The soft kitchen light made the room feel colder than comforting. Jun-ho glanced at the table, set for one, with a plate he hadn't even touched.
He sighed and dropped the fork. Walked over to the couch and collapsed onto it, his arm covering his eyes. The TV was on, just for the background noise, trying to drown out the cutting silence.
His phone was quiet. No work tonight, though he wished there was.
He tried thinking of anything other than the way Salin had closed the door when he left. It wasn't a sad goodbye. But it wasn't easy either.
His body gave in to exhaustion. The nap hit without warning.
(...)
The cement floor was rough under his bare feet. The walls were damp, the air thick with the stench of rust and filth. Seven-year-old Jun-ho was curled up in a corner, wide eyes searching for any sense of safety in the dark.
There was a door, slightly ajar. Light spilled through the gap. Just enough to cast shadows on the wall.
Shadows that moved. That fought.
