Do-jun closed his eyes, his lips quivering in a smile.
— That means… You are both stubborn.
Yun kissed his forehead, then his lips—cautiously, almost afraid to touch. The warmth was faint, but alive. Everything they had fought for had finally become the breath between them.
He whispered something—not words, just sounds, to leave no room for silence. And only when both his palms rested on the tiny body of the child, and Do-jun's breathing evened out, did Yun allow himself to let go.
⋆⋆⋆
Beyond the glass, the light was slowly growing. Pale morning light filtered through the blinds, settling on the bed. The world around felt like an exhale after a long scream.
Yun stood, holding the baby, and looked at its face. Tiny fingers moved, as if trying to grasp the air. He thought he had never seen anything stronger.
The door quietly creaked. Oh-hwa entered, holding a phone. Her face showed a mix of exhaustion and relief.
— The investigator sent a message, — she said quietly, so as not to wake the baby.
— Park is ready to talk. Publicly.
Yun looked up. The one in whom new life now dwelled was silent, but his eyes were no longer trembling.
He looked at Do-jun, then at the child, and nodded.
— Let him talk. We will, too.
Silence settled in the room.