The morning had barely started.
Sunlight filtered through the massive windows of the Choi mansion, painting long golden lines across the polished floors.
Everything looked perfect.
Too perfect.
The kind of house people admired from the outside.
The kind that never felt like home.
Ji-Bok came downstairs with his school bag hanging lazily over one shoulder.
His tie wasn't straight.
His blazer wasn't buttoned.
His hair looked like he had given up arguing with it years ago.
Normal.
At least until his eyes landed on the wall.
He stopped walking.
Immediately.
The smile he had from earlier disappeared.
Gone.
His mother's photograph wasn't there.
The space above the piano sat empty.
Just a blank wall.
Like she'd never existed.
For a second Ji-Bok simply stared.
Waiting.
Thinking maybe someone had moved it.
Maybe it was being cleaned.
Maybe—
No.
His jaw tightened.
He turned sharply.
And walked straight toward his father's office.
The office door opened without warning.
Mr. Choi sat behind his desk reading documents.
He didn't even look surprised.
Ji-Bok dropped into the chair across from him.
"Where is it?"
No greeting.
No respect.
Straight to the point.
Mr. Choi didn't look up.
"Where is what?"
Ji-Bok laughed once.
A dangerous laugh.
"The photo."
Silence.
"The one of Mom."
Nothing.
Ji-Bok leaned forward.
"The one I took."
Finally.
Mr. Choi lifted his eyes.
His face remained calm.
Cold.
Businesslike.
"As I said before," he replied. "There is no reason to keep it."
Ji-Bok stared.
Then blinked.
Once.
Slowly.
"...What?"
"She's gone."
The words came out simple.
Matter-of-fact.
Like discussing weather.
Like discussing stocks.
Like discussing anything except a person.
"She's dead," Mr. Choi continued. "The picture serves no purpose."
The room went very quiet.
Ji-Bok stood up.
Slowly.
Dangerously calm.
"The picture was mine."
Mr. Choi looked back down at his paperwork.
"I removed it."
"You removed it?"
"Yes."
Ji-Bok laughed again.
This time harsher.
"Wow."
Silence.
"That's actually impressive."
Mr. Choi frowned slightly.
Ji-Bok stepped forward.
"You spent years pretending she wasn't important."
Still nothing.
"And now you're trying to erase her completely?"
"Ji-Bok."
"No."
His voice rose.
"No."
His hand slammed against the desk.
The loud crack echoed through the room.
"You don't get to do that."
Mr. Choi stood.
Slowly.
"Watch your tone."
Ji-Bok smiled.
A broken smile.
"You suddenly care about respect?"
The room froze.
Then—
SLAP.
The sound cracked across the office.
Ji-Bok's head snapped sideways.
His cheek burned instantly.
The metallic taste of blood touched his tongue.
Neither moved.
Neither spoke.
Then Mr. Choi walked past him.
Straight out the door.
Ji-Bok froze.
Then realization hit.
"No."
He spun around.
"No!"
Too late.
Mr. Choi had already entered his room.
Snowball immediately jumped off the bed with a startled meow.
Ji-Bok ran inside.
His stomach dropped.
The camera.
His camera.
His mother's camera.
Mr. Choi picked it up.
Looked at it once.
Then—
SMASH.
The camera hit the floor.
Glass shattered.
Plastic cracked.
Ji-Bok froze.
"No—"
SMASH.
Again.
The lens exploded completely.
Pieces scattered across the hardwood floor.
The room went silent.
Mr. Choi looked down at the broken remains.
Then at his son.
"This," he said calmly,
"was the last memory I didn't want you holding onto."
Then he left.
Just like that.
The door clicked shut.
Ji-Bok didn't move.
For a long time.
Then—
Slowly—
He knelt.
The broken camera lay scattered across the floor.
Lens ruined.
Body cracked.
The strap torn.
His fingers trembled slightly as he picked up one of the pieces.
This camera had captured everything.
His mother smiling.
His mother laughing.
His mother pretending to be a model every time he pointed the lens at her.
"Take another one."
"Not that angle."
"Ji-Bok, I look ridiculous."
The memories came too quickly.
Too clearly.
His throat tightened.
For once—
He didn't know what to do.
