A Normal Life
The day started wrong in a way that was far too polite to be called a problem.
Seo Joon woke up before the alarm, which by itself was strange enough. Morning light slipped through the blinds of the apartment in Mapo-gu, drawing pale lines across the low ceiling. He stared at them for a few seconds, trying to remember what he had dreamed.
Nothing.
Just the lingering sensation that something had been said… and answered.
"Seo-yeon…?"
His voice came out low, a little rough. He rubbed his face, feeling the faint stubble he hadn’t had time to shave the day before. Too tall for the small apartment, shoulders that always seemed to take up more space than they should, Seo Joon sat up on the bed with a slow sigh.
From the kitchen came the sound of dishes.
Running water. A spoon tapping against ceramic. Normal. Reassuring. He got up, dragging his feet across the cold floor.
Seo-yeon was leaning against the sink when he appeared in the doorway.
Black hair tied up carelessly, loose strands falling over her face. A white T-shirt, oversized—probably his. She stirred the coffee with excessive focus, as if it were the only thing that mattered at the moment.
"You’re up early," she said, without turning around.
"Not really," he replied. "The alarm didn’t even go off."
"It went off twice."
He frowned.
"I didn’t hear it."
She shrugged, turning toward him with the cup already prepared. Dark eyes, attentive, observing more than they showed. Seo-yeon had always been like that—too calm for someone who noticed everything.
"You didn’t sleep well," she concluded.
"Maybe."
She set the cup down on the table. Strong coffee. No sugar.
Seo Joon sat down, picking up his phone almost reflexively. The screen lit up with several notifications that had piled up overnight. One headline caught his attention before he even realized it.
“Cases of dissociative behavior increase in Seoul and the metropolitan area.”
"Again…" he muttered.
"Don’t read that stuff first thing in the morning," Seo-yeon said.
He looked up.
"Since when do you care about my morning mood?"
"Since you started losing focus during meetings."
He blinked.
"I didn’t tell you that."
The silence lasted a second longer than it should have.
"You did," she said. "Last week. When you came home late."
He thought about it. I did come home late. He remembered that much. The conversation… maybe it had happened. The detail didn’t feel important enough to press.
"Guess I’m getting predictable," he said, taking a sip of coffee.
She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
The subway was more crowded than usual that morning. Line 6. People standing shoulder to shoulder, everyone locked inside their own world. Seo Joon noticed a man further down the car, talking to himself in a low voice, expression tense, as if someone were responding to him.
No one reacted.
By the time he reached the office building in Yeongdeungpo, the uneasy feeling was still clinging to him.
The meeting started late.
A glass-walled conference room, lighting far too white, bad coffee served in paper cups. Seo Joon sat beside two coworkers, loosening his tie. Across the table, the manager adjusted his glasses before speaking.
"You’ve all seen the news, right?"
Some nodded. Others pretended not to.
"The department is requesting extra caution with inconsistent reports," he continued. "People forgetting basic tasks, memory lapses, sudden behavioral changes…"
"Isn’t that just post-pandemic stress?" someone asked.
"Maybe it would be," the manager replied, "if it weren’t happening simultaneously across multiple sectors."
Seo Joon rested his elbow on the table, thoughtful.
"There was a case yesterday," said a woman from finance. "A guy walked out in the middle of his shift saying he needed to ‘go back to a place that no longer exists.’"
Nervous laughter spread around the room.
"Probably burnout," someone commented.
"Or too much social media," another added.
The meeting continued, but Seo Joon barely followed it. The phrase stuck in his mind.
A place that no longer exists.
When he got home, it was already night.
The apartment lights were off, except for the living room. Seo-yeon was sitting on the couch, legs folded, watching television without really watching it. The screen reflected across her face, soft shadows shifting with each image.
"You’re late," she said.
"Meeting ran long," he replied, tossing his bag into the corner.
"They talked about it there too, didn’t they?"
He stopped mid-step.
"About what?"
She gestured toward the TV. The report showed blurred footage of people being escorted by paramedics.
"Those strange things," she said. "People acting like they’re… out of time."
Seo Joon sat beside her.
"They did," he admitted. "But nothing conclusive."
"It’s going to get worse."
He turned to look at her.
"Since when did you become an expert in urban chaos?"
She blinked, as if only then realizing what she had said.
"It’s just a guess."
Silence.
He watched their reflection in the darkened screen between reports. Something felt slightly misaligned. Not in the image. In the presence.
"If someone acts strange around you," Seo-yeon said quietly, "don’t confront them. Just step away."
"That’s very specific."
"It’s caution."
Seo Joon smiled faintly.
"You’re acting strange today."
She looked at him. Up close, she seemed exactly the same. Same soft features. Same attentive gaze. And yet…
"As long as I’m here," she said, "you won’t need to worry."
The words sounded too comforting. Like a promise too big for something so simple.
"Alright, guardian," he joked.
She didn’t laugh.
That night, Seo Joon fell asleep quickly.
Seo-yeon remained seated beside the bed, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. The city outside stayed alive, loud, unaware. When she reached out, her fingers stopped just short of his skin, trembling slightly before pulling back.
She closed her hand in silence.
In Seoul, forgotten things were beginning to remember themselves.
And not all of them wanted to remain invisible
