Years have slipped by without a word from him—not a call, not a text, not even a stray social media like. Silence. That's how it goes sometimes, isn't it? You meet someone when you're little, convince yourself they're attached to your hip for eternity, soul bound during every recess.

Then high school graduation rolls around, caps thrown in the air, and then... nothing. Static. The kind of quiet that stretches so long it becomes company in its own right.

That's exactly how life unfolded for In-chan and his childhood friend. The absence carved a hollow space in In-chan's chest, a familiar ache he learned to carry. He never truly moved past it, never shook the ghost of what they'd been, but he built a life around the emptiness. Graduated university, landed a respectable job as a crime therapist, poured himself into work.

He even found Seung-joo—a friend whose smile felt like sunlight, someone he was utterly certain would stand beside him for decades. Lifelong.

Then, cruelly soon, she was gone. Suicide. The details were messy, tangled in things unsaid and pain unseen, too complicated to unravel neatly. Regardless, it shattered something fundamental in In-chan.

Death was an acquaintance he knew well in his profession; he heard its echoes daily through the weary voices of clients and the hushed tones of coworkers discussing cases. But experiencing its raw, intimate violence firsthand? When it steals someone who knew your coffee order, who teased you about your terrible taste in movies?

When it takes the only person who knew about his secret, his homosexuality, away? That wasn't just sadness. It was devastation. A crushing weight that flattened his spirit, leaving him numb and adrift.

His employer saw the cracks, the hollowed-out look in his eyes. They insisted, firmly but kindly, that he take a vacation. Several weeks. Get out of the choking rush of the city, breathe air that wasn't recycled office despair or stale soju. And as if summoned by the universe's peculiar timing, his phone rang. Ye-soon. His childhood friend's mother. Her voice was still warm and familiar despite the years.

The call stretched long, filled with hesitant pauses and unspoken worries. Ye-soon explained that her son had moved back in with her and her husband months ago. Back to their weathered sheep farm perched on the rugged coast.

Something had happened—an "incident," she called it, her tone guarded, hinting at shadows she wouldn't, or couldn't, illuminate. In-chan sensed the fragility in her words, the protective instinct. He wasn't the type to pry, especially not with those older than him, so he let the details remain shrouded.

When he shared his own burden, the fresh wound of Seung-joo's death, Ye-soon's invitation was immediate, heartfelt. "Come," she said, no hesitation. "Stay with us."

She didn't breathe a word to her son about In-chan's impending stay.

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The days crawled by, thick with dread and anticipation. In-chan nearly backed out a dozen times. Standing on the precipice of seeing his childhood friend again after so many years felt terrifying. What if he had changed beyond recognition? What if he resented the intrusion? What if he simply didn't care?

The "what-ifs" buzzed like angry hornets, relentless, almost paralyzing. Yet, somehow, through sheer force of will or maybe just exhaustion, he silenced them. He packed a couple of bags, bought a train ticket, and went.

The journey to the sleepy coastal town was surprisingly soothing, a balm to his frayed nerves. The air tasted different here—cleaner, sharper, laced with salt and pine. People smiled without agenda, their greetings genuine. It tugged at memories of his own childhood, spent just a few towns over, where life felt simpler.

As the bus neared its destination, a sudden impulse struck him. He hopped off early at a roadside stall, its buckets overflowing with vibrant blooms. Flowers for Ye-soon. It felt necessary, a small gesture of gratitude after so long.

He arrived at the farm gates an hour ahead of schedule. The walk up the dusty lane was short but charged with nervous energy. And there she was: Ye-soon, waiting patiently behind the wheel of an old, mud-splattered pickup truck. Seeing her there, sturdy and composed despite the years, sparked a genuine warmth in his chest. She looked well. Thriving, even.

She climbed out, her movements deliberate but strong. In-chan bowed deeply, perhaps a shade too formally, the city stiffness clinging to him. "Ye-soon-ssi," he greeted, his voice tight. Their small talk was brief, pleasantries exchanged as he passes over the flowers under the vast coastal sky before they climbed into the truck's worn cab.

The drive was mercifully short, barely three minutes along a winding track that climbed a gentle slope. Then, rounding a bend, the farm unveiled itself.

In-chan remembered it vaguely from childhood sleepovers—a backdrop to his adventures with his friend. But seeing it now, as an adult with a new look on life? It stole his breath.

The main house and its gravel driveway crowned a lush, grassy hill. Below, a vast field rippled like a green and white ocean—hundreds of sheep grazing peacefully. To the side, nestled almost shyly against the encroaching forest, stood the guest house, its wooden walls nearly swallowed by the deep green shadows of ancient trees. It wasn't just picturesque; it was achingly beautiful, a sanctuary worlds away from the life he's grown used to.

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Inside the farmhouse kitchen, the air hung thick with the comforting aromas of simmering stew and fresh herbs. In-chan moved quietly, helping Ye-soon chop vegetables, his movements careful and unobtrusive. He let her guide him, respecting the rhythm of her kitchen—her domain.

The tension of his arrival had just begun to ease, replaced by the simple, grounding act of preparation. Almost without realizing it, the gnawing anxiety about his childhood friend started to recede. He found himself slipping into a fragile calm, starting to believe—hoping, for the lack of a better word—that maybe he wouldn't appear tonight. Maybe he'd stay in the fields, or the guest house, granting In-chan this one evening of respite before the inevitable reunion.

Then, puncturing the quiet like a dropped plate, the front door groaned open on its hinges. A pause. The solid thud of it closing. Footsteps, deliberate and unhurried, echoed on the wooden floorboards down the hallway.

Moments later, a figure filled the kitchen doorway. His childhood friend. And the boy In-chan had carried in his memory for years—the one with scraped knees and a gap-toothed grin—was utterly, irrevocably gone.

In-chan was sure he himself looked just as surprised and hesitant to see him as his childhood friend did in that moment.