Ji-Bok pushed open his father's door without knocking.
Mr. Choi's room smelled like cologne and paper—orderly, untouched, as if no one actually lived there.
The curtains were half-drawn, the desk immaculate.
Ji-Bok walked in and sat down across from him anyway.
"Why would you do that?" he asked.
Mr. Choi didn't look up from the document in his hands.
Ji-Bok swallowed. "Why would you take it down."
Silence.
"The photo," Ji-Bok pressed, voice tightening despite himself. "The one of Mom. The one I took."
Mr. Choi finally lifted his head. His expression was flat. Businesslike.
"She's dead," he said simply. "There's no reason to keep it."
The words landed wrong. Too clean. Too careless.
Ji-Bok's face hardened.
His jaw clenched so tight it hurt. He stood abruptly and slammed his palm down on the desk.
"That photo was mine," he snapped. "You don't get to decide that. You never even looked at her the way that camera did."
Mr. Choi rose slowly from his chair.
"Watch your tone," he warned.
Ji-Bok laughed—sharp, broken. "Oh, now you care about respect? You erase her like she never existed and—"
The slap came fast.
Hard.
The sound cracked through the room.
Ji-Bok staggered back half a step, head snapping to the side, skin burning where his father's hand had struck him.
The taste of metal filled his mouth.
Mr. Choi didn't apologize.
He didn't even look at him.
Instead, he turned and walked out.
Ji-Bok barely had time to breathe before he heard footsteps—heavy, decisive—heading toward his room.
"No—" Ji-Bok said, already moving.
Too late.
Mr. Choi shoved open Ji-Bok's door. Snowball yelped softly as she was pushed aside, scrambling off the bed.
Mr. Choi crossed the room, grabbed the camera from the desk with one hand—
—and smashed it against the floor.
Once.
Twice.
The sound was sickening. Plastic cracking. Glass shattering.
He straightened, calm as ever.
"This," he said evenly, "was the last memory of her I didn't want you to keep."
Then he walked out.
The door didn't slam.
It didn't need to.
Ji-Bok stood frozen for a second longer.
Then he moved.
Slowly.
He knelt beside the wreckage. The camera lay in pieces—lens fractured, body split, familiar weight ruined. He picked it up with trembling hands, fingers brushing shards of glass, the bent metal edges.
This camera had seen her.
Her laugh. Her eyes. The way the light loved her.
His breath hitched once—just once—before he forced it down.
He stared at it for a long time.
Then he let out a quiet, exhausted sigh.
And held what was left anyway.
Ji-Bok set the broken camera down on the small metal table between them.
They were sitting outside a quiet coffee shop, the late afternoon light sliding across the pavement, the noise of the street softened by distance. Cups sat untouched. Steam rose and disappeared.
Ji-Ho blinked once, then again, staring at the wreckage in front of him.
"…Is this why you wanted us to talk outside?" he asked carefully.
Ji-Bok nodded.
He didn't look up at first. His fingers rested near the camera, not touching it, like he was afraid it might crumble further.
"My dad," he said after a moment. "He went into my room. He smashed it."
Ji-Ho's brows drew together. "Why?"
"He took down my mom's photo. I asked why." Ji-Bok gave a short, humorless exhale. "That was the answer."
Silence stretched between them.
Ji-Bok finally lifted his head. "Can you fix it?"
Ji-Ho hesitated. Then he picked the camera up gently, turning it over, examining the cracked lens, the shattered glass embedded in the casing. His shoulders sank almost immediately.
"No," he said quietly. "The lens glass is broken, and the internal rubber mount is damaged. It's not… mathematically alignable anymore. Even if I replaced parts, it wouldn't ever focus the same."
Ji-Bok let out a slow breath and looked down at his hands.
"I figured," he murmured.
Ji-Ho set the camera back on the table with care. After a beat, he asked, "Why is it special?"
Ji-Bok nodded once, as if he'd expected the question.
"My mom gave it to me," he said simply. "On my last birthday. Before she passed away."
Ji-Ho's expression softened. "And you kept using it."
Ji-Bok nodded again. "Every day."
The noise of the street crept back in—cars passing, cups clinking inside the café—but neither of them moved.
"I'm sorry," Ji-Ho whispered.
Ji-Bok looked up at him then, eyes tired but steady.
"Thank you," he replied.
He reached out and pulled the broken camera back toward himself, cradling it anyway.
--
School ended without ceremony.
Eun-Woo left first, already halfway down the hall, phone to his ear, talking about lighting and angles and being late for his shoot.
He waved once without looking back.
Ji-Bok was nowhere to be found.
That, more than anything, made Ji-Woo uneasy.
She walked out through the gates alone, backpack light against her shoulders, the afternoon air warm but unsettled.
Students passed her in clusters—laughing, complaining, alive—but the space around her felt oddly hollow.
Halfway down the path, she slowed.
Someone was standing just beyond the trees that lined the sidewalk.
Not hiding.
Waiting.
Her steps stopped completely when she recognized him.
Mr. Yoo Joon.
He turned as if he'd sensed her gaze, posture straight, expression familiar in that calm, unreadable way.
"…What are you doing here, sir?" Ji-Woo asked.
Before he could answer, her eyes shifted.
Another figure stepped forward from the shade.
Ji-Ho.
Her breath caught.
"Sir…?" she began, confused, looking between them.
Mr. Yoo Joon closed his eyes briefly, like someone bracing himself, then sighed. He ran a hand through his hair.
"I've told you this before," he said quietly. "Before you lost your memory."
Ji-Woo frowned. "Told me what?"
He hesitated, then met her eyes.
"That I am blood-related to Ji-Ho."
The words landed hard.
Her chest tightened.
"I only came to this school," he continued, voice low, "to look after him. I've been meaning to tell him the truth, but I didn't know how."
Ji-Woo felt it then—that sharp, stinging pressure behind her eyes. Not pain exactly. Shock. Disorientation.
Blood-related.
Family.
She looked at Ji-Ho again.
The way he stood—too still, hands clenched at his sides, gaze fixed on the ground like he'd been holding this weight alone.
"…You," she said slowly, voice barely steady, "you followed him here?"
Mr. Yoo Joon nodded once.
Something in Ji-Woo's chest twisted.
Not jealousy.
Not anger.
Something colder.
So this was it.
Another secret. Another truth that existed without her.
She laughed once, short and breathless, then stopped herself.
"Wow," she muttered. "Everyone really knows everything except me."
She looked at Mr. Yoo Joon again, eyes sharp now. "And you were just… watching? While he struggled?"
Her gaze softened despite herself when it flicked back to Ji-Ho.
"…You should've told him," she said quietly.
Then, after a beat, she added, more to herself than anyone else,
"Maybe some things hurt less when they're not hidden."