Chapter 11

“Hey, Elephant.” Looking down at Mu-yeong, the boy asked, “Can’t you speak?”

His voice is so cool, too. Setting his jaw, Mu-yeong nodded vigorously. If his lips parted by even a fraction, his grandmother would strike the backs of his calves mercilessly with a switch. Beneath the crimson twilight washing over the mountain ridges, Mu-yeong cradled the notebook against his palm and scribbled:

—I listen really well, though.

When Mu-yeong tapped his ear and held up the notebook, the older boy fell silent. Pondering for a second, Mu-yeong quickly added:

—And I write well, too!!

“Definitely not that part,” the boy muttered flatly.

Though he spoke firmly, the boy continued their written exchanges the following day, and the day after that. As the number of pages densely packed with pencil scrawls accumulated, their shared world gradually expanded beyond the creaking wooden study desk.

Together, they roamed the stacks in search of books. Once, when a book slipped from a shelf being rearranged, the older boy had shielded Mu-yeong and taken the blow on his own back. While studying quietly as instructed was agonizingly hard, Mu-yeong cherished the praise the boy offered after grading his work.

At times, they dozed off in a shady corner, or caught cicadas and grasshoppers beneath the colossal ancient tree in front of the building. And on the day the older boy had wept silently in the library’s back courtyard, Mu-yeong had taken his hand in his own.

Just like the gap in their ages, three full years were packed densely with these memories. In that time, Mu-yeong shot up by an entire handspan, but standing beside the boy, he remained nothing more than a child. For once the boy became a proper middle schooler and donned a uniform, he truly looked like a grown adult.

On the final day they met, the older boy made him a promise:

“If you tell me your name, I’ll tell you mine.”

The soft, gentle timbre and calm cadence still resonated vividly in his ears. Mu-yeong had sprinted all the way home to beg his grandmother for permission, hoping that perhaps she might at least give him a future date when he was allowed to share his name. Breathless from running, he couldn’t stop grinning.

But when he arrived, Choi Sijin’s family was already at the house.

Mu-yeong blinked slowly. Through the fading mist of memory, a cheerful voice abruptly cut in.

“Hyung, let’s go get meat! And take this,” Ho-joon urged.

Lifting his head, Mu-yeong saw Lee Ho-joon proffering a shopping bag stuffed with pastries. Mu-yeong took it with an appreciative smile.

“Isn’t this way too much?” Mu-yeong chuckled. “Thanks.”

“I only eat these as snacks, but they’re basically your staple food,” Ho-joon replied. “They’ll lose their flavor if you leave them out, so make sure you stash them in the freezer.”

Mu-yeong nodded in agreement. “Got it.”

It looked like he had a reason to plug in his refrigerator for once. Gathering his belongings, Mu-yeong hastily rose from his seat. Kim Sang-beom was already nowhere to be seen, likely having stepped outside for a smoke, and Ho-joon appeared fully ready to leave. If Mu-yeong lagged even slightly behind, they would assume he had vanished entirely.

Mu-yeong never forgot the truth: no matter how close you seemed to become with someone, they could drift away at any moment, leaving you utterly alone.

The trio arrived at a nearby pork belly restaurant. The bustling hall was thick with the scent of sizzling grease and the boisterous chatter of tipsy patrons. A server approached them and asked,

“Party of two? Right this way…”

“Three,” Mu-yeong quickly corrected.

The server frowned in slight bewilderment before gesturing toward an empty table.

“Ah, yes, you can take that table over there. Please wait just a moment.”

Of all places, it was right in the center of the dining hall. Mu-yeong took the seat with the least foot traffic passing behind him.

From here on, he needed to keep his wits sharp. While any restaurant posed a challenge for someone in his condition, barbecue joints were by far the worst.

Sizzling hotplates, drunken customers, and an overwhelming din that swallowed voices whole—it was the ideal recipe for chaos. Raising his hand high, Mu-yeong called out briskly to the server,

“Excuse me, we’d like to order!”

The server stepped up to the table. Mu-yeong promptly placed their usual order:

“Four servings of pork belly, three servings of pork shoulder, and one serving of pork jowl, please,” Mu-yeong requested.

“And a bottle of cider and a bottle of beer, too,” Ho-joon chimed in rapidly.

Tucking the order slip away, the server returned shortly to set the table. Wrap greens, pickled garlic leaves, and seasoned bean sprouts filled the tabletop to the brim.

Then came the individual plates and wet wipes—laid out for only two people. Seeing the server turn to leave, Mu-yeong hastily caught him.

“Could we get one more plate and wet wipe over here, please?” Mu-yeong asked.

A momentary flicker of confusion washed over the server’s face. Nodding slowly, he stammered, “…Ah, of course.”

Mu-yeong shifted his gaze toward the heating grill plate. The rising wave of heat was already constricting his chest. It felt as though flames might roar up at any second to consume the table, the melamine dishes, and the people from the errand center—just like the day the low wooden dining table he shared with his grandmother had been swallowed as kindling.

It wasn’t his first time having barbecue, and the burner flames were barely visible beneath the thick cast-iron plate, yet his body reacted all the same. Then again, he couldn’t even use a home gas stove whose fire was blocked by a pot or pan. For all his conscious efforts to build immunity, trauma refused to yield so easily.

“Here are your meats, along with the cider and beer,” the server announced, setting down the platters and chilled bottles.

Mu-yeong stared at the server’s rapidly emptying tray. The extra plate and wet wipe were still nowhere to be seen.

“Ooh, looks amazing!” Ho-joon beamed, laying thick cuts onto the sizzling plate. “Uncle, I’m putting them on right away, okay?”

Clicking his tongue in mock irritation, Kim Sang-beom scolded, “Don’t you dare burn the meat again, you punk.”

