The water was crystal clear, as if it had been polished by sunlight itself. Han Geu-ru pressed his face closer to the glass of the large aquarium, his eyes following the graceful movements of a yellow tang weaving between artificial coral. His hands moved automatically, checking the oxygen filter, adjusting the thermometer. The world beyond the tank was always noisy, unpredictable; but inside, the water was a world of rules—predictable, balanced, safe.

“Geu-ru,” his father’s voice called gently from across the small shop. “Are the levels good?”

“Yes, Appa,” he replied without looking away. “Twenty-six degrees Celsius. Ammonia zero. Nitrate levels acceptable.”

His father smiled. Han Jeong-u had learned long ago that his son’s language was precise and measured, like the way he took care of fish. To Geu-ru, every number mattered, because numbers didn’t lie.

They finished the morning checks in silence, the kind of silence that wasn’t empty but comfortable, filled with unspoken understanding. Today, after the shop closed, they had a job.

The van rattled gently as it rolled into a quiet residential neighborhood. Painted in soft blue, the words Move to Heaven: We Help You Leave Comfortably were printed on the side in neat Korean letters.

Inside the back of the van, supplies were neatly packed—gloves, sealed boxes, plastic bins, and a small yellow vacuum cleaner. Every item had its place.

Geu-ru sat in the passenger seat, knees together, holding a clipboard. He scanned the printed work order again, lips moving silently as he read the details:

Name: Choi Jin-seok

Age: 43

Cause of Death: Cardiac arrest at home

Next of Kin: None

A heart attack, alone. His eyes lingered on the last line. No family.

When they arrived, the building seemed ordinary—an aging apartment complex, the kind with narrow hallways and walls stained from decades of damp seasons. But inside Apartment 302, the air was different.

Not dirty, not yet. But still. Stale. Quiet in a way that made the hairs on Geu-ru’s arms stand.

His father spoke first, as he always did. “We’re here to take care of your belongings, Mr. Choi. We’ll treat them with respect.”

It was not a performance. Jeong-u meant it.

They worked systematically. His father collected clothing, folding each piece before placing it into labeled boxes. Geu-ru took photographs of each section before touching anything—he always documented the original arrangement.

By the small table near the window, Geu-ru paused. There was a stack of unopened letters, neatly piled. On top sat a postcard with a picture of a fishing boat at sea.

He opened the postcard carefully. The handwriting was cramped but legible:

> “Hyung, the mackerel are running this week. Wish you were here.”

Geu-ru’s lips pressed together. He placed the postcard in a separate envelope marked To be returned.

In the kitchen, he found a single plate drying on the rack. One spoon. One bowl.

When the work was done, the room was empty but clean, sunlight spilling through the blinds like gentle threads. The boxes stood in neat rows, each one sealed, labeled, and stacked.

Jeong-u bowed toward the empty space. “Thank you for your life, Mr. Choi. We hope you rest comfortably.”

Geu-ru bowed too, his motions precise. In the silence, he felt the faint hum of the refrigerator, the distant cry of a magpie outside. Life went on, even here.

On the way back, the van was quiet. Geu-ru stared out the window at the passing buildings.

“Appa,” he said suddenly, “when people die alone, who remembers them?”

His father glanced at him, a faint shadow in his eyes. “We do, Geu-ru. That’s why we’re here.”

The boy nodded once, as if that was enough. The sea-blue letters on the side of the van reflected in the shop window as they pulled in.The day’s work was done, but neither knew how soon their own world would change.

The air in the shop was still, but not in the same way as before. Not in the comfortable, shared quiet between father and son. This stillness was heavier—like the silence at the bottom of the sea, where sound could not reach.

The aquarium’s pump hummed steadily. Geu-ru sat cross-legged in front of it, watching the fish glide through their little blue world. His eyes were fixed, but his mind was blank.

His father’s shoes still sat by the door. His jacket still hung on the rack. But Han Jeong-u was gone. One moment he’d been laughing in the van, making plans for dinner, and the next—a sudden, merciless failure of the heart.

No goodbye. No warning.

The funeral was small. Geu-ru stood beside the altar, bowing to each guest who came. Neighbors. A few old friends from the military. The smell of white chrysanthemums clung to the air.

When it ended, the lawyer approached him. A tall man with round glasses and an expression carefully trained to be “gentle.” He spoke slowly, as though his words were heavy and he needed to hand them over one at a time.

“Geu-ru,” he said, “your father appointed someone to be your guardian.”

The boy tilted his head slightly. “I have no other family.”

The lawyer hesitated. “You… do. An uncle. His name is Cho Sang-gu.”

The first time Geu-ru saw him, Sang-gu was leaning against the doorway of the shop, eyes squinting against the sunlight. He looked like trouble—rumpled leather jacket, bruised cheek, a faint smell of cigarette smoke trailing behind him.

