The rain fell in thin, cold sheets across the cemetery, turning the newly turned earth dark and heavy. Seo Jiwon stood beneath a black umbrella that did little to keep the chill from settling into his bones. Four small figures pressed close around his legs-two boys of five, two girls of four-each dressed in black coats that hung a little too large on their small frames.
Min stood nearest, quiet and still, one hand tightly gripping the fabric of Jiwon's trousers. Jun shifted restlessly from foot to foot, already struggling against the solemnity of the moment. Hae's soft, continuous stream of questions had finally quieted into uneven sobs that she tried to swallow. Rin kept her face buried against Jiwon's coat and refused to look toward the polished wooden casket being lowered into the ground.
Park Hana.
His wife. Their mother.
The priest's voice blurred into the sound of rain. Jiwon had stopped hearing the words somewhere between "beloved daughter" and "devoted mother." All that remained was the soft, final thud of wet soil against the lid-each shovelful heavier than the last.
He had not cried. Not at the hospital when the monitors fell silent. Not when the doctors spoke in careful, measured tones about the sudden hemorrhage no one had anticipated. Not when he signed the papers that made him a widower at thirty-two with four children under six. The tears stayed locked somewhere behind his eyes, a door he refused to open.
Across the small gathering of colleagues and distant acquaintances who had driven out from the city, a solitary figure stood beneath another umbrella. Broad shoulders, dark hair longer than Jiwon remembered, a face that carried the same quiet weight of grief that lived in the children's eyes.
Park Haon.
Hana's younger brother.
Jiwon had not seen him in nearly seven years. Not since the wedding. Not since the last bitter exchange on the steps of the reception hall, when Haon had still been the careless, laughing younger brother who treated life like a party that never ended. The man standing twenty paces away looked nothing like that boy. His coat was plain, his posture still, his gaze fixed on the casket as if he could will it open again.
Their eyes met for half a second across the rain.
Something old and sharp flickered in Jiwon's chest-resentment that had never fully cooled. The carefree younger brother who had once made Hana laugh until she cried, who had never held a steady job, who had vanished from their lives the moment they moved to the city. The one who had not answered the hospital calls until it was already too late.
Haon's expression did not change. He simply inclined his head once-a silent acknowledgment-then turned and walked away before the final prayer ended. By the time the last handful of earth had been placed and the mourners began drifting toward their cars, Haon was gone.
Jiwon remained alone with four wet, exhausted children and a house that suddenly felt far too large and far too empty.
That night, after the twins had finally fallen asleep in a tangle of limbs and Hae had stopped asking when Mama would come home, Jiwon sat at the kitchen table beneath a single lamp. The house was silent except for the rain against the windows. On the table lay the only living relative Hana had left: a single address written in her neat handwriting on the back of an old envelope.
Park Haon.
A quiet coastal town three hours from the city.
A house with a garden.
Jiwon stared at the address until the letters blurred.
He had no parents left. No siblings of his own. No one who could take four small children while he tried to keep working, keep breathing, keep the walls from closing in. The nanny had lasted three days before the twin boys' coordinated chaos and Hae's endless questions drove her out. The agency had already begun making excuses.
He had one choice remaining.
The man he had never wanted in his life.
The man Hana had once called the only person who truly understood her.
Jiwon folded the envelope carefully and placed it in his wallet.
Outside, the rain kept falling.
Inside, four children slept, dreaming of a mother who would never wake again.
And somewhere on the coast, Park Haon stood on a dark porch with wet soil still clinging to his shoes, staring at the same rain, wondering how long it would take before the past finally found him.
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Romance"Sometimes, the people we push away become the ones we can't live without." Losing his wife was never part of the plan. Neither was raising four young children alone. With no family left to lean on, he has only one choice-to move into the home of th...
