Chapter 1 — Connection. And Traces

"Just someone... beautiful... someone worth waiting for all day long... someone who could smile so brightly..."

Thomas Lee's cafe, where I occasionally drop by to sing.

It's not the usual pop hits played here, but obscure tracks pulled from forgotten albums, songs that slip quietly into the air like secrets meant only for those who listen closely.

When I sing, I watch the people inside—each pair or group forming their own little world within the small space, absorbed in their own conversations. Some pause mid-sentence to truly listen; for others, the music is just a faint echo passing through their ears, unnoticed.

Then, mid-verse, I see them—a couple in the corner.

A girl crying. A man beside her, looking utterly lost.

At first glance, it's nothing unusual. Maybe he made her angry. Maybe he hurt her feelings. A common scene—man disappoints woman, woman cries, man stands there like he doesn't know what to do.

But after the song ends, as I walk to the counter for coffee, something catches my eye.

In the girl's hand—clenched so tightly her knuckles are white—is a slender white stick.

A pregnancy test.

Hmm…

I think I understand now.

But is he acting like this because he's overwhelmed?

Or is it because they're arguing over whether to keep it or not?

Once something piques my curiosity, it gnaws at me without mercy—an odd, relentless compulsion—and before I know it, I'm sitting behind them, holding a coffee cup, pretending to sip while eavesdropping.

The man's voice, rough and low with anger:

"So what? What are you expecting me to do? That I have to take responsibility?"

The girl's voice, trembling, on the verge of tears:

"You're my boyfriend. Isn't it your duty to take responsibility?"

Something about that phrasing strikes me as off.

Your duty… you of all people…

If he were the father, he wouldn't say it like that. Not with that distance. Not with that resentment.

My curiosity deepens.

"So now I have to take responsibility for your fat belly too? Get real. You can't even control your own body, and you expect me to carry that burden? That's ridiculous.

Just handle it yourself. We're not connected in any way."

He spits the words out, then storms out, the door slamming behind him.

The girl stays, frozen in her seat, her hands pressed over her mouth as she chokes back sobs.

Thomas approaches.

"Guest. Please, move to that back booth—the one with the partition. It's quieter. Take a moment to calm down."

He points to the farthest corner, the secluded nook we usually use for meals.

She nods weakly, picks up her bag, and stumbles toward it.

"David Park. Bring her a coffee. No—better yet, a lemonade."

Thomas lights a cigarette as he speaks to me.

"I'm not even a staff member. Why am I running errands?"

"...I'll buy you pork belly later."

I didn't agree because of the pork belly—though free food is always tempting. But helping someone, even in a small way, especially when it costs you nothing… there's a quiet joy in that. No reason to refuse a simple favor.

I take the lemonade from the kitchen and set it gently in front of her.

"On the house. Please drink it. Try to calm down."

She nods, barely.

Her white skirt is stained with faint, watery blotches.

Tears. She's been crying so hard they soaked through.

Her face is a mess—red, puffy, broken. I can't look away. I feel it in my chest.

"I'll bring you a wet towel. Wipe your face, fix your makeup. Or… would you like to wash your face properly?"

"...I-I'm okay... I'll just... go to the restroom and wash up..."

She rises unsteadily and heads toward the bathroom.

I return to the corner to sing again. Eric Song, two years younger than me, stands beside me with a cigarette dangling from his lips, ready to strum.

"...What are we playing?"

"...Hmm. Something. Just follow along. You know the usual setlist."

Eric Song calls himself a guitarist, but really, he's just the owner of a run-down PC bang.

"Streetlights... one by one... begin to glow..."

When I start singing On the Street by Zoo, Eric Song rolls his eyes but starts the accompaniment.

Most of the customers have left. Only a few remain—a college girl, maybe, sipping tea quietly, and a man in the back, smoking, reading something, already on his third cocoa.

"David Park, come here!"

Thomas suddenly calls me.

I'm mid-chorus, but I glance over, eyebrows raised—what is it?

"Now!"

He points urgently at the restroom.

...The restroom?

Wait. That girl... she hasn't come back.

I finish the verse quickly and step down.

Eric Song takes over, singing behind me.

"What's wrong?"

"That girl. Her bag's still there. She hasn't come out."

"...Now that you mention it, I don't think she's come out since she went in. Shouldn't someone check?"

"Exactly. So go check."

"Why me?"

"You're bigger than me. Stronger."

Unbelievable.

Damn it.

I knock lightly on the restroom door.

"Miss? Excuse me, miss?"

No answer.

Thomas hands me a keychain from his pocket.

No hesitation. I unlock the door.

Damn it. Should've labeled this key. Of course it's this one.

The door opens.

She's on the floor.

Collapsed.

"Shit. Miss? Can you hear me? Snap out of it!"

I lift her up, her body limp, and half-carry, half-drag her out.

Thomas, startled, swings open the kitchen's back door, and I carry her into the small staff room.

I lay her down. She's breathing. Her eyes are closed, but tears still slip down her cheeks.

"Call 119!"

I reach for my phone, but she stirs.

"Hic... I'm okay... just dizzy... sorry..."

She tries to sit up, eyes barely open.

"Wait. Stay down. Do you have anemia?"

"...Yes... sorry..."

I roll up a blanket we keep for cold nights and slide it under her legs. Then I run a cold towel under water and wring it out.

I place it gently on her forehead and look at her.

"When you come to, undo just one button. If your neck feels tight, it'll help you breathe easier. I'll cover you with a blanket—don't remove it, even if you feel warm. Just stay like this for a little while."

Weakly, she lifts a hand and fumbles with the top button of her blouse. I grab a thin summer blanket and drape it over her.

"You'll feel better soon. I'll bring you something warm to drink. You'll drink it, right? And… do you have someone to call? Family? Someone who can take you home?"

"I'm fine… really… I just need to lie down. I'm so sorry…"

Tears fall again.

Thomas and I stand there, silent.

The room is still.

Outside, Eric Song's voice fades into the quiet hum of the city night.

And in that silence, I watch her—her chest rising and falling, her fingers curled slightly against the blanket, the pregnancy test still clutched in her other hand, half-hidden beneath her coat.

I don't touch it.

I don't ask.

But I stay.

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