The Aquarium

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.

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