The shabby-looking facility had a narrow playground for the children to run in, and the play equipment was all old and rusted.
While Cheong-o gave the orphanage a light once-over, the staff — who’d been tipped off — came running. Following the director, who was giving the tour in a bundle of nerves, Cheong-o looked down at the curious stares stuck all over him.
A child stared at Cheong-o with his mouth clamped shut, then sniffled. Not just that child — from all over, persistent curiosity toward the stranger reached him.
After a moment’s hesitation, Cheong-o waved back at a child who waved at him.
“How many children are there in total?”
“Forty-six.”
At even that trivial question, the director gulped and answered. Beyond the window, Cheong-o watched the children drawing and couldn’t take his eyes off the one holding the colored pencils.
Sensing something odd, the director — who’d been explaining in a trembling voice — turned around and called to Cheong-o. Cheong-o pulled his gaze from the child smiling so hard his eyes folded, even in these poor conditions, and started walking.
The sofa Cheong-o sat on creaked. Steam rose from the tea the director had served.
A slow look around showed that the building, the classrooms, the rooms where the children slept, the director’s office — none of it was anything but run-down.
The thought came to him: amazing that they raised children in a place like this. Only the cup they’d brought out — surely their cleanest — shone. The director kept glancing at him and wiping sweat, and behind him was a cracked window, taped over. His head throbbed at the sight.
“If I had my way I’d tear the whole thing down and rebuild, but there’s nowhere for the children and staff to stay in the meantime, so it’d be best to start repairs on the most urgent areas.”
“Yes, yes.”
“For meals, a vendor will come help starting the day work begins on the dining hall. As for daily living, we’ll split it half and half — I’ll trust you to handle that part well, Director.”
“Thank you. Really… thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. As I said, don’t think about the cost — if you need anything, contact us anytime.”
The director nodded, clutching the business card in trembling hands.
“By the way, I heard you have another visitor today besides me.”
“Ah, yes! Today’s the one day a month when some people come to teach the children baking.”
“If it’s all right, may I watch for a bit? I’m curious.”
“Of course!”
Hurriedly tidying up and rising, the director held the door and waited for Cheong-o. The moment they stepped into the corridor, a child came racing down from the far end, slammed into Cheong-o’s leg, and landed on his backside.
The flustered director helped the child up and checked for injuries while Cheong-o bent slightly and stroked the child’s head.
The child, startled by the stranger, smiled at the director’s touch and ran off again, thump-thump, toward the far end. The bitterness rose in Cheong-o’s mouth at that bright face, whatever the circumstances.
“The children are bright.”
“That’s what I’m always grateful for — and sorry about.”
On the way to the dining hall, the director did nothing but brag about the children. How one was good at studying and dreamed of being a researcher, how another had a gift for cooking and dreamed of being a chef — but Cheong-o only thought that half of them might manifest as espers or guides and end up belonging to the Center. Once they belonged to the Center, all the dreams they’d had would disappear. Before long they’d forget every dream they’d had as children.
Sweeping the corridor with sunken eyes, Cheong-o blinked at the noise.
The first thing he saw opening the dining hall door was white flour flying everywhere. Among the children concentrating on dough and the children busy playing around stood a couple. Cheong-o knew at once that they were the people he’d been looking for.
“Director!”
The children giggled at the director, who waved a small hand. After greeting the director, the couple bowed to Cheong-o.
After exchanging greetings, Cheong-o raised a fist to cover a laugh that had escaped before he knew it. They looked so much like someone he knew.
“Hello, I’m Seo Cheong-o.”
“Ha, living in Korea, who wouldn’t know an esper like you.”
The couple introduced themselves with kind smiles. The moment he heard their names, Cheong-o froze — but it was so brief no one thought it strange.
“I’ve heard a lot. You teach the children baking?”
“We’re grateful for the chance. Sorry we can’t even shake your hand — our hands are like this.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Their embarrassed smiles reminded him of someone, somehow.
“If it’s all right, may I sit and watch for a while?”
“We don’t mind, but your clothes might get dirty…”
“Clothes can be washed.”
Cheong-o told the director he’d sit a while, then pulled out a chair and sat.
At first the couple acted awkward, conscious of Cheong-o sitting far off, but as time passed they naturally taught the children and baked bread.
Savory smells came from the oven holding the bread. While it baked, the couple and the children cleaned the dining hall. Wiping tables, sweeping floors. Everyone but Cheong-o was hard at cleaning up.
