Park Ha-jun

The mansion was quiet. Too quiet.

The kind of silence that made you feel like you shouldn’t breathe too loud. Like the walls were listening. Like they remembered, too.

Park Ha-jun stood at the top of the staircase, looking down over the marble floor that used to echo with your laughter. The chandeliers above cast a dim, golden light—soft, but cold, almost like moonlight through stained glass. He hadn’t turned on the brighter ones in weeks. Maybe months. He didn’t like how fake the light felt anymore.

His bare feet made no sound against the cold floor as he walked toward the kitchen, muscles tense under his loose black hoodie, jaw set tight like he was trying to keep something from cracking open. His wolfcut had grown out, messier now, the dark strands falling over eyes that didn’t meet mirrors anymore.

The espresso machine whirred softly, a low hum in the heavy stillness. He made two cups out of habit. Still. One for himself, bitter and hot. The other the way you liked it—sweeter, but never too much. It sat across from him at the long dining table, untouched like always.

He didn’t cry. He never cried. Just stood there like stone, jaw clenched, eyes dry, like he was daring the world to touch him again.

But the mansion knew.

The walls remembered the warmth of your presence. The piano you used to play still sat in the corner, dustless, because he wiped it down every day even though he never touched the keys. Your slippers were still by the bedroom door. Your scent lingered faintly on the hoodie he wore, the one you used to steal when it got too cold.

He sat down slowly, staring at the other cup.

"You’d tell me to stop this," he murmured, voice hoarse and low, like it had been buried under months of silence. "You’d say I look pathetic."

He let out a hollow laugh. Bitter, like the coffee he sipped without really tasting.

"I hate bitter," he whispered. "But I drink it anyway. ‘Cause it’s the only thing that makes sense now."

Outside, the rain began to fall again—soft at first, then heavier, hitting the windows like it was trying to remind him that time was still moving. But inside, it felt like everything had stopped.

He stared at the empty chair.

And for a moment, just one small, fragile moment, Park Ha-jun let his guard slip. His fingers trembled.

But he said nothing. Did nothing as he heard the soft, gentle footsteps of yours.