Appearing Whenever Needed

When Ji-woo came home from kindergarten, he went straight into the bedroom. He still hadn't managed to smooth things over with Seo-ha, it seemed; his shoulders sagged, all the life drained out of him.

Yeon-jae opened the refrigerator to start on dinner and hesitated. She considered just pulling out whatever side dishes they already had, then opened the freezer instead and took out the pork cutlets. They were Ji-woo's favorite—ones she had made herself. Whenever she cooked a batch, she made extras and froze them, frying some up whenever the craving struck.

She left the bedroom door deliberately ajar, not quite shut.

The little pork-cutlet ghost wouldn't be able to resist this, would he?

"Mom, are you making pork cutlets?! Ji-woo wants two, please!"

"Can you really eat two? You know Mom's pork cutlets are huge, right?"

"I'll eat them all. Two!"

The child had always come running the moment the smell of frying pork cutlets hit the air, as if he had a sixth sense for it. Yeon-jae smiled, remembering how Ji-woo would hold up two fingers so adorably, begging for two pieces, then cling to her legs and chatter away until the food was ready.

If only he would go back to being that bright, lively child again. Hoping her homemade pork cutlets might soothe whatever was weighing on his heart, she fried them with care.

Before long, the cutlets had turned a perfect golden brown. She lifted the crispy pieces from the oil, sliced them into easy bites, and arranged them on a plate, then drizzled the sauce over the top in careful little hearts and stars. She scooped steaming rice into a bowl and set it on the table.

Even after every last bit of the meal was ready, Ji-woo remained silent.

"Not coming out today, huh."

Yeon-jae stared at the bedroom door, still sitting just as she'd left it, slightly open. He must really be hurting this time, she thought, and started toward the room. She knocked once, briefly, and pushed the door in.

"Ji-woo, time for dinner."

"……Mmh."

A sleepy, whining little voice drifted out. It was the sound he made when he was half-asleep, and Yeon-jae approached and gently lifted the blanket.

"Did you fall asleep?"

"Yeees."

"You need to eat dinner. Come out now."

Ji-woo nodded, then buried his head in the pillow. Yeon-jae watched him for a moment before returning to the living room and sitting down at the table.

She glanced at her silent phone, then realized that more time had slipped by. The bedroom door still hadn't opened. She stood up again.

"Mom made the pork cutlets you like. Time to get up, Ji-woo."

She was just about to go wake him once more when the phone in her hand began to vibrate, a ringtone cutting through the quiet. Yeon-jae's gaze dropped to the screen.

A familiar string of digits. The number wasn't saved, but she knew exactly whose it was.

Je-heon.

Her finger hovered over the answer button. The debate over whether to pick up lasted only a moment. She stopped where she stood and pressed it.

"Hello?"

Her voice trembled, finer than she meant it to—she hadn't realized how tense she was. There was no reason for him to call at this hour.

The words arrived so plainly that her eyes flew wide.

"Now? In front of which house?"

Yeon-jae's mind went blank. She scanned the living room she was standing in.

Our house?

A living room no bigger than a postage stamp, a single bedroom, an aging multi-family walk-up. It sat on a back alley so cramped that even pulling in would be a struggle, let alone parking.

"Wait. I understand. You mean you're outside right now?"

"Ji-woo's here. It's hard for me to go out right now."

She answered in a troubled voice, glancing toward the bedroom.

A low sigh broke against her ear. The white noise that had been humming through the receiver—the sound of an idling engine—receded, as if he had turned the car off. Then came a dull thud: a car door closing.

He sounded close enough to walk in at any second. Yeon-jae spoke in a rush.

"No. I'll come out. Just wait a moment."

The thought of Je-heon inside this house made her dizzy. Never mind that a man like him didn't belong in a place like this—she didn't want to let him into the nest that was hers and Ji-woo's alone.

With that, the call ended. She stared blankly at the darkened screen.

"Mom."

Yeon-jae turned at the sound of Ji-woo's voice. He had just come out of the bedroom, rubbing his eyes, looking at her.

"The call—was it that mister?"

There was a faint flush in the child's voice as he asked.

Yeon-jae pulled on a thin cardigan and left the house. She clutched it closed against the cool autumn night air, opened one more iron door, and started down the stairs. Her steps from the third floor felt unusually heavy.

It was past nine. She had never imagined Je-heon would come all the way to her doorstep at this hour. Perhaps because the meeting had been sprung on her without warning, she kept clenching and unclenching her fists.

At last she reached the ground floor. She crossed the small yard and pushed open the front gate—and there it was, a car so out of place it barely seemed real, parked against the wall.

A silver luxury coupe that had no business in a gloomy, rundown alley. And leaning against it, a man.

He was dressed casually, in a thin knit sweater. The hair he usually wore swept up—because of the suits, she supposed—had been left down, as if he had simply gotten up from resting at home and walked out.

Je-heon recognized her and straightened from the car. Then he started toward her. He closed the distance without hesitation and stopped with a single step still between them.

Silence settled over the two of them. They looked at each other, neither quite able to speak, until Yeon-jae broke it first.

"Are you still in Daejeon?"

"As if. I told you I'm busy."

He said it offhandedly, then reached inside his jacket, drew something out, and held it toward her.

"Here. Take it."

"What is this?"

"Concert tickets. You give them to Seo-ha."

She checked the envelope in a hurry. The moment she found the two tickets inside, her eyes went wide.

"Why would you……"

"They're not for you. They're for Seo-ha, who performed with you."

He cut her off before she could even think of refusing, drawing a firm line: this was a favor that had nothing to do with her. And then, as if the tickets really had been the only reason he'd come, he turned to go back to the parked car.

"How did you know Seo-ha wanted to go?"

Je-heon, who had just opened the driver's-side door, turned around. His eyes met Yeon-jae's as she stood there, unmoving.

He said it as if finding that out hadn't even been difficult, as if it were nothing at all, and started to climb into the car.

……While there's so much you don't know.

His memories. Ji-woo's very existence. The things he actually needed to know, he didn't—and yet in matters like this, he was strangely, unnervingly attentive.

Ji-woo's dejected little face had been sitting on her heart all day. She had wanted to help however she could, had even looked into tickets herself, but getting any more had been next to impossible. It hadn't sat well with her, just watching the child's worries deepen and being able to do nothing.

And then there was this man, who appeared like a ghost whenever he was needed.

Yeon-jae turned the tickets over in her hands, then took a step forward. The moment she drew close to the car, the driver's window rolled down, and Je-heon looked out at her.

"Got something to say?"

The quiet way he looked up at her made her heart skip. She watched him, her lips parting, barely moving at first.

When Ji-woo found out Seo-ha would be going too—how happy he would be. The image of her child breaking into a wide, unguarded smile rose so clearly that the corners of her own mouth began, slowly, to lift.

"I don't know how you found out, but…… I think the children are going to be so happy."

And on that smile, faint and unguarded as it surfaced, Je-heon's gaze lingered for a long time.