The New Guardian

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.

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