Other people's sorrow isn't mine, so it wears away quickly. I saw your eyes swollen red as you greeted mourners as the chief mourner, but the next thing that came to mind was the spoiled milk in the fridge. I hated my own mind for that. It felt unfair that you were already in the middle of the night while I was still lingering in the early evening—that we were in the same space but living in different times.

It's not my fault. Those words are worn smooth from how often I've stroked them. The elder in the portrait was kind even to me, whom everyone else saw as a nuisance, and I respected them. The reason I'm still in the early evening isn't because I lack respect. It's because you went into the night first, making me the only bad guy. I muttered that to myself, wanting to believe it.

I knew it from the moment I stepped into the entryway. While I was taking off my shoes, the conversation in the room paused for a moment; no one greeted me, but no one told me to leave either. Whether back then or now, I was a thorn in their side, even though it wasn't my fault.

Maybe it was because I wanted to deny that, but I stayed until the very end. I carried bowls of yukgaejang for three days, and only after the last mourner left did I realize I was the one who had stayed the longest.

So, the fact that I was the first to realize you had nowhere to go—that's not my fault either. I didn't listen on purpose; I just happened to be standing there. You didn't welcome me. Even knowing that, the reason I left the entryway light on behind you as you carried your bags in was simply because it was dark. I clearly said this was temporary. Even though those words have been stretching on for ten days now.