The waves gently kissed the shore, retreating and returning in an endless rhythm. The setting sun cast a golden glow over the sea, making it shimmer as if liquid gold flowed over its surface. Slowly, it descended into the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. The cries of distant seagulls echoed faintly in the air, and the scent of saltwater clung gently to the breeze.

A teenager stood at the water's edge, lost in thought. His black hair danced with the wind, framing his delicate features that looked almost ethereal against the backdrop of the setting sun. The cold breeze made his fair skin glow, as if the moonlight itself had settled upon freshly fallen snow. His deep brown eyes held a silent tale—one that words could never capture. His lips, tinged pink from the chill, pressed together as if holding back a storm within.

Clutching his black hoodie over his white shirt, he wasn’t just shielding himself from the cold but from an unease he couldn't quite name. There was a strange hollowness in his chest, as if something important had slipped away without a sound. His breaths were slow, but his heart pounded restlessly. Thoughts swirled like tides in his mind—memories, fears, a longing he couldn’t voice. The kind of loneliness that doesn't come from being alone, but from feeling unseen.

Just then, a familiar voice broke through his thoughts. An elderly woman stood near the road, carrying a heavy bag that looked too large for her small frame.

"Hyeon! How long are you planning to stand there? It’s getting late, and this cold isn't good for you. Come on, let's go home."

Snapping out of his thoughts, Hyeon turned toward her, forcing a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"Coming, Grandma!" he called back and jogged over, quickly taking the heavy bag from her hands.

"Did you eat properly today? And you didn’t forget your medicine, right?" he asked gently, concern lacing his voice.

His grandmother chuckled softly, a sound that carried warmth even in the cold air.

"Yes, dear, I ate well and took my medicine. But tell me, how was school? Weren’t you supposed to play in a football match today?"

For a brief second, something flickered across Hyeon’s face—an emotion too fleeting, too complex. A shadow of disappointment? Regret? Pain? But almost instantly, he masked it with a practiced smile.

"It was great, Grandma. I had a lot of fun."

His grandmother gave him a knowing look but said nothing, choosing silence over confrontation. She reached for his hand, hers wrinkled and cool, but full of love. Together, they walked home—his heart still heavy, but comforted by the rhythm of her steps beside him.

At Home

Their small but cozy home greeted them with warmth. The lights were soft, the air inside smelled faintly of lavender and old books. After putting away the groceries, Hyeon and his grandmother prepared a simple dinner together—rice, some stir-fried vegetables, and warm soup. As they cooked, laughter occasionally bubbled between them, small and quiet, like fragile sparks in a cold night.

At the dining table, they sat across from each other, their conversation soft and gentle. Hyeon listened to his grandmother talk about the neighbors, about how a cat had snuck into the garden again, and about how she planned to knit him a new scarf soon. He nodded, smiling, his eyes soft with affection and unspoken gratitude.

After dinner, Hyeon cleaned the dishes meticulously. Then, like every night, he prepared his grandmother’s bed—fluffing the pillows, smoothing the sheets, setting her medicine and a glass of water on the bedside table.

"Here, Grandma. Your medicine," he said, handing it to her with a fond smile.

She took it obediently, then looked up at him, brushing a hand affectionately over his cheek.

"You're a good boy, Hyeon. Your father would’ve been so proud."

That caught him off guard. For a moment, his breath hitched, but he simply nodded, blinking the sudden sting away from his eyes.

He helped her lie down, covered her with the warm blanket, and whispered:

"Good night."

Then, bending low, he placed a soft kiss on her forehead—the kind that spoke of a thousand unsaid emotions.

Later, in his room

Hyeon took a warm shower, letting the steam curl around him like a gentle embrace. The mirror fogged up, and for a moment, he traced random patterns on the glass, his thoughts still clouded like the air around him.

In his room, the soft hum of a heater and the ticking of a small clock filled the silence. He lay in bed, the blanket pulled up to his chin, eyes staring at the ceiling.

His mind wandered back to the football field, to the empty stands, to the way he’d stood frozen in place while the game played on without him. To the feeling of being out of place—even in a crowd. To the gaze of someone he’d noticed across the field—someone who made something stir within him that he didn’t fully understand yet.

He tried to untangle the knots in his heart. But thoughts turned into whispers, whispers into silence.

And before he could make sense of anything at all… sleep slowly pulled him under, like a tide returning to the sea.

The soft hum of dawn barely brushed the sky when Hyeon's alarm rang faintly in the background. It was five in the morning—earlier than most of the world cared to wake. Still wrapped in the warmth of his blanket, Hyeon blinked sleepily at the ceiling, listening to the quiet hush that filled the house. A moment later, he stretched his arms lazily, his body moving with the calm rhythm of someone used to early mornings.

