DAEGU GOLDEN YEARS HOME

If there was one thing Jungkook was terrible at, it was communication. He struggled with casual conversations, let alone heartfelt confessions. In twenty years, the most he had ever offered were a few clipped sentences, often accompanied by hard glares, or worse, silence.

It was hard for him to convey his feelings.

Every time he tried to express himself, the words clogged his throat, tightening around his heart like a vise. A suffocating weight settled in his chest, pressing down with the certainty that no matter how much he longed to spill his guts, one thought always stopped him—no one would ever truly understand.

Not even someone as empathetic as Kim Seokjin. Not even Aera.

From a young age, he had lost faith in people. The bullying and discrimination he endured pushed him into isolation, making it difficult for him to open up or let anyone in. The few people he trusted were his entire world. They gave him hope, kept him humble, and made him believe that, despite everything, something good awaited him in the end.

But that belief shattered the night his mother died.

His world collapsed, folding in on itself like a house of cards. Every bit of hope drained from his chest, leaving only a hollow, aching space behind. His once-bright eyes dulled, lost to a vicious snap of cruelty. After all, what child wouldn’t be devastated after watching their mother take her last breath in their arms?

Grief settled deep in his bones, carving scars too deep to heal. With no family—no close relatives to claim him—he was left alone in an unfeeling world. The weight of his loss was suffocating, the initial shock so intense it stopped feeling like an emotion and became something far worse: a wound that never closed.

It changed him. Completely.

Gone was the shy boy who lowered his gaze at the first sign of eye contact. In his place stood someone colder, distant. His stare lingered too long, unwavering and unreadable. The world blurred, his purpose slipping further from reach.

What was he supposed to do now?

When a person was left brooding over his existence, with no motive to move forward, he often sought meaning by revisiting the past. Jungkook was no exception. He had plenty of time to reflect—on his upbringing, on the absence of a guardian after the police confirmed his mother had died in a car accident. Day and night, he pondered how little he knew about himself and his mother, Areum.

Who were they, really? Where had they come from? Who was his father? 

The questions had always been there, buried beneath the surface. But as a child, he had never dared to ask, unwilling to burden his mother with painful truths she had chosen to leave behind.

Now, those truths chased him relentlessly.

Desperation clawed at his chest as he racked his brain for answers. How did Areum die? She had been at his school festival moments before—then suddenly, she was gone. And who was the man that had chased her while Jungkook hid behind the closet?

No matter how many scenarios he conjured, nothing made sense. The truth lay beyond his reach, and the only way to uncover it was to seek it himself.

Determined, he attempted to escape the orphanage—again and again—until he was transferred to a psychiatric facility in Daegu. Therapy was forced on him. Doctors prescribed medication. But Jungkook refused it all. He clung to his pain like a lifeline, even as he woke up screaming in the night, convinced his mother was calling for him when, in reality, the facility was nothing but cold halls and tired nurses.

Then, one day, everything changed.

A young man visited the orphanage for charity. His sharp gaze landed on Jungkook, and something flickered behind his eyes. Recognition. Seokjin had seen that same fire before. The first time had been years ago, in a boy named Min Yoongi.

Sixteen years old. Stubborn. Lost. Angry. Just like Yoongi had been.

It wasn’t just a coincidence. Jungkook, like Yoongi, had lost someone dear to him. He was drowning in unanswered questions, his grief threatening to consume him whole. Seokjin had once helped Yoongi find his truth. Now, he would do the same for Jungkook. He promised. To himself. To Jungkook. Now, that promise had led them here—to this moment, under the same roof. Others were there too—one presence unwelcome—but setting that aside, the moment felt significant, as if it carried the foresight that it would finally lead Jungkook somewhere.

Whatever “good” news Seokjin had in store for him, it was bound to change everything.

The night was winding down, the final moments of the wedding reception slipping into memory. Most of the guests had left, leaving behind only a few close friends and family, catching up after years apart. Inside the private suite, the tension hung in the air, uncomfortable but bearable. At least Jungkook wasn’t being scolded for punching Min Sung. He’d kind of deserved it anyway. Seokjin stood off to the side, engaged in a hushed conversation with Yoongi. Their somber expressions left little doubt about the topic—the Yeongs. They had a habit of showing up and ruining Seokjin’s most important events.