“Don’t you dare burn the meat again, you punk,” Sang-beom barked. “Are you trying to give me cancer?”

“Ahem, Uncle, haven’t you heard of the Maillard reaction? That’s all pure Maillard browning!” Ho-joon shot back.

Lighthearted bickering seasoned with deep affection bounced back and forth. Neither man remembered what was missing from the table. It was not because they were engrossed in conversation, nor because they were famished, nor because they held any dislike for Mu-yeong.

It was simply because Seo Mu-yeong was a man whose true name had been stolen. In the midst of hectic, bustling life, a passing mention or trivial exchange involving him was naturally forgotten.

Rather than calling the server back, Mu-yeong retrieved a pack of wet wipes from the front pouch of his backpack and rubbed his hands vigorously clean. Silently commending his ever-increasing thoroughness, he reached out toward Ho-joon.

“Pass me the tongs,” Mu-yeong said, reaching out. “I’ll grill.”

“Ooh, I’m putting my faith in your skills, hyung!” Ho-joon cheered.

“This brat never turns down an offer in his life,” Kim Sang-beom grunted. “Mu-yeong, make sure you dump the tongs back on him halfway through.”

Sang-beom offered the advice with utmost gravity. Smiling, Mu-yeong flipped the sizzling cuts of pork. Beads of sweat broke out across his forehead, and tension locked his jaw.

Murky smoke was sucked up into the ventilation pipe amidst the crackle of boiling lard. Clamping his festering terror in the metal tongs, Mu-yeong snipped it away with the shears. Seeing their fears roasted to a golden, mouthwatering crisp, Ho-joon let out a joyous whoop.

“Whoa, this looks incredible! Eat up, hyung.”

“You too,” Mu-yeong said, nudging the cooked meat toward the boss’s side of the grill. “Have some of this, Boss.”

His senses were overwhelmed. The blistering heat, the raucous bursts of laughter, the pungent reek of soju, patrons brushing past as if oblivious to his presence while scanning the room for spare stools—all while he tracked how well the meat was cooked, how much the others had eaten, and what topic the conversation had drifted to.

Mu-yeong was completely occupied seeing, hearing, and reacting to everything at once. Even as he chewed on a single morsel of pork, his eyes constantly surveyed his surroundings. Taking the time to assemble a lettuce wrap was a luxury he couldn’t even fathom.

The dinner concluded only after the earthenware stew pots and stainless cold noodle bowls were scraped bare. Stepping outside the restaurant, a sudden gust of wind scattered the heavy smell of roast pork clinging to their clothes. Thoroughly elevated in spirits after a single bottle of beer, Ho-joon waved vigorously at Mu-yeong.

“Have a safe trip, hyung! Good luck on the assignment!”

“Thanks. Get home safe, Ho-joon,” Mu-yeong said with a warm smile. “Have a good night, Boss.”

Parting ways, Mu-yeong walked over to his parked car. The moment he slid into the driver’s seat, he pulled a water bottle from his backpack and swallowed a digestive pill. Even after the tablet washed down his throat, a bitter, chalky film lingered on his tongue.

Mu-yeong unwrapped an Okchundang candy and slipped it into his mouth. Once, when this candy had been his only treat in the world, he had suppressed his craving, wrapped one in a clean napkin, and brought it to the older boy at the library. When young Mu-yeong had looked up at him with expectant, sparkling eyes, the boy had knit his elegant brow in faint reluctance:

“I don’t like things like this.”

—I see. Having distinct tastes is so cool.

Marveling at him, young Mu-yeong had quickly popped the candy into his own mouth. After rolling it on his tongue until it dissolved, he had stuck out his dyed, bright-red tongue to show off. The boy had let out a soft snort of laughter at the sight, and his smiling face had been wonderful to behold.

Massaging his tight, constricted solar plexus, Mu-yeong rolled the hard candy diligently inside his cheek. Knowing full well that indigestion would follow, he had accepted the dinner invitation for one reason alone: he genuinely liked Kim Sang-beom and Lee Ho-joon. He had wanted to share a meal with them and grow closer.

Yet even they frequently forgot what Mu-yeong said or did. If he made no sound, they sometimes forgot he was even standing beside them. An insurmountable distance stretched between them and Mu-yeong, one that no amount of earnest effort could ever bridge.

Whenever that cold realization sank in, he missed the older boy with unbearable ache. That boy had been as close and precious to Mu-yeong as real family. The parents and grandmother who had known him before his name was stolen were all dead, but that boy was surely still alive somewhere on this earth, and one day they would meet again.

The boy was the sole thread bridging the abyss between ■■■ and Seo Mu-yeong. Among everything stripped away from Mu-yeong on account of Choi Sijin, he was the only person Mu-yeong could ever hope to reclaim.

—I’m gonna be a firefighter when I grow up! Or maybe a soccer player.

That was what Mu-yeong had once boasted to him while gathering the clumsy folds of the skirt that continually tangled around his knees. Gazing quietly at Mu-yeong, the boy had picked up his pen:

—You can be anything you want. I don’t know about me, though.

—Why don’t you know?? I know!!! Hyung is definitely going to become someone amazing.

The older boy had stared down at the notebook for a long time before giving a faint nod. A tender, subtle smile had spread across his finely sculpted lips.

Even now, Mu-yeong remained utterly convinced: the boy was still a dignified, remarkable person. Just like when they first met, he would be wearing a crisp, wrinkle-free shirt—fastening a genuine silk necktie rather than a clip-on—working diligently in an office, a lecture hall, or City Hall.

Knowing neither his name nor his surname, he was nevertheless the only person in Mangcheon who had ever truly listened to Mu-yeong. He had been his sole friend, the hyung upon whom he longed to lean.

And he was Seo Mu-yeong’s early first love.