The scent of boiling water and broth filled the air.
It was faint, but familiar. He could hear the soft clatter of chopsticks against a metal pot, the rustle of plastic lids being peeled back, and his mother's quiet humming, off-key and warm.
Min Jae-Hyun stepped out of his room slowly, like the air itself might vanish if he moved too fast.
The sunlight bled into the small living room through the sheer curtains, painting everything in a golden haze. The secondhand furniture, the threadbare rug, the faint stains on the wallpaper, all of it exactly as he remembered.
It was all still here.
His heart thudded in his chest, too loud. Too fast.
And then he saw her.
His mother was crouched in front of the small stove, her hair tied in a loose ponytail, wearing a faded shirt that hung off one shoulder. She looked younger than he remembered — less tired, less burdened.
But her eyes were the same. Sharp and gentle, always full of thought.
She turned at the sound of his steps and smiled.
"Morning, Hyun-ah. Did you sleep okay?"
Jae-Hyun opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
She was alive. Breathing. Smiling.
He hadn't seen that smile in years.
It broke something in him.
"...Yeah," he finally said, voice rough. "I did."
She nodded, her back turning again as she stirred the noodles in the pot.
"I was going to make something proper today, but I wasn't really in the mood to cook. I hope you don't mind instant for breakfast."
He almost laughed. Not because it was funny, but because it was perfect.
He blinked hard, swallowing the lump in his throat.
"It's perfect, Mom. Really."
She glanced back at him, studying his face for a second longer than usual.
Maybe she saw something strange there. Maybe not.
But she smiled again and went back to preparing the table.
He stepped forward, still slow, still disbelieving.
Each breath tasted like memory.
The same spot on the table where his books used to pile up. The tiny corner shelf where she stored old photos and receipts in coffee tins. The chipped ceramic mug she always used for tea, still sitting next to the sink.
He sat down, letting the chair creak under him.
She placed the bowls on the table a minute later, steam curling up between them.
It felt like a dream. But it wasn't. Not anymore.
"Eat up before it gets soggy," she said.
He picked up his chopsticks with shaking fingers, bringing them up almost on instinct. But before he could take a bite, it happened.
A flicker.
Barely noticeable.
His vision shifted, like something invisible brushing past his eyes.
He blinked once. Twice.
And then—
A line of light. No, not light. Words.
Floating just above her head.
He stared at it.
[Name: Min Hae-In]
[Affinity: Restoration – Dormant]
[Potential: 74 / 100]
[Condition: Fatigue (Minor)]
The words pulsed softly, like a heartbeat.
"What…"
They vanished the second he whispered.
Jae-Hyun stared at his mother, eyes wide, chest tight.
What the hell was that? A hallucination? A dream leftover from… whatever that place was?
He looked again, nothing.
He blinked, focused.
Still nothing.
Was it just for a second?
Was he going insane?
His fingers twitched under the table, gripping the chopsticks tighter.
But before he could even start to process it, she cleared her throat.
"I've been thinking," she said quietly.
He looked up, startled.
"I wanted to talk to you… about what you said the other day. About your father."
Silence stretched between them.
His mother stared into her bowl, her fingers tightening slightly around the chopsticks. Her voice was soft, but steady.
"You were angry. I understand that. And maybe you had a right to be. I just… I wasn't sure if telling you would help, or hurt. But maybe I was wrong."
Her eyes lifted to meet his.
"You deserve to know. About who he is. About where you come from."
And just like that, the room began to tremble — not physically, but inside him.
The weight of those words crashed against the part of him that remembered. The way he had screamed at her. The way his fists had clenched and his voice had cracked and the tears had stung in his eyes.
He remembered the anger. The way he slammed the door. The way he called her a coward.
Because of what? Some kids at school?
Because he couldn't handle being different?
Because he needed someone to blame?
His hands lowered slowly.
"…You don't have to," he said.
She blinked.
He swallowed hard, eyes not leaving hers.
"You don't have to tell me."
"Hyun-ah…"
"No," he said, firmer this time. "I… I remember how I brought it up. I remember how I treated you."
Her lips parted, but he shook his head.
"You didn't owe me anything back then. And you still don't."
He took a breath.
"I was just a dumb kid, looking for someone to punch. Someone to blame. But you were always the one who stayed."
His voice cracked.
"I don't want to know because I'm angry. I want to be better than that."
His mother looked at him for a long time.
Then, slowly, her face softened.
"…You're not a dumb kid," she whispered.
Tears welled in her eyes before she could stop them. She looked away, but he saw it. The way her shoulders trembled. The way she tried to smile even through it.
"I was going to tell you," she said. "When you were ready. But maybe… maybe now's not the time either."
He nodded. And in that moment, they understood each other without needing to say anything more.
She reached across the table, hand warm against his.
"Thank you," she said.
He smiled. A small one. But it was real.
"You're stuck with me, Mom," he said quietly. "So let's do it right this time."
She raised an eyebrow, confused. "This time?"
"Nothing," he said quickly, waving it off. "Just… forget it."
He picked up his chopsticks again, and this time, he took a bite.
Still too salty. Still slightly undercooked.
But it tasted like home.