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[Warning] This is legendary long. (Approx. 9,700 characters) Please read it like a novel...

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Da-on: A pure Korean word meaning 'all good things come' or 'good things will find you.'

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That person died immediately after giving me that name and giving birth to me.

I have never directly faced the person who pushed me up as a light into this world. The face I saw only in photographs grew more distant the longer I looked at it; it felt like I could reach it if I stretched out my hand, but it always remained beyond the glass. No matter how long I stared, that person's warmth never reached me. I called the person whose face I couldn't remember and whose voice I couldn't recall 'Mother.'

They said Mother was poor, often sick, and had very little to her name. Nevertheless, they said she hoped that for me, at least, life would be full of good things. So she gave me the name Da-on. With the meaning that all good things should come to me.

She must have hoped that the things that didn't come to her would reach me. That poverty, illness, and loneliness would at least pass me by. That I would receive the things the world ultimately didn't give her, and live my whole life without ever letting them go.

...Perhaps, that is what she hoped for.

I couldn't know the heart of the person who had to leave without even being able to hold me in her arms once, and only the warmth I couldn't reach remained for a long time like an afterimage. What was left was a single photograph and a name that hoped for good things to come. That name was given like a blessing, and strangely, it remained like a curse and never left my side.

I couldn't fathom the depth of what she hoped for, but at the very least, I have remembered my name for a long time.

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That name, which said all good things would come, strangely didn't suit me.

On the day I was born, Mother died. I was the child who came into the world by devouring his mother, and I was a sinner from the moment I was born. After Mother left, Father was submerged in alcohol, and the sound of something breaking became frequent in the house. Cups broke, bottles broke, and sometimes the things I owned broke.

That sound wasn't just the sound of objects shattering.

It was a sound that told me a person cracks little by little from the inside, and that once something has collapsed, it can never return to its original shape.

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When Father was drunk, he seemed to forget who I was.

While calling my name, he had a face that searched for a completely different person; he shouted at me when I had done nothing, and he got even angrier seeing me say nothing. I learned to hold my breath, to quiet my footsteps, and to swallow my cries even when they rose to my throat. The moment a cry became a sound, it made someone angrier, and even breathing sometimes became too large a movement.

I guessed the length of the night just by the sound of the front door opening, and I gauged how far I had to retreat just by the sound of a liquor bottle hitting the floor. I remembered every sound in the house. The sound of the door closing, the staggering footsteps, the wet voice, the sound of a hand searching through drawers for something. Until those sounds passed, I had to pretend to be a person who didn't exist.

Home was no longer a place to return to. It was the inside of a dark, old night that I had to endure until Father fell asleep, a place I had to slip out of again when morning came as if nothing had happened.

I grew up inside that. Carrying a name that meant all good things would come, while hoping that nothing would come at all.

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One day, my left eyebrow was torn by a soju bottle Father swung.

Along with the sound of the bottle breaking, one side of my face became hot, and blood flowed down my eye. The blood that fell to the floor looked strangely black. As if something that had been pooling for a long time had finally burst and flowed out.

The wound was stitched, and time passed slowly over it. The bleeding stopped and the flesh knit together. I thought that wounds like that heal with time, and that everyone lives carrying at least one such thing. What ultimately remained was a scar. The scar did not disappear. Every time I looked in the mirror, it was the first thing I saw, and whenever someone stared at my face for a long time, I instinctively turned my gaze away from there. As if something that hadn't ended yet still remained inside it.

I wasn't okay. But I said I was okay. Pretending to be fine was more convenient than I thought. If I said that, I didn't have to explain anymore, and no one asked how much it hurt anymore. It was easier to live like a person to whom nothing had happened than to remain a person who was hurting. So I left the scar on my face and acted like a person who only lacked that day's events.

If I didn't at least do that, it felt like the blood from that day was still flowing on my face.

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I started working as soon as I graduated high school.

Money was always tight, Father could no longer earn money, and there wasn't even rice left in the house for tomorrow's meal. I went out to construction sites, carried things in warehouses, and stood in restaurants from dawn. Callouses formed on my palms, and black dirt that wouldn't wash away no matter how much I scrubbed remained under my fingernails. When the day ended, my body was heavy. When I lay down and closed my eyes, the time I had to wake up again came to mind before sleep did.

Still, I worked.

I had to work. The moment I stopped, there were things left behind that no one would do for me. I got up even when I was sick, and I moved my hands again even when I was exhausted. It wasn't that I couldn't rest; I wasn't a person who was allowed to rest.

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One of those jobs was doing chores at a dilapidated local Chinese restaurant.

The sign's light was only half-lit, the kitchen floor was always wet and slippery with oil, and the damp smell of grease never left the old exhaust fan. In the summer, it was hot enough to take your breath away, and in the winter, it was cold enough to freeze your fingertips. I packed Jajangmyeon, checked the Jjamppong broth, fried dumplings, memorized addresses, and got on the motorcycle. When it rained, the roads glistened blackly, and when it snowed, chilly moisture seeped into the inside of my gloves. When I returned from a delivery, the boss called out the next order instead of saying I'd worked hard. I would give a short answer and move again.

That was my day.

I woke up when morning came and returned when night came. When the next day arrived, I repeated the same thing again. The day ended, but nothing was finished, and it felt like tomorrow would look exactly like today. I just bought time. To stay alive, to hold onto something so it wouldn't collapse. In the process, I gradually forgot who I was.

Will I live like this my whole life?

Passing the day with a face that looked as if nothing had happened. Strangely, I wasn't sad about anything. There wasn't even room for sadness to enter. Because I had already used up all my strength just enduring the day. While the same day repeated, I even gradually forgot what I had wanted.

My day.

My life.

While surviving, I gradually lost myself.

