Anger never builds; it only tears down. In the heat of a single moment, it can feel like strength, an armor to hide behind. But when the fire fades, all that's left are the ashes of what once mattered. Anger doesn't solve anything-it devours patienc...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Don’t trip over what’s behind you — that chapter’s already closed.
Chapter 03: Loss
In a shadowed room far away, another conversation was unfolding.
“It’s positive, Boss. He was waiting for her.”
“And?”
“He sat alone for hours. No one approached him.”
“Good.” A low chuckle. “That boy… he’s relentless. He won’t stop until he finds out the truth. Keep watching him. Make sure he never becomes a block to my success. He’s already a thorn in my neck.”
“Yes, Boss. And… what about the woman’s son? She has a boy, doesn’t she? Should we deal with him?”
The person's voice turned cold, venom dripping from every word. “If things go wrong, kill him. No hesitation. I won’t allow loose ends.”
“Yes, Boss.”
---
Back in the hospital, Taehyung paced the hallway. His fingers wouldn’t stop trembling. His heart pounded so hard it hurt. Every time the emergency room doors swung open, he snapped his head up, praying, begging for good news.
Finally, a doctor emerged. His mask pulled down, his expression grim.
“Doctor!” Taehyung rushed forward, hope and fear clashing in his wide eyes. “How’s my mother? Please tell me she’s okay.”
The doctor placed a hand gently on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Kim. The patient didn’t make it.”
The words struck like thunder.
Taehyung’s breath hitched. “No…”
“She was shot in the forehead. The damage was severe and immediate. We did everything we could, but… it was already too late.”
The doctor’s voice faded into static. Taehyung couldn’t hear anything anymore. His knees buckled, the floor rushing up to meet him as sobs tore from his chest.
“No… no, Eomma, no…” His cries echoed through the hallway, raw and unrestrained.
The staff turned their eyes away, unable to watch. His grief was too heavy, too real—it hung in the air like smoke, suffocating everyone who heard it.
She was gone. His mother, his world, his only home.
And Taehyung was alone.
----
The sky was overcast, heavy clouds casting a dull gray light over the funeral hall. The air smelled faintly of incense and chrysanthemums—the traditional scent of mourning. Taehyung walked inside the memorial hall with unsteady steps, his body weighed down by a grief he could barely carry. His hands trembled as he adjusted the black armband around his sleeve, a small band of cloth that felt like it was choking him every time he remembered what it symbolized.
The portrait of his mother, framed in black ribbon, was placed at the center of the altar. White chrysanthemums and lilies surrounded it, their pale petals almost glowing under the dim light. A thin trail of incense smoke curled upward from the altar, the scent clinging to his clothes, his hair, his skin. It was suffocating, yet he couldn’t look away from her picture—her gentle smile frozen in time, so painfully alive compared to the body he last held in his arms.
Guests in black hanbok and suits came in quietly, bowing deeply toward the portrait before stepping aside to console him. Words like “be strong,” and “she’s in a better place now” slipped through their lips. Their voices were soft, almost rehearsed, but Taehyung barely heard them. Every bow, every whisper, every pat on his shoulder only reminded him that this wasn’t some passing nightmare—it was reality.
When it was his turn, Taehyung approached the altar. His knees nearly buckled as he bent down into the deep bow of mourning, his forehead pressing against the floor. He stayed there longer than anyone else, unable to rise, as if lowering himself to the ground could somehow reach his mother on the other side. His lips quivered as he whispered, almost inaudibly:
“Eomma… why did you have to leave me like this? Why?”
He finally sat up, but his tears blurred his vision. He picked up three sticks of incense with trembling fingers, lit them, and planted them into the ash-filled holder. The smoke swirled upward, carrying his prayers to a heaven he wasn’t sure he believed in anymore.
Relatives and neighbors came one by one, bowing and setting down envelopes of condolence money. Taehyung bowed back automatically, his body moving on instinct while his mind stayed trapped in memories—her voice calling his name, her smile greeting him at the door, her gentle hands brushing the hair from his eyes. Each face that offered sympathy only deepened the hollow ache in his chest.
The funeral hall was filled with the sound of quiet weeping, but it was Taehyung’s cries that broke through, raw and unrestrained. He sat on the floor near the altar, his black sleeves clinging to his tear-streaked face. People tried to comfort him, but he shook them off, clutching his knees as if holding himself together was the only way he wouldn’t shatter into pieces.
Later, when the time came for the burial, he followed the procession to the cemetery. The sound of the monks’ chanting carried through the cool air, rhythmic and solemn. Taehyung’s legs felt like stone as he walked behind his mother’s coffin, carried by pallbearers in white gloves. He wanted to scream, to throw himself onto the wooden box and beg them not to lower her into the ground, but all that left his mouth was a strangled sob.
When the coffin was finally lowered, Taehyung’s world crumbled. He grabbed a handful of soil with shaking hands, the dirt crumbling between his fingers. He hesitated—throwing it meant accepting she was gone, that this was final. His lips trembled as tears streamed down his face, but eventually, he let the soil fall. It landed with a dull sound against the wooden lid, final and cruel.
“Eomma… I’m sorry… I couldn’t protect you,” he whispered, his voice breaking.
The other mourners followed, bowing once more, their hands folding in prayer. But Taehyung stayed frozen at the grave even as everyone began to leave. His clothes were damp from his tears, his throat raw from crying. The world around him moved on, but he remained still—just a broken son kneeling in the dirt, with nothing but silence and the scent of chrysanthemums to keep him company.