After a long yawn, he sat up and gently smoothed the folds of his blanket. Neatness had become second nature to him—not because anyone insisted, but because of the silent discipline instilled in him over the years. He rose from his bed and shuffled to the bathroom, the cold tiles waking him up better than the water that splashed over his face moments later.

Feeling more refreshed, he stepped out of the bathroom and made his way toward the most familiar part of the house—his grandmother’s room. Ever since he could remember, it had been a ritual. A kind of reassurance. But when he opened the door gently, he found the bed already made, the blankets tucked in tight, and the pillows fluffed—just the way his grandmother liked.

A small smile curled on his lips.

"She always wakes up before me," he thought, his heart warming at the simple, consistent love in her routines. He didn’t worry—he knew exactly where she would be.

Sure enough, when he reached the kitchen, the smell of warm soup and toasted seaweed hit him first. There she was—his grandmother—standing by the stove in her faded floral apron, humming an old lullaby as she carefully arranged a plate with rice, kimchi, and rolled eggs. The morning sunlight streamed in through the small window, bathing her silver-streaked hair in a soft golden glow.

"Good morning, Grandma," he said quietly.

She turned to him with the gentlest smile. “You’re up early, sweetheart,” she replied, her voice full of warmth. “I made your favorite today. Eat before it gets cold.”

"No matter how early I wake up, she always beats me to it," Hyeon thought again as he shook his head with a quiet smile.

But before sitting down to eat, he went back to his room to study. Even just half an hour mattered to him. Books were not only his path to success but also his escape. He lost himself in formulas and vocabulary words until the clock reminded him to get ready. He returned to the kitchen, warmed up the food in the microwave, ate quickly, and grabbed his schoolbag.

The city bus ride took about twenty minutes. The bus was always crowded at that time, full of students and office workers. Hyeon, used to the routine, stood quietly near the window, headphones in, eyes drifting over the busy streets of Seoul.

When he arrived at Marim Middle School, he stepped into the school building with calm familiarity. He was in his senior year, in the class reserved for the brightest students. He made his way to his seat by the window and sat down silently. That corner of the classroom had always been his little world. From there, he would watch the trees outside, the shifting clouds, the birds that came and went, and sometimes, he’d simply listen—to the wind, to the silence between the lessons.

Today, the breeze was especially gentle. The trees swayed in rhythm, their leaves fluttering lightly like whispers. The morning sun filtered through the branches, casting golden flecks on the ground. Hyeon stared out, lost in that serene moment, letting his thoughts drift like the falling leaves outside.

Then, the bell rang—sharp and sudden—breaking the peace.

Students shuffled to their seats as the teacher entered. Everyone stood and greeted in unison, “Good morning, teacher!” And just like that, the day began.

Class after class passed—the sound of chalk against the board, the scribbling of pens, and the occasional soft laughter filling the room. By the final period, fatigue had settled over the classroom like a soft fog. Still, the students pushed through, focused on the teacher’s voice, minds clinging to the last bits of concentration.

At last, the school bell rang again—signaling the end of the day.

As the teacher packed up, they called out, “Study well, see you tomorrow!”

Hyeon began to put his books into his bag with the same calm rhythm he always had. Just then, his friend Jun bounced over, his usual cheerful grin plastered across his face.

"Hyeon, come on! We’re all going out to hang out. It’ll be fun!”

Hyeon smiled softly but shook his head. “I wish I could, but I really have to go.”

Jun groaned dramatically. “You’re already the top student in the whole school! Why do you study so much? Just come have fun for once!”

Hyeon chuckled under his breath, appreciating the gesture, but he didn’t change his mind. “Sorry… but I really can’t.” He slung his bag over his shoulder and walked away.

But he didn’t go to the library like everyone assumed.

Instead, he made his way into the heart of the city, to a quiet little bookstore tucked between taller buildings. He entered through the back entrance, where a small staff room awaited him. Without a word, he changed out of his school uniform and into a plain T-shirt and comfortable pants. His school life faded into the background.

Soon, he was behind the counter, helping customers find the perfect novel, restocking shelves, organizing dusty corners. Most people saw just another part-time worker—but this was Hyeon’s secret world.

No one at school knew.

No one knew that the top student at Marim Middle School spent his evenings not buried in textbooks, but working to support the one person he loved most.

His grandmother, though loving and strong, had grown old and tired. She still worked hard, refusing to burden him—but Hyeon saw through her smiles, the way her hands trembled sometimes, how she winced when standing too long. He couldn’t let her carry it all. So, quietly, and without complaint, he took on the weight himself.

