Scars of a Second Chance

PROLOGUE

Noeul woke long before the sky lit up. He lay in darkness, with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, the familiar weight already pressing against his chest. It had been there since he lost the two people he loved most, a wound that somehow hurt and consoled him at the same time.

He drew the curtains, letting the city lights spill in, brewed coffee, and sat opposite the tripod.

His brother’s portrait stared back, almost mocking, as if aware of his presence.

Today was the last day in this apartment—his lease ended early, and he had to clear out.

Around him, boxes of memories: some would go to his old room, now a storage space in his parents’ apartment, others to be gifted, and a few, more personal, to accompany him to the United States.

It took nearly an hour to finish the painting, a gift for their mother. At first, he had thought to paint both of them: himself and his brother, side by side, maybe even smiling, trying to summon a time that no longer existed. But the thought tormented him.

He dressed silently, slowly, almost ritually.

Outside, the air was so cold that his breath kept forming small clouds as he walked briskly to the parking lot.

He placed the painting carefully on the back seat, wary of smearing the wet paint.

He should have finished it yesterday, he had planned to.

But he couldn’t paint Gong. Though a year had passed since he left, the wound inside him was as fresh as the color on the canvas.

Alcohol had been his only refuge last night, and perhaps even this morning.

Every trip to and from the car with the boxes became an informal catharsis. Memories, some sweet, some heart-wrenching, Gong’s personal items, their hiking gear… all marked the end of an era.

The drive to the cemetery was silent. When the cemetery gate appeared, Noeul stopped the car, stepped out, and paused.

Each step toward the grave echoed with memories: the dawns they shared, the hikes into unknown paths, when nature gave them refuge and unspoken answers. Back when no words were needed. Back when there was no pain.

The gate was icy under his touch, but the shiver running through him wasn’t from the cold.

In the dawn light, he saw Gong’s grave, a small plaque somehow holding an entire life: laughter and fights, wounds and care, and so many things left unsaid.

Noeul had avoided this place for months. Today, he had to be here.

He stood before the grave, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. It felt strange, talking to a stone. To the silence Gong had left behind. His throat tightened.

“Hello, brother,” he whispered. “I know it’s early… but I thought, maybe, you’d like to watch the sunrise with me. Like before.”

He bowed twice, respectfully, then sat on the ground, legs crossed, staring at the horizon where the first light pierced the night. He imagined Gong beside him, not as he had been just before he died, but as he once was: joking, nudging him playfully, laughing at the smallest, most trivial things.

As dawn began to unfold, first in dark shades of blue, then orange and pink, a soft light wrapped around the grave. Yet Noeul’s chest grew heavier. He took a breath and spoke again, almost timidly, as if afraid the daylight itself might shatter his words.

“I must be crazy, Gong. A year has passed, and nothing inside me has changed. I want to hate you with everything I have. I know I should hate you! And yet… I miss you.”

His voice broke.

“I miss you so much it hurts. As if a part of me died with you, lies buried here beside you, and another part refuses to let you go. I can’t stop thinking about everything I never told you; everything I should have said.

How broken I am. How much I love you. How desperately I wish I could turn time back. ”

He froze, fighting the tears blurring his vision.

“I don’t know if you ever found what you were looking for,” he continued, his voice trembling. “I don’t know if you ever felt like you belonged anywhere, especially after Haneul’s death. But I hope… wherever you are, you’ve found peace. That you can finally rest.”

The sun rose above the horizon, flooding the cemetery with warm, golden light. Noeul felt the warmth on his face and closed his eyes, imagining it was his brother’s hand, or perhaps his smile, something familiar and gentle, holding him.

He stayed there a long time, crying silently.

When he finally stood, he touched the headstone, his hand lingering on the cold, heavy stone. He had thought he would feel lighter after coming here. But everything felt the same.

“Goodbye, brother,” he whispered. “I won’t come back.”

He turned and walked away, his shadow stretching behind him in the morning light.

As he left, a thought stopped him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

He knew where he had to go next.

In another cemetery lay Haneul’s grave.

Once, they had all been inseparable: him, his brother, Minho, and Haneul.

As they grew up, they felt like four pieces of the same puzzle, each completing what the others lacked.

His best friend had been the peacemaker, the one who kept laughter alive when everything grew too heavy.

When he died, the laughter vanished with him, replaced by a dense silence no one dared to name.

The drive to Haneul’s cemetery, unlike before, wasn’t soaked in quiet.

Noeul kept his eyes on the road, while rehearsing what he wanted to say.

He had imagined this moment many times over the past two years.

Every version had ended with an apology.

His hands tightened around the steering wheel.

Before reaching the cemetery, he stopped at a nearby convenience store.

Without thinking, he bought Haneul’s favorite snacks and a bouquet of flowers.

Noeul parked in silence and remained behind the wheel for several minutes. He wasn’t ready. The realization almost made him turn the engine back on.

He forced himself out of the car and let his steps lead him almost mechanically to the grave.

Soon, he stood before the carefully crafted headstone shaped like an angel.

The weight of lost years pressed down on him: words never spoken, memories of the four of them gaming, sharing secrets, making plans that once felt eternal.

“I’m…” he began. Now, standing before the grave, he couldn’t remember any of the things he wanted to say.

“I don’t deserve to stand here, Haneul.” The words escaped before he realized he had spoken them.

He could picture his friend’s face with painful clarity, the bright smile, the way he used to scold them whenever he and his brother fought.

His eyes settled on the carved name.

Haneul Lee.

The letters looked terribly ordinary. He knelt, letting his fingers trace Haneul’s name carved into the stone, following the letters as if they might grant him some fragile sense of closeness.

He had spent months convincing himself that coming here would make something easier. Instead, all he could think was that he had arrived two years too late.

“I should have come sooner,” he said, his breath unsteady. “I thought about you often, but… I don’t know. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.” His voice faded, the rest of the thought catching in his throat.

He crouched slowly, placing the flowers beside the stone.

“I’m sorry.”

The words sounded small.

Sorry for what?

For surviving?

For disappearing?

For not visiting?

For what Gong had done?

For what he himself had failed to do?

A cold breeze stirred the trees behind him. Without thinking, he reached into his coat pocket and found the packet of Haneul’s favorite snacks. His hand froze halfway.

“You’d probably tell me to stop blaming myself.” A humorless laugh escaped him. “You always did.”

Silence answered. His fingers tightened around the unopened packet.

“But you weren’t there.” The sentence came out more bitterly than he intended. His breathing became uneven. “You weren’t there when everything fell apart.”

He closed his eyes immediately.

“No… that’s not fair.” He rubbed a hand across his face. “I’m still looking for someone to blame.”

He stood there for several seconds, unable to breathe properly. His hands clenched, then loosened, as he remembered the nights after Haneul’s death, when he and his brother had tried to fill the void only to hurt each other more.

Then he shook his head.

“I’m sorry.”

He picked up the unopened packet, turned away, and walked back toward the car.

The silence followed him.

But so did a question he had spent two years avoiding.

If Haneul wasn’t responsible…

If Gong wasn’t the only one responsible…

Then where did the blame truly belong?