“You’re… the kid?” Sang-gu said, his voice rough from disuse or too many late nights.

“I am Han Geu-ru,” the boy replied, standing perfectly straight. “And you are my father’s younger brother.”

Sang-gu blinked. “Guess so.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. It was not the kind of stare that meant understanding—more like two people looking at opposite sides of the same locked door.

Inside, the lawyer laid out the terms.

“Mr. Cho, you are to be Geu-ru’s legal guardian for three months. You must live with him and assist in running Move to Heaven during this time. If you fail, custody will be reconsidered.”

Sang-gu let out a short laugh that held no humor. “I’m not the babysitting type.”

“You will be,” the lawyer said quietly, “if you want access to your late brother’s inheritance.”

Something flickered in Sang-gu’s eyes—annoyance, calculation, maybe even shame. He looked at Geu-ru, who was standing beside the aquarium, carefully feeding the fish one pellet at a time.

That night, they ate in silence. Sang-gu poked at his rice as though it had done him wrong. Geu-ru chewed methodically, his gaze fixed on the table.

“Do you always eat this slow?” Sang-gu asked finally.

“I chew thirty-two times before swallowing,” Geu-ru replied without looking up. “It’s better for digestion.”

Sang-gu smirked faintly. “Figures.”

Outside, the coastal wind rattled the shop’s sign. Inside, two strangers sat at the same table, not yet knowing how much they would change each other—or how many stories the dead still had to tell.

Morning came with the scent of brine drifting in from the harbor. The shop’s neon sign still flickered faintly from the night before. Inside, the aquariums glowed in their quiet rows, fish gliding like lanterns in a slow parade.

Han Geu-ru was already awake, his hair neatly combed, his shirt tucked in. He stood in the middle of the shop, checking the contents of the Move to Heaven supply kit: gloves, disinfectant, boxes, envelopes, evidence bags, the small yellow vacuum cleaner. Each item was aligned perfectly, like soldiers ready for inspection.

“Do we really need all this?” Cho Sang-gu’s voice came from behind, thick with sleep. His jacket was half-zipped, and he was still rubbing one eye.

“Yes,” Geu-ru answered without turning. “Each item is necessary for proper trauma cleaning and for preserving the deceased’s belongings.”

Sang-gu grunted. “Looks like you’re robbing a hospital.”

---

The work order lay on the counter, printed in black ink:

Name: Kim Hye-sook

Age: 79

Cause of Death: Fall at home

Next of Kin: Estranged daughter, contact declined

Sang-gu skimmed it, then tossed it back down. “So the kid doesn’t want her mother’s stuff?”

“Not the kid,” Geu-ru corrected. “The daughter is fifty-three years old.”

Sang-gu shot him a look, then shrugged. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

---

Apartment 407 smelled faintly of dust and dried flowers. The sunlight filtered in weakly through lace curtains, scattering across the floor.

Geu-ru moved with quiet precision, photographing the room from every angle before touching anything. Sang-gu watched him for a moment, then started opening drawers.

“Hey,” Geu-ru said sharply, “you can’t move things until I’ve documented them.”

“It’s a sock drawer,” Sang-gu replied. “I doubt it’s a crime scene.”

“All scenes are important,” Geu-ru said, his voice flat but firm. “The order of objects can tell a story.”

---

The story revealed itself slowly. Mrs. Kim’s home was tidy but sparse. A teacup still sat on the small table, as though waiting for her return. Near the window was a sewing machine with a half-finished baby blanket, pale yellow and soft to the touch.

In a drawer beside the bed, Geu-ru found a small tin box. Inside were photographs—black-and-white at the bottom, color at the top. The earlier ones showed a young woman with bright eyes, holding a toddler in a park. In the later ones, the woman’s smile was faded, her daughter older, the gap between them widening in each frame until, in the last photo, the daughter was simply gone.

Geu-ru placed the tin box into an envelope marked Significant Items. “This should be returned to the daughter,” he said quietly.

Sang-gu glanced at the box. “If she even wants it.”

---

When they finished, the apartment was spotless. The sewing machine was covered, the blanket folded neatly, the photographs safe inside their envelope. Geu-ru and Sang-gu stood side by side, bowing toward the empty room.

“Thank you for your life, Mrs. Kim,” Geu-ru said.

Sang-gu hesitated, then gave a small, awkward bow of his own.

---

On the drive back, the envelope sat between them on the van’s console.

“You’re really gonna track down the daughter?” Sang-gu asked.

“Yes,” Geu-ru replied. “Because even if she doesn’t know it, this is what Mrs. Kim wanted her to have.”

Sang-gu didn’t answer. He just stared out the window, the coastal road blurring past. But something in his expression softened—barely.