The First Job

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.

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