A few feet away, Namjoon perched on the armrest of a sofa, watching Min Sung press a cold beer can against his bruised cheek.

“So,” Namjoon said. “You wanted to talk?”

“Ye—” Min Sung’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Yes.”

Namjoon studied him for a beat. “About your father?”

Min Sung gave a stiff nod.

“What about him?”

Min Sung opened his mouth, then hesitated. He had come here for answers—why won’t my father talk to me about what happened on Seokjin’s birthday? But saying it out loud felt… wrong. It would make it seem like there was some deep rift between them, like he had to rely on others to explain his own father’s actions. No. That wasn’t why he was here. He needed to ask the kind of question that would make Namjoon pause. One that would force an answer out of him.

Min Sung exhaled, gripping the beer can tighter.

“What did he do?” His voice was quiet but firm. “What did my father do on Mr. Kim’s birthday?”

Namjoon inhaled through his nose. Slow, measured. A normal action. Subtle. But something about it felt too deliberate. To anyone else, it might have gone unnoticed. But Min Sung caught it. A hesitation. A fraction too slow.

He had hit the bull’s eye.

Namjoon’s jaw tensed. “Why does it matter?” His voice was even, but just barely. “Your father already humiliated my husband that night. What would you gain from dredging it up?”

There was something sharp in his tone. Controlled, but not entirely. It was rare to see Namjoon falter. He was usually the one keeping everyone else in check. The voice of reason. The calm in the storm. Now, he was the one unravelling.

Min Sung took a calculated risk. “Your forgiveness, maybe?” His expression was carefully measured. “I came to apologize on his behalf—”

“By crashing a wedding?” Jungkook cut in, stepping forward. His arms crossed over his chest, gaze cold. “That’s your idea of making amends?”

Min Sung shook his head, pressing the beer can harder against his face.

Jungkook scoffed. “Then why did you run the second you saw me?”

“Maybe for the same reason you punched me in the face?” Min Sung snapped, widening his eyes in challenge. “Ever thought about how dangerous you look? All those tattoos, piercings, and muscles make you seem like someone who picks fights for fun. And with that temper, I wouldn’t be surprised if you had a hand in any of my Dad’s injuries.” Before he could stop himself, the words slipped out. “You look and act like a thug.”

A dangerous urge clawed at Jungkook’s chest. His fingers curled into a fist, tension coiling through his body until an arm slid around his shoulder and pulled him back.

Seokjin. He had appeared so suddenly, it was as if he had materialized out of thin air.

“Going too far, aren’t you, Mr. Yeong Min Sung? Or do you need a reminder of all the spectacles you and your father put on before you became the big fish in business?” Seokjin smiled—sweet, but with teeth. “How long has it been since you two were sued for shell company fraud?” he asked.

Min Sung visibly stiffened, his eyes trembling as he swallowed hard. Seokjin, of course, had a few harmless tricks up his sleeve to keep the ball in his court.

“I might be of help to the other party if I told them to look into a few businesses near Daedeok District in Daejeon.”

Min Sung let out a feeble laugh. “You know what I mean, Mr. Kim. I come only with well wishes for you. I’d never mean to offend you in any way,” he backtracked.

“Then tell me—why did you decide to be a nuisance, just like your father, and try to ruin my perfect night again?” Seokjin deadpanned, all traces of mockery vanishing from his face. He looked utterly serious now.

Yoongi, who had been watching in silence, finally moved. He clapped Min Sung on the back, slow and deliberate, before drifting behind the armchair. Leaning down, his lips brushed Min Sung’s ear as he murmured, voice low and dangerous, “Go ahead. Tell him your bullshit.”

One, two, three… now four pairs of eyes locked onto Min Sung, their piercing glares like daggers. He squirmed in his seat, flailing like a fish stranded on dry land.

“I—I…” Min Sung stammered.

“Hurry up. We don’t have all night,” one of them drawled, sounding thoroughly unimpressed.

