HRB 34

Sebastian cautiously observed Gerold while looking at the triangle kimbap he had successfully unwrapped.

It looked warm and delicious.

Perhaps because he had unwrapped it properly without tearing the seaweed, Sebastian couldn’t properly see the rice’s color, which should have been white. He put the entire triangle kimbap in his mouth and took a big bite.

For the first few bites, he didn’t notice anything amiss thanks to the savory, salty seaweed taste. But the more he chewed, the more Sebastian thought his mouth was starting to hurt.

And then.

“Kaaaagh!”

He breathed fire from his mouth.

His face turned bright red as he grabbed the entire water pitcher and gulped it down—looking exactly like when he had eaten the Fire Chicken Noodles.

“Oh!”

So the Fire Chicken flavor was hiding in there.

Eddie belatedly remembered that triangle kimbap also came in a Fire Chicken flavor.

“My goodness.”

Eddie clicked his tongue lightly and discreetly removed the Fire Chicken-flavored ones from around Ketron.

Eddie had never let Ketron taste Fire Chicken Noodles before. What if it upset his stomach? It was too intense a flavor for the poor boy.

“…”

Ketron watched Eddie removing all the reddish-black triangle kimbap from around him without saying anything, though he wore a slightly disgruntled expression.

His gaze shifted to another nearby triangle kimbap, and he selected one. It happened to be tuna mayo. And a big one at that.

Eddie smiled inwardly, pleased that his Ket had such excellent taste.

Ketron managed the middle tear well, but apparently made a mistake in the process of pulling the sides, as the seaweed came off with it—the most common mistake for triangle kimbap beginners.

Ketron glared briefly at the triangle kimbap with its awkwardly peeled seaweed, then glanced at Eddie.

“What is it?”

When Eddie asked, Ketron, after a moment of silence, held out the triangle kimbap he had unwrapped to Eddie.

After blinking for a moment, Eddie easily understood the gesture and smiled.

“Are you giving this to me?”

Ketron nodded.

Eddie’s gaze became as emotional as a parent witnessing their newborn standing on two feet for the first time.

“Thank you.”

The triangle kimbap that Ketron had unwrapped for him was delicious, even if much of the seaweed had been lost.

was always a safe bet.

Sebastian, with his cheeks puffed full of water, watched the two with a nauseated expression, but it was a nice moment regardless.

* * *

“Ahhh.”

After sharing sweet potato steamed buns for dessert, the evening customers flooded in. After a busy day of business, night had fallen before they knew it.

Forcing his stretching body to stay upright long enough to wash up, it was finally bedtime. Eddie surrendered to the oncoming fatigue and collapsed onto the bed.

Sweet potato steamed buns truly were the perfect winter dessert. Sweet potato steamed buns could even justify starting a religion.

Eddie smiled contentedly, thinking of Ketron enjoying the sweet potato steamed buns. But gradually, that smile faded.

Sweet potato steamed buns.

Come to think of it, my brother really loved them too.

The brother he was referring to was, of course, not Eddie’s family, who may or may not exist, but Lee Jeong-hoon’s older brother.

“This is insane, sweet potato steamed buns? Thank you for letting me be born in the same era as sweet potato steamed buns.”

“Seriously. Thank you.”

He and his brother used to secretly warm them in the microwave in the early morning and eat them one by one.

“…”

Eddie tried to recall his older brother’s face through his blurry vision. But the face, gradually fading with time, was difficult to remember clearly despite not having seen him for what seemed like a short while.

His family’s faces were becoming increasingly blurred. There were no photos of them here; all that remained were memories.

…That’s unfortunate.

With these thoughts, Eddie drifted off to sleep.

His sleeping consciousness floated through dark somewhere, until it found a place emitting light and was drawn into it.

Oh?

Eddie realized he was dreaming.

It made sense because it was a place he could no longer be.

It was a hospital in Korea. Specifically, a funeral home.

Eddie’s soul wandered around until it stopped at one spot.

[Room 3. The late Lee Jeong-hoon]

Eddie’s soul unconsciously entered Room 3. Judging from the pitch-black windows and the wall clock showing 2 o’clock, it was the early hours of the morning.

It was impossible to know exactly when this was, but due to the late hour, not many mourners remained. Tables with leftover hangover soup and sikhye were scattered about, but overall the place was tidy.

In front of Jeong-hoon’s brightly smiling photograph, a man in a black suit sat quietly, gazing at the image.

Lee Jeong-han. Jeong-hoon’s older brother.

“Jeong-han.”

Jeong-han’s girlfriend, who had stepped out briefly, approached him slowly after looking around the now much quieter interior.

Jeong-han’s face was pale from several days without sleep. The blood vessels around his eyes had burst. Although he had been told repeatedly to get some rest, no one could truly blame him for not sleeping.

She would have done the same in his position.

“Oh, you’re back?”

