1. Float (3) Sun-woo

Kim Sun-woo was cleared from the police's list of suspects. Yet, public outrage only grew. 

"If it's not murder, it's incitement to murder," 

they argued. The crowd protesting in front of the police station swelled. 

"Detain Kim Sun-woo for investigation," 

"Reinvestigate the case,"

 "Confess if you have a conscience." 

Those clear slogans. Conspiracy theories were touted as truth, while the truth was dismissed as conspiracy.

There were those who cried out in protest, their empathy markedly selective, overlooking what truly mattered. Like the unjust plight of Kim Sun-woo, possibly innocent, or the stifled, regretful feelings of the deceased Mr. Kim, who might have wanted to declare Sun-woo's innocence. Where did all those people go when the real perpetrator was caught after seven years? Where did their misguided anger hide? Everyone who had recklessly suspected him should have, at the very least, shown concern for his wellbeing.

*

The living room floor began to flood. It was a hallucination. Like a glass teetering on the edge of a table, living precariously until it's nudged and shatters, this phenomenon appeared as if on cue. I couldn't muster the strength in my muscles to get up. The water level rose steadily, lifting my body with its buoyancy. The once clear water turned a sickening red. The metallic scent made me shiver in disgust.

*

Abandoned at Yeongin High School was a car. Between the gymnasium and the back mountain, in a place where no car should have been able to reach. Covered in dust, the sedan became the source of ominous rumors. Some said it was the school chairman's deceased son's car, left there in mourning; others whispered about a former Korean language teacher who had committed suicide inside. After some curious kids tried to open it and claimed to have seen ghosts, no one dared to even look in its direction. Those supposed ghosts were actually me and Sun-woo.

Living in the same apartment building, taking the same village bus, and being in the same class, we spent an inordinate amount of time together during those three years. After school, we'd sit inside the sedan, our sanctuary, spotlessly clean and cozy beyond imagination, waiting for the hourly bus. It was inside that car, at nineteen, that Sun-woo told me he was adopted. We were both looking at our phones in the back seat.

"People are born in cardboard boxes, you know."

"Cardboard boxes?"

I thought he was joking.

"My dad blogs, and I secretly follow it. He posted something yesterday titled, 'It Wasn't a Person Inside the Cardboard Box.'"

"What was it about?" I asked, still glued to my phone.

"A bloody, umbilical cord-attached baby was found inside a box in front of a church in Samseong-dong, Seoul. Surviving that unusually cold day was the baby's first stroke of luck. After being moved to an orphanage and adopted once, only to be returned before turning one. Malnourished, suffering from night terrors, screaming every night. The orphanage director's story of the poor baby was heartbreaking. My parents decided to be the baby's second stroke of luck and adopted him. But then, our family's misfortune began. My clothing business failed, and we started to lose everything. My grandparents and in-laws all said it was because of the child. We had to sell our upscale apartment in Seoul and move to a smaller villa. But I never blamed our child. I thought of it as sharing my luck with him. He was my fate. It wasn't a person in that cardboard box. Without someone's care and attention, it would have remained a poor, frozen animal."

I snatched Sun-woo's phone to read the post myself. A animal? The words stung like thorns.

"Is this really your dad's blog?"

Sun-woo nodded, then took his phone back.

"My dad would be devastated if he knew I read this. Keep it a secret."

Sun-woo was more concerned about his father than himself. I nodded in agreement, and he continued.

"But Hee-jae, even if a baby dies in a cardboard box, it's still a person, not an animal. My dad is wrong, right? Or am I being too sensitive?"

Sun-woo looked as if he wanted to cry but didn't know how. It was as if he was asking if being sensitive was a sin in this world. I could think of a thousand comforting words, but none seemed right. I silently shook my head.

After that, Sun-woo quietly wandered. Everything seemed normal, but he'd often lie on his desk or stare out the window, not even playing the soccer he loved. I watched, barely grasping that his heart was lost, unable to find its place.

On high school graduation day, Sun-woo's parents and brother came. Sun-woo, among his family, was the adored younger son. Everything seemed untroubled and peaceful. The same on the day he entered university and when he graduated. I was the only witness to all the times Sun-woo silently endured.

Yet, when he was suspected of murder, I did nothing, said nothing.

*

The water filling half the living room lifted me higher. My mouth tasted metallic, and I shivered from the cold. Yet, I had no choice but to float there. Doing nothing was imperative. Accepting this as reality and making the slightest move could cause me to lose balance, flail, and perhaps drown. Just as every kind of fear culminates in the fear of death, this hallucination threatened to intensify, showing its inevitable end. Therefore, floating was the best I could do.

*

Sun-woo's struggles became apparent after he graduated from university and started working at a construction company. He seemed like a person stranded in ruins, standing on layers of rusted, red iron and rotting wood, a nail pierced through his foot, yet unsure what to do.

It was during his time at a site in Gangwon-do.

"You know what's the hardest these days? Working tirelessly like a machine, then suddenly wondering why I'm doing this, but not knowing the reason. I used to have things I cared about in school, but I've forgotten them in just six months."

Sun-woo shared this over the phone. Another time, he said:

"Everyone on-site is angry all day. So I get angry without reason too. Returning to the dorm, covered in dust, I throw my work clothes into the smelly washing machine and shower. Sometimes, I wish I could wash my heart too. But that's not possible. So, I'm just slowly falling apart."

Sun-woo quit the company in less than a year. On the day he left the site for Seoul, he called me.

"Hee-jae, can I come to your place?"

"Sure. Come."

My reply was short, but sincere. I was living a messy life in my studio apartment, writing my thesis and barely sleeping. But I wasn't embarrassed to show Sun-woo. He arrived late at night, holding my favorite canelés. We sat on the bed, sharing the six canelés.

"A few days ago, I told my dad I was quitting, and he just burst out, saying he had adopted me... Why then, of all times?"

"Were you shocked?"

"No. It didn't bother me. You know, I had already dealt with that a long time ago."

After midnight, with Sun-woo not returning home, I offered him half of my bed.