An hour later.
Ji-Ho was supposed to be in class.
Instead—
He sat outside a coffee shop because Ji-Bok had sent a message saying:
Come help me. Emergency.
Ji-Ho had arrived expecting something dramatic.
Maybe a fight.
Maybe trouble.
Maybe Ji-Bok being Ji-Bok.
Instead—
A broken camera sat between them.
Ji-Ho blinked.
Then blinked again.
"...You made me skip first period for this?"
Ji-Bok looked up.
"First of all."
A pause.
"You chose to skip."
Ji-Ho stared.
"You literally wrote emergency."
"It was."
"It wasn't."
"It is to me."
Ji-Ho sighed.
Deeply.
The sigh of someone exhausted by a friend.
Even though neither of them would ever admit they were friends.
Ji-Bok pushed the camera closer.
"Can you fix it?"
Ji-Ho looked down.
Picked it up carefully.
Turned it over.
Examined the lens.
The housing.
The mount.
The internal mechanisms.
His expression slowly fell.
Ji-Bok immediately knew.
"...Bad?"
Ji-Ho nodded.
"Very."
Ji-Bok leaned back.
"Damn."
Ji-Ho continued examining it.
"The lens glass is shattered."
"Hm."
"The internal mount shifted."
"Hm."
"The focus mechanism is destroyed."
"Hm."
Ji-Ho lowered the camera.
"...It's dead."
Silence.
Ji-Bok stared at the table.
The morning breeze moved softly between them.
Cars passed.
Students walked by in the distance.
Life continued.
Like nothing happened.
Ji-Ho gently placed the camera back down.
Then asked quietly—
"Why is it important?"
Ji-Bok looked at the camera.
A long pause followed.
Then—
"My mom gave it to me."
Ji-Ho's expression softened immediately.
"It was her last birthday gift."
The words came out quietly.
Almost casually.
But Ji-Ho heard the weight behind them.
He looked down again.
At the shattered lens.
Then back at Ji-Bok.
"...I'm sorry."
Ji-Bok laughed softly.
Not because it was funny.
Because there wasn't much else to do.
"Yeah."
Silence again.
Then Ji-Ho pushed his glasses up.
Awkwardly.
As always.
"There might be one thing."
Ji-Bok looked up immediately.
"What?"
"The memory card."
Ji-Bok blinked.
Ji-Ho carefully removed part of the casing.
A few seconds later—
He held up the tiny card.
Untouched.
Safe.
"The camera is gone."
Ji-Bok stared.
"But the photos aren't."
For the first time all morning—
Ji-Bok smiled.
A real smile.
Small.
But real.
Ji-Ho immediately looked away.
Embarrassed for some reason.
Ji-Bok laughed.
"There he is."
"There who is?"
"The Grumpy Genius."
Ji-Ho frowned.
"I'm not grumpy."
"You absolutely are."
"I'm not."
"You skipped class for me."
"I was manipulated."
"You came anyway."
Ji-Ho froze.
Then looked away.
"...Because you're an idiot."
Ji-Bok grinned.
"There he is."
Ji-Ho sighed again.
The sigh of a man who had accepted his fate.
Unfortunately—
Ji-Bok was probably his friend.
And apparently...
friends helped each other.
Even when those friends dragged them out of class over a broken camera.
--
School ended quietly.
Students poured out through the gates in groups.
Voices echoed across the courtyard.
Laughter.
Complaints about homework.
Plans for dinner.
Normal things.
Eun-Woo had already disappeared.
Something about a photography shoot.
Ji-Bok was nowhere to be seen.
Which was strange.
Very strange.
Ji-Woo adjusted her backpack and started walking home alone.
The afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees lining the road.
Warm.
Comfortable.
Yet something felt off.
Halfway down the path, she noticed someone standing beneath a large tree.
Waiting.
Not hiding.
Just standing there.
She slowed.
Then recognized him.
"Mr. Yoo Joon?"
The teacher looked up.
A small smile appeared on his face.
"Ji-Woo."
Before she could ask what he was doing there, another figure came into view.
Ji-Ho.
He sat on a nearby bench.
A book open on his lap.
Earphones firmly in place.