“I just want to know how my father ended up like that!” Min Sung burst out, his voice rising. “Did you have anything to do with it?”

Silence suffocated the suite, thick and unrelenting. The only sound was Min Sung’s ragged breathing, loud in the stillness. No one spoke. His words hung heavy in the air, the weight of his accusation pressing down on them.

Namjoon finally exhaled, voice sharp. “Thought so.”

The tension in the room thinned, except around Jungkook. His shoulders remained stiff, his jaw locked. The hand resting on his shoulder moved in slow, measured strokes. Up and down. A quiet, wordless condolence.

Seokjin inhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand. “Listen carefully, Min Sung.” His voice was calm, but there was no warmth in it. “Where your father ends up when he’s drunk is none of our concern. If you didn’t already know, he was completely shitfaced that night. Whatever trouble he got himself into, that’s on him not us.”

He straightened, his tone cooling further. 

“If that answers your question, leave. I’m not in the mood to press charges, but don’t tempt me.” A moment. Then, without waiting for an answer, he turned to Namjoon and Yoongi. “Show him out.”

Namjoon rose. Yoongi followed. They flanked Min Sung, guiding him toward the door. His expression was slack, eyes unfocused, the beer can still pressed against his cheek like it had all the answers he couldn’t find. Just before he stepped out, Namjoon tightened his hold on the doorframe. His eyes, dark and fixed, locked onto Min Sung’s.

“For your own good, don’t ever cross us again.” A pause. The weight of his words settled in the air between them. “Next time, think twice before interrupting our night. Because next time, we won’t be so polite.”

“Tell your father we said hi,” Yoongi added with a nonchalant, upward tug of his chin, smirking.

Min Sung froze, caught between Namjoon and Yoongi like a glitching NPC. His mouth opened, then closed, like he was weighing which response would get him out of here faster. In the end, he chose silence, spun on his heels, and marched out of the hotel.

Namjoon and Yoongi watched him go, neither speaking until the doors swung shut behind him.

“You have a sick sense of humour,” Namjoon muttered.

Yoongi shrugged. “I know.”

They exchanged a glance then cracked up.

Inside, Jungkook faced Seokjin, back to being his usual self, at least on the outside.

“You okay, Jin?” he asked, voice delicate as a feather.

Seokjin glanced at him and smiled. This time, it reached his eyes.

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that? That was a hell of a punch you delivered.”

Jungkook let out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re not mad?”

“Why would I be?” He scrunched his eyebrows.

Jungkook blinked and then breathed out again, slower than before. His shoulders dropped as tension unwound from his muscles like a tightrope finally cut loose. Seokjin had changed significantly after Jungkook confided in him about his frustrations and emotions. His outburst had given Seokjin a deeper understanding of him and made him realize what Jungkook needed to heal and move on from his past.

It was a good thing, Jungkook decided. He found himself liking the change.

“You’re leaving for your honeymoon in the morning, right?” Jungkook asked, shifting the conversation.

Seokjin nodded. “Yeah. But before I go, there’s something I need to tell you.”

Finally, Jungkook thought, before tilting his head and asking, “What is it?”

A day later, the answer stood before Jungkook, etched in bold letters just beyond the gates: Daegu Golden Years Home.

The facility rested at the foot of Apsan Mountain, its vast courtyard wrapped in the shade of towering trees. Stone paths wound through the quiet sanctuary, far removed from the restless pulse of the city. Here, time moved slower, offering solace to those who had spent their lives in motion and now longed for peace.

A quiet stillness settled within Jungkook, as if the storm in his mind had suddenly quieted the moment he stepped into this haven. His expression remained unreadable, yet with every step, the weight pressing on his chest began to lift. The heaviness drained from him, flowing down his body like a slow, steady current before dissolving into the earth beneath his feet. A part of him already felt lighter—unburdened, as if he were becoming one with the very essence of this place.

Passersby and caretakers tending to the elderly stole glances at him. In his bomber jacket and cargo pants, Jungkook stood out. The sharp lines of his young face, the ink on his skin, and the glint of metal only deepened the disconnect, his presence too dark for this place.

