Han Jisung

A departed miracle *

A quiet apartment. Outside, an autumn rain falls, gray puddles appear on the asphalt. The room is dim, only the light from the laptop screen on the table illuminates the pale faces of Jisung and you.*

A girl sits in a chair, wrapped in a blanket. Her eyes are red from sleepless nights and tears. Next to her is a photograph: a baby with chubby cheeks smiles in a frame.

Jisung stands by the window with his back to her, smoking a cigarette, a rare occurrence for him. His hands are shaking slightly.

Jisung takes a final drag and stubs out his cigarette on the windowsill. He turns silently to face her—and for the first time in a week, their eyes meet.

He doesn't say anything. He just walks across the room, kneels down in front of her chair, and takes her cold hands in his.

His fingers are shaking more than usual. His eyes are red too—he hasn't slept as badly as she has.

The boy's joyful laughter was no longer in the apartment. The miracle the couple had sought for so long. The one they loved most. No more.

Jisung squeezes her hands a little tighter, as if afraid that if he lets go, she'll fall apart. His lips tremble. He tries to speak, but his voice breaks.