His casual voice greeted his girlfriend, but his gaze never turned to her. His eyes remained fixed on his younger brother’s brightly smiling photograph.

Never imagining something like this would happen, they had chosen this photo from what remained.

He had been such a cheerful kid that they chose a smiling face instead of an expressionless ID photo, but perhaps that was a mistake—it didn’t feel like a funeral portrait. It just looked like a nicely framed photo.

It seemed as though that damned kid in the photo might suddenly jump out from somewhere with that exact expression and joke, “Hyung! Did I surprise you? This was all a prank!”

But such a miracle would not happen.

“How are your parents?”

“Mom fainted again and is in the next room. Dad took her there.”

His matter-of-fact tone stated the reality. His mother had fainted multiple times since receiving the sudden news of her second son’s death.

“Mom, why are you making kimchi again? Didn’t you already make some when you went to the countryside?”

“Yes, but this time I didn’t make the fresh kimchi that Jeong-hoon likes. How could I not make his favorite?”

“Goodness, that kid would happily eat kimchi that had been fermented for years.”

It had been just an ordinary day. A completely normal weekday with no global issues or special events.

Living not far from his parents’ home, he had been rummaging through his mother’s refrigerator, hovering around her as she made fresh kimchi, chatting away.

“Mom, your phone’s ringing.”

“Oh dear, right when I have rubber gloves on. Who is it?”

“Don’t know, the number isn’t saved.”

“Then just leave it. I’ll check it later.”

But the call persisted, coming in once more, so eventually she removed her rubber gloves and answered.

“Hello? Yes, I’m Jeong-hoon’s mother.”

After that call, time stopped in their household.

No. It can’t be. There’s no way. They must have seen wrong. Something must be wrong. His mother and the entire family kept saying such things.

But reality was so cruel and cold that when he came to his senses, he was already at the university hospital’s funeral home.

At a funeral he had only been to a few times in his life—and now his younger brother’s funeral.

His girlfriend quietly sat beside Jeong-han. There was little comfort she could offer to someone staring blankly at a photograph. All she could do was stay by his side.

She silently squeezed his hand tightly. His hand was cold. It seemed like blood wouldn’t circulate to its ends for a long time.

“…They say to think of it as if he’s gone on a trip.”

After a long silence, she finally spoke.

“Jeong-hoon has just gone on a journey to a far-away country.”

That’s why it’s hard to see him often.

“They say he’s living happily there, just that it’s difficult to get news from him. Let’s think of it that way.”

Jeong-hoon is living happily there.

It was meant as comfort, but the words didn’t reach Jeong-han. If anything, they made his younger brother’s absence feel even more real.

His younger brother was dead. They would never meet again.

He would never hear his voice again, never see his smiling face. The sudden absence, something he had never even imagined, gave no time to prepare his heart.

No, even with preparation, how could anyone accept such an absence?

He still wasn’t ready to let his younger brother go.

It still didn’t feel real.

Strange. By now, he should have revealed it was all a joke.

The kid who should casually appear, greeting him with a “Hyung!” and a smiling face before making some silly joke.

Why was he still only smiling from within that photograph?

Why still?

Why wouldn’t anyone tell him that this joke-like reality was just a joke?

Jeong-han simply couldn’t understand.

Fumbling, Jeong-han stood up and moved closer to the funeral portrait.

As if even the photograph might disappear, though there was no reason it would.

My brother, my brother couldn’t just disappear.

“Jeong-han.”

He heard a voice calling his name with concern, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the photograph.

That brightly smiling face could now only be seen in photographs. He would no longer age. The voice that once joked about growing old together and entering a retirement home would never be heard again.

It must have been sometime when they had face masks on, making each other laugh with silly stories. His younger brother excitedly talking about building a retirement home and living together as old men.

“Dad always says since there are only the two of us as brothers, we should get along well. So hyung, let’s build a retirement home and live there.”

“Well, well. By then, you probably won’t even care about me.”

“How could that be? I’ll even make your dentures for you. Gold ones.”

The memory of them both bursting into laughter at such nonsense, then getting annoyed when their face masks got ruined.

“I’m saying this all for your sake! Promise! Let’s go to a retirement home later.”

“Alright, alright.”

But now the brother who wanted to live together was gone. Now he would forever remain only in photographs, only in their memories.

What do I do, Jeong-hoon? I already miss you.

Yet he couldn’t see him. This longing, just at its beginning, felt overwhelmingly hopeless.

Jeong-han wasn’t religious. He had never believed in heaven.

But now he understood why people spoke of heaven. They wanted the person to exist somewhere. Even if it was a place they couldn’t meet, they wanted their loved one to exist there.

Not that they disappeared, but merely departed. Believing that he had traveled there and would be happy.

In front of that bright smile, Jeong-han thought the same.

I hope you’ve just traveled somewhere.

That you left so hastily you couldn’t even say goodbye—please let me, let us believe that.