His friends thought he was just the quiet, studious boy. But behind the top grades, behind the books and the silence, there was a boy carrying a world no one could see.

A boy who, despite everything, still found beauty in falling leaves and golden mornings.

By the time Hyeon finished his shift, the world outside had already settled into a quiet hush. It was 10 PM, and the city lights cast long shadows on the pavement as he stepped out, his breath forming soft clouds in the cool night air.

He quickly changed back into his school uniform, its fabric slightly stiff from the day’s wear. Slinging his bag over one shoulder, he exited the building and headed toward the nearest bus stop. The streets were mostly empty, save for a few people hurrying home, the occasional honk of a distant car breaking the silence.

When the city bus arrived with a soft screech, Hyeon climbed aboard, scanned his transit card, and made his way to a window seat. He leaned his forehead gently against the cool glass, letting out a quiet sigh as the bus began to move.

Outside, the scenery passed in a blur of neon signs, dim streetlights, and silhouettes of people walking under the yellow glow. But Hyeon’s eyes didn’t really register any of it. His mind drifted—into memories that felt both distant and painfully near.

He thought of cold winter mornings when he was small. His grandmother would be waiting for him with a woolen scarf and gloves, carefully wrapping them around him before he left for school. She would smooth down his hair with her fingers, kiss his forehead, and pack a little something extra in his lunch—his favorite sweet rice cakes or warm soup in a thermos.

He remembered her voice—soft but full of authority—the way she always reminded him to wear two layers, or to take an umbrella, “just in case.” And the way she would stand at the gate, watching until he disappeared around the corner.

The memories rushed in like a quiet storm, and before he knew it, his vision blurred with tears. He wiped them away quickly, a little embarrassed even though no one was watching.

Suddenly, he noticed his stop was approaching. Panicking slightly, he pressed the stop button and hurried to the front.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured to the driver as he stepped off.

The driver gave a small nod without much reaction—another tired student running late, nothing unusual.

The walk home was short, but Hyeon took his time. The air was cold but refreshing, and the streets were nearly silent. He passed by shuttered shops, flickering streetlamps, and empty sidewalks, his footsteps the only sound keeping him company.

When he reached his building, he climbed the stairs slowly, each step echoing softly in the stairwell. Finally, he stood at his front door. He didn’t open it right away.

He stood there for a few seconds, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and slowly allowed a soft smile to touch his lips—the kind of smile that could hide a long day’s fatigue, just for her sake.

Then he turned the key and stepped inside.

Warmth immediately wrapped around him, both physical and emotional. The comforting smell of home—faint spices, cooked rice, and something sweet—greeted him. And there she was.

His grandmother, asleep at the kitchen table.

Her head rested on one arm, her glasses slid slightly down her nose. In front of her, the dinner table was neatly arranged—still warm, clearly kept ready for him.

Hyeon’s heart softened. He set down his bag quietly on the couch and tiptoed toward her.

“Grandma…” he whispered softly, gently touching her arm. “Grandma, I’m home.”

Her eyes blinked open slowly. When she saw his face, a warm, relieved smile spread across her own.

“You’re home, dear? Go wash your hands and face. I’ll get your dinner ready,” she said, her voice husky from sleep but full of love.

He looked at her with a gentle frown. “Grandma, you don’t need to wait for me every night. It’s so late. You should eat first.”

She reached up and patted his cheek; the wrinkles in her hand seemed deeper than he remembered. “And let you eat cold food all by yourself? Not a chance. Besides, I know you—you’d just go to bed without eating if I wasn’t watching.”

He smiled, feeling both guilty and grateful. “You worry too much.”

“Of course I do. That’s what grandmothers are for,” she said, nudging him playfully. “Now go. Wash up. I reheated everything just before you came.”

Obeying her like always, Hyeon went to the bathroom, washed up, and returned to find the food perfectly served—steamed rice, kimchi, a warm stew, and a small dessert she had made just for him.

They sat together and ate. As always, he told her everything about his day—how the school day was today, the funny thing that happened during his break, the little annoyances and small wins.

Even if nothing special happened, he always told her. It was their unspoken tradition. A way to make her feel involved in his life, to reassure her that he was doing okay, even if sometimes he wasn’t.

That night, after the dishes were cleared and lights were dimmed, Hyeon lay in bed feeling a quiet kind of happiness—a peace that came not from comfort, but from knowing that someone waited for him. That someone still held a place for him at the table. Still cared if he had eaten.

And in a world that sometimes felt too big, too fast, and too indifferent, that small truth meant everything.

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