Completely absorbed in whatever he was reading.
Not paying attention to them at all.
Ji-Woo blinked.
Then looked between them.
Confused.
"Sir?"
Mr. Yoo Joon rubbed the back of his neck.
For once, he looked... nervous.
Which immediately worried her.
"Can I ask you something?"
Ji-Woo nodded.
"Of course."
His gaze drifted toward Ji-Ho.
The boy still hadn't looked up.
Still reading.
Still unaware.
Then Mr. Yoo Joon sighed.
"You've asked me something before."
Ji-Woo tilted her head.
"Huh?"
He smiled faintly.
"Before your accident."
The familiar excuse everyone used whenever she didn't remember something.
"You used to stay after class sometimes."
Ji-Woo listened quietly.
"And every now and then..."
He looked toward Ji-Ho again.
"...you'd tell me I was being a coward."
Ji-Woo blinked.
"What?"
A laugh escaped him.
"A respectful coward."
"That sounds more like Ji-Soo than me," Ji-Woo muttered under her breath.
"What?"
"Nothing."
Mr. Yoo Joon shook his head.
Then continued.
"You always said a good teacher doesn't just teach."
His expression softened.
"You said a good teacher should protect students."
Ji-Woo smiled.
That sounded like something the real Ji-Woo would say.
"That's true."
Mr. Yoo Joon nodded.
"Then you'd point at him."
His eyes shifted toward Ji-Ho.
"And tell me to stop hesitating."
Ji-Woo looked at Ji-Ho.
The quiet boy remained completely unaware.
Turning pages.
Reading.
Listening to music.
Living peacefully for the moment.
"What were you hesitating about?" she asked.
Mr. Yoo Joon fell silent.
A long silence.
Then—
"Whether I should tell him the truth."
Ji-Woo frowned.
"What truth?"
His jaw tightened slightly.
The answer clearly wasn't easy.
"I know his family."
That wasn't what she expected.
Mr. Yoo Joon continued.
"I knew them long before I became a teacher."
Ji-Woo's eyes narrowed slightly.
"And?"
"I came to this school because of him."
Her confusion deepened.
Mr. Yoo Joon laughed softly.
A tired laugh.
"I know how strange that sounds."
"A little."
He nodded.
Then looked at Ji-Ho again.
The boy still hadn't noticed.
Not once.
Not a single glance.
Just reading.
Earphones in.
Existing in his own world.
"I keep thinking I should tell him."
A pause.
"Then I keep convincing myself not to."
Ji-Woo stared at him.
For a moment she saw something she'd never really noticed before.
Not a teacher.
Not authority.
Just a man carrying guilt.
Years of it.
She folded her arms.
"Can I be honest?"
Mr. Yoo Joon smiled.
"When have you ever been anything else?"
Ji-Woo laughed quietly.
Then pointed at him.
"I think you're one of the best teachers in this school."
He looked surprised.
Genuinely surprised.
She continued.
"You notice when students are struggling. You listen. You care."
A small pause.
"Most teachers don't."
Mr. Yoo Joon didn't say anything.
Ji-Woo looked toward Ji-Ho.
The boy was still reading.
Still completely oblivious.
Then she looked back.
"Which is exactly why I think you're making a mistake."
His smile faded slightly.
"You care about him."
She nodded toward the bench.
"Whatever the truth is. Whatever happened. If it's important enough that you've carried it this long..."
She hesitated.
Then continued softly.
"...he deserves to know."
Mr. Yoo Joon lowered his gaze.
Ji-Woo's voice became quieter.
"I don't know what you're hiding. And honestly, it's none of my business."
A small pause.
"But I think some truths become heavier the longer you carry them."
The wind moved gently through the trees.
Leaves rustled overhead.
Neither spoke.
Then Ji-Woo smiled faintly.
"If I were him..."
She glanced at Ji-Ho.
"...I'd want to know."
Mr. Yoo Joon followed her gaze.
Ji-Ho turned another page.
Completely unaware that the conversation beside him was about his life.
About him.
Mr. Yoo Joon exhaled slowly.
Almost defeated.
Almost relieved.
Then nodded once.
Very slightly.
As if, for the first time, he was considering that maybe Ji-Woo was right.