Minsu took a deep breath and stepped out into the backyard. The fading sunlight stretched across the horizon, casting long shadows over the overgrown garden. It was a sight she had once been familiar with, but now it seemed a world away. The flowers and plants her aunt had so carefully tended had been neglected for too long, wild and tangled in their own unrestrained growth.
Her heart tightened as she looked around the courtyard and the yard. The house, the place that had once been filled with the soft hum of family life, was now quiet. There was no bustling of her aunt moving from room to room, no sound of her father's gentle laugh filling the air.
She had returned to this place—not just to escape her failures, but to face the silence that had lingered in the years since their passing.
Without thinking, Minsu moved into action. She grabbed a rake from the shed, determined to clear away the debris that cluttered the yard. She worked steadily, pulling at the long grasses, gathering fallen leaves in neat piles, and trimming back the bushes that had been left to grow wild. As she worked, the familiar sights—the feel of the rake in her hands, the scent of the earth and old wood, the soft breeze—brought back memories of her time here with her parents and aunt.
They had always worked together, turning this small garden into a peaceful retreat. The flowers, the neat rows of vegetables, the careful arrangement of stones along the walkways—it had been a shared project, a place where they'd spent hours, laughing and talking in the evenings after long days.
Her aunt, always so careful with every plant, every detail. Her parents, so full of love and life, always teaching her the value of patience, of nurturing.
As Minsu worked through the evening, cleaning the space and settling the backyard into order, it was impossible not to feel their presence. It wasn't just about tidying up—it was a kind of act of honoring them, of remembering what had been lost.
When the yard was finally in order, Minsu wiped the sweat from her brow and walked back into the house. The smell of the old wood, the dim light filtering through the windows, felt like a slow comfort—like the feeling of returning home after a long absence.
She walked into the kitchen, pulling open the cupboards to see what little was left in the pantry. Despite everything, the desire to care for herself felt natural. She was, after all, still the girl who had learned to cook under her aunt's watchful eye, who had learned the value of a simple, home-cooked meal.
Minsu began chopping vegetables, the sound of the knife against the cutting board grounding her. The small routine of preparing food allowed her to settle into the quiet, bringing a sense of calm that she hadn't felt in a long time. The soft hum of the stove, the bubbling of the pot on the fire—everything felt like it was falling back into place.
As the food simmered, the memories of her parents and aunt flooded back with startling clarity. She could almost hear her aunt's gentle voice guiding her through each step of the recipe, the way she always made sure everything was just right. Her parents, sitting at the table, smiling as they watched her practice.
She closed her eyes for a moment, the warmth of the kitchen filling her with a bittersweet ache. The food would never taste quite the same without them—but in this moment, surrounded by their echoes, she felt something she hadn't in a long time: a connection to what had once been.
When the meal was finally ready, Minsu set the table for one, the familiar silence in the house settling around her once more. She sat down slowly, taking the first bite, feeling the comfort of the past gently wrap itself around her heart. The food she had prepared sat cold before her, but it was the weight of the past that filled the room. Her mind wandered back, unwillingly, to the time after her parents' passing—the moment everything had shattered.
It had been a car accident—her parents gone in an instant. Minsu had been left to navigate a world without them, a sixteen-year-old girl suddenly thrust into adulthood. But as painful as their death was, what followed was even worse.
Her aunt, the one person who had promised to stay with her after the loss, had left without a word. Without a goodbye.
It was a day she would never forget. Minsu had been at school, her mind preoccupied with the world outside. When she came home that afternoon, the house had been eerily quiet. Her aunt's belongings were gone. The only thing left behind was a small note on the kitchen counter, written in a hurried scrawl: I'm leaving. You'll be fine here. Take care of yourself.
There was no explanation, no warning, no chance for Minsu to say goodbye. Her aunt hadn't even waited to see her before she left. It felt like a betrayal, the person she had trusted most in the world turning her back on her when she needed her most. Minsu had searched the house, hoping to find some trace of her aunt, some reason for the sudden departure. But there was nothing. The house was empty, just as her heart had become.
Her aunt had left the village, leaving Minsu behind without so much as a final conversation or a single reason why. No hug. No reassurance. No apology. The silence that followed had been worse than the loss of her parents. It had been the loneliness of being forgotten, of being left behind without even a proper goodbye.
Sitting in the kitchen now, Minsu felt the weight of that abandonment all over again. Her fingers brushed the edge of her plate as the memories tightened around her chest. It wasn't just the death of her parents that had left a void—it was the absence of the one person who was supposed to take care of her, the one person who had promised to help her heal, who had simply disappeared.
Why had she left? Minsu asked herself again, the question that had haunted her for years. She had never received an answer, never gotten closure. Her aunt had cut all ties, leaving Minsu to navigate the cruel reality of being alone in a world that had once been so full.
With a shaky breath, Minsu stood up from the table, walking slowly toward the window that overlooked the backyard. The evening sky had deepened into twilight, the cool night air brushing against her skin. As she stared into the garden she had just cleaned, the weight of the unanswered questions settled like a heavy stone in her heart.
Her aunt's departure had shaped the course of her life since. She had learned to survive on her own, but the bitterness of that abandonment still stung. Minsu never got to ask why her aunt had left her without a word. She never got the chance to say the things that needed to be said.
But perhaps, Minsu thought, some things didn't need answers. Maybe, in time, she could begin to heal without them.
The silence around her was different now—more familiar. And for the first time in a long while, Minsu felt like she was no longer waiting for someone to return.