When the cleanup was done, they huddled together to look at the finished bread. The couple handed out bread, cooled just right, and milk to the children, beaming. Of course, bread and milk were set before Cheong-o, who’d been watching them.
“Don’t know if it’ll suit your taste.”
“You didn’t have to look after me too — thank you.” Bread and milk. A combination that suited him not at all. Someone lying in his room right now, maybe.
The couple glanced at each other, then sat near Cheong-o and watched the children. Torn to a reasonable size and brought to his mouth, the bread was sweet and savory. The couple checked his reaction out of the corner of their eyes, then, relieved, settled into comfortable postures.
“I heard from the director. You’re repairing the orphanage?”
“I had the chance to.”
“Thank you.”
What were they thanking him for — it wasn’t even their orphanage. Cheong-o rubbed the bowl in front of him.
“May I ask just one thing?”
“Of course.”
The couple answered readily.
“What got you started volunteering?”
“Um…?”
For a few seconds the couple only glanced at each other.
“If that was a difficult question, I apologize.” The wife was the one who moistened her dry lips and spoke.
“The truth is, we had a child…”
Her hesitating lips trembled.
“We lost him when he was very young… Part of it was hoping that coming to an orphanage, we might find him.”
“I think I asked an unnecessary question. I’m sorry.”
“No. When I see the children here, I can’t help thinking of our son, and it chokes me up sometimes…”
“Did you get help from the authorities?”
“Missing children are so common… As the years passed, there was no news.”
Cheong-o pulled a tissue over to the teary-eyed woman.
“We left a seven-year-old home alone — we were just so busy with work… I regret it every day.”
“May I know the child’s name?”
The woman opened her mouth, wiping her tears with a trembling hand, and Cheong-o shifted his gaze.
The man stretched out a hand and pulled the woman’s shoulder close. His hand soothing her — it’s not your fault alone — was tender.
“If we met again… I’d want to hold him and say I’m sorry, that I missed him. If only I could.”
“He was a frail child from birth, so I worry about him all the more.”
Cheong-o sat quietly, watching the man stroke the woman’s arm to comfort her. A strange sensation he had never felt in his life kept prodding at him.
By the time Cheong-o left the orphanage, the sunset had already faded. When he offered them a ride to their destination, the couple waved it off, saying they were fine. With a small smile and a farewell, Cheong-o got into the driver’s seat and leaned his head back.
When he learned why the couple had never been able to find their child, a hollow breath escaped him. Even that careless disappearance bore the marks of careful planning.
The sky that had burned red was growing steadily darker. In a space where the sounds of children playing in the yard no longer reached, Cheong-o rolled the window down a crack and pulled out of the parking lot.
The orphanage, where more lights were off than on, receded slowly into the distance.
***
(Photo) “I ate it all.”
He sent up a photo of the empty bowl, and the read receipt vanished at once. Eager eyes bored into the small screen.
Did you take your medicine?
His face brightened the instant he checked the reply. Tearing open the medicine he had set beside him, Se-hyeon swallowed it with water and sent a photo of the empty packet.
(Photo) “Took it.”
Thump, thump. While he waited for a reply, Se-hyeon took out the trash and tidied the bowls, keeping a careful eye on the read indicator.
Good boy.
What was that supposed to mean. His steps felt light as he walked across the floor. Phone in hand, Se-hyeon finished brushing his teeth and took out the uniform hanging in the closet, running his fingers over it.
The new uniform he had bought for him. A custom-made uniform tailored to his body.
The day was finally approaching when he would get to wear it, after keeping it in the closet ever since it arrived. And not just for a few hours — for a gate that could take days. In the meantime Se-hyeon had been back to the hospital once more, and his cold was nearly gone.
Cheong-o had tried to ignore Se-hyeon’s visibly crestfallen face when he said he could handle it alone — and failed.
It was obvious Se-hyeon would only be a burden in the gate, but he clung stubbornly to his insistence, and though Cheong-o sighed in disapproval, Se-hyeon would not budge.
He was rubbing at his sleeve, eager to wear the uniform even though he dreaded the gate, when the phone he had tossed on the bed buzzed briefly. There was only one person who would contact him.
Don’t come to the Center tomorrow. Wait in front of the residence.
Why would tomorrow be different from last time, when they had all left from the Center? Lying on his stomach, kicking his legs, Se-hyeon tapped at the screen.
Why?
The reply came quickly, as if he had expected the question.
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