They wondered if he was the pathetic son of Mr. Dong Pil—the one who had abandoned his parents after studying in the US and had only returned to claim their wealth. But Mr. Dong Pil’s unfazed expression told a different story.

Mistaking the expression on his face as confusion, a caretaker, barely in her twenties, approached Jungkook with a polite smile.

“Excuse me, you seem a little unsure. Can I help you find something?” she asked gently.

“Ah, yes, I—” Jungkook replied, a bit startled. “I’m looking for Mrs. Cha Haru. Do you know her?”

Recognition flickered across the caretaker’s face.

“Oh, you must mean Mrs. Cha in Wing 9?”

Jungkook wasn’t sure, but he nodded anyway and followed.

“She’s been feeling a little down today. The stray cat that usually waits by her window didn’t show up.” The caretaker giggled. “She’ll be happy to see you. Come on, I’ll take you to her.”

She spun lightly on her heels and strode toward the main building. Jungkook trailed behind, his gaze wandering over the quiet hallways and the occasional glimpse of residents sitting by the windows as he walked past. For a moment, doubt crept in. Was he even in the right place? Could she really remember anything from nearly half a lifetime ago when people her age struggled to recall what they had done just yesterday?

But then, the caretaker led him down a broad hallway, turned left, and stopped outside a wide room in Wing 9. A nameplate on the door listed two names: Toru Mazuko and Cha Haru.

The door creaked open, and a figure came into view, sitting by the window, waiting for the cat.

“Haru, look who’s here to see you,” the caretaker called gently.

Haru turned, slow with age. The sunlight from the window bathed her pale skin in a soft glow. Her distant eyes were unfocused until something clicked. A flicker of recognition crossed her face, and suddenly, she was on her feet, hurrying toward Jungkook. Her steps faltered, and her wrinkled hands reached out. Afraid she might fall, Jungkook instinctively caught her. Her hands trembled, but she cupped his face, holding on as if afraid he might disappear. Her eyes shimmered, her lips quivering under the weight of emotions too powerful to contain.

“You’re—You’re here,” she whispered, as if saying it would make it real. “Jung… Jungkook?”

Jungkook’s doubts disappeared in an instant.

“You… you know me?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Of course, I do!” Haru exclaimed, giving Jungkook a playful shove on the shoulder. He barely felt it, but his hand lingered over the spot, warmth spreading through his chest. “You’re Areum’s son—I’d recognize her face anywhere. She was such a sweetheart. You take after her so much.”

Jungkook’s lips curled into a shy, heartwarming smile. Hearing people talk about his mother hit close to home. The affection in their voices and the way nostalgia softened their words wrapped around him like a thick comforter on a chilly night, filling him with a quiet, aching sense of love. For the first time in a long while, he felt good—leaning on someone, rediscovering the connection he’d been missing.

Not wanting to interrupt, the caretaker withdrew silently, letting Haru pull Jungkook by the arm and settle him beside her on the wheeled bed. The wall behind them was lined with photo frames, mostly family pictures. Some showed Haru as a child, black and white yet full of life, while others captured her later years, vibrant, serene and quietly beautiful. She reached up and unhooked a small, rectangular frame, the one hanging farthest from her head.

A soft haze blurred her vision.

“Your mom used to drop by after school all the time. She’d keep me company, cheer me up—Gosh, she had this way of making everything feel a little less lonely.” Her fingers brushed over the glass frame, pausing as she took in the familiar face. A small, wistful smile played on her lips before she handed it to Jungkook.

His heart kicked against his ribs, a soft, tingling sensation flooding his veins as his eyes landed on the photo. His mother, just seventeen, had her arms wrapped around a much younger Haru, pulling her into a playful embrace from behind. Her nose crinkled, eyes squinting—just like Jungkook’s—while she giggled at the camera, frozen in a moment of pure joy.

Areum was the mirror image of her son, only with longer hair and softer features.

Jungkook giggled, and for a moment, Haru could almost hear Areum in the sound. “Can you tell me more about her? Please?”

How could Haru say no to the same face that once filled her heart, the way her presence had once turned an empty house into a home?