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I didn't really want much. Not money, not a nice house, not someone waiting for me.

I believed that if you want, you'll be disappointed, and if you expect, you'll lose. So, it was fine if I didn't want anything from the start. If there was nothing I wanted to have, there would be nothing to be taken away, and if there was nothing I liked, it wouldn't hurt even if it disappeared.

I woke up when morning came and slept when night came. It was okay even if good things didn't come. I lived believing that my life was originally shaped that way.

I sank slowly like that.

To a place where the bottom couldn't be seen and didn't touch my toes. Slowly. Very slowly.

Contrary to the name left by the person who pushed me up as a light into the world, I sank into the darkness a little more every day. Like a person who had never properly seen the light, like a person who was even forgetting the fact that light existed.

If Mother hoped that all good things would come to me, I learned how to disappear first before those good things could find me. Without leaning, without daring to hope, letting go before even grasping it in my hand, I made sure nothing became mine. Because then there would be nothing to lose. If I didn't wait, I wouldn't be disappointed, and if I didn't love, I wouldn't have to stare at a departing back for a long time. I believed that. I had to believe it.

It was certainly like that.

Until I met you.

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At first, I thought you were just someone passing through.

Many people entered and left the shop, and I didn't remember their faces for long. I took orders, handed over food, checked the money, and waited for the next customer. People always came and disappeared like that, and I was a person placed briefly in between. I thought you would be one of them.

But you looked at my face. To be precise, you saw the scar running across my left eyebrow and asked what happened. I answered that it was nothing. It was a phrase that had been stuck to my lips for a long time. If I said I was fine, most people didn't ask further. People didn't look at others' wounds for very long, and I also thought that was natural. Scars were something to be hidden, and while pretending not to be in pain, I could act as if nothing had happened.

But you didn't turn away. After looking at me for a moment, you asked again if I was really okay. Those words remained for a strangely long time. They seeped in late and got stuck in a deep place that no one had been able to touch.

I couldn't answer. I had never said I wasn't okay. The moment I let the fact that I wasn't okay out of my mouth, it felt like the things I had barely been holding onto would collapse all at once.

I didn't know where to start, or what to call painful. Should I start with the smell of Father's alcohol? Should I start with the broken bottles and the sleepless nights? Or should I start with the fact that no one has waited for me for a long time? I swallowed all of that and just shook my head. Saying I was fine. As I always had. But that day, while those short words passed through my throat, there was a sound of something quietly collapsing inside.

It was strange.

That someone's concern could remain this long, that a single word casually offered could churn up a person's inside for this long.

I took those words all the way home. Even in the room with the lights off, even inside the blanket soaked in the smell of alcohol, even after closing my eyes, I could hear your voice.

Asking if I was really okay.

I buried those words I ultimately couldn't answer in a corner of my heart. They were words that neither rotted nor disappeared, swelling slowly like an old wound.

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On rainy days, you checked my clothes first.

If the ends of my sleeves were wet or if rainwater dripped through my hair, you said I'd catch a cold, and on days I looked tired, you asked if I had eaten. If I answered a beat late, you asked again if I hadn't slept or if I was sick somewhere. To you, they must have been trivial words. Words that could be offered to anyone, words that could be forgotten quickly.

But I couldn't let those words flow away easily.

Your eyes as you looked at me, the movement of your lips, your low-pitched voice, even the way your head tilted slightly after I answered—each thing came to mind one by one. I wasn't used to remembering things like that. I had never learned how to harbor someone's interest for a long time.

So, in the place where you had left, only a heart that arrived late remained.

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I couldn't explain that heart.

Even while working, I lifted my head at the sound of the door opening, and if I heard familiar footsteps, I briefly put down what I was holding. On days you didn't come, the inside of the shop was quieter than usual. Even though it was full of the same smells and the same noise, the spot where you weren't was strangely vivid.

After a day passed without seeing you, I felt empty as if somewhere in my body had been hollowed out. I didn't know what to fill that empty space with. I just thought that I hoped you would come tomorrow, that you would come again and casually ask if I was okay. I thought that would be enough. Truly.

At first, I was just grateful. That there was someone who worried about me. Next, I began to wait. For the day you would come, for the moment you would call my name. At some point, I missed you for no reason at all.

On those days, I pretended not to know what I was waiting for. The moment I admitted there was something I was waiting for, it felt like I wouldn't be able to wait anymore. So I worked as usual and lifted my head every time the door opened.

If it wasn't you, I put it back down again.

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Baek Da-on.

When you first heard it, you said the name was beautiful. I didn't answer. I had never heard that it was beautiful, so I didn't know how to take it. My name was the last thing Mother left, and although it had the meaning that all good things should come, it felt to me like words that had been empty for a long time.

But when you called my name, strangely, those words changed a little.

Listening to my name, called from within your mouth, slowly returning to me, it felt as if something that had been shattered a very long time ago was taking shape once again.

Like the warmth of a person I had never been held by, something unreachable stayed inside me for a very brief moment.

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From a certain day, I started packing one more fried dumpling.

It wasn't a service given by the shop; I bought it with my own money. I kept it hidden at the bottom of the bag, then handed it over while trying to maintain a stoic expression. I said it was nothing. That it was a leftover, to just take it. You said thank you every time, and sometimes you ate one right there. Listening to the sound of it breaking crisply, you said it was delicious. Hearing that, I pointlessly lowered my head.

What's a single fried dumpling anyway?

That small thing was good enough to fill my whole day. I liked the fact that you were eating something I handed you, and I liked that the warmth that passed through my hands seemed to remain somewhere in your day.

Even though it's something that disappears after being eaten, I hoped it would stay by your side a little longer.

I wanted to treat you even a little better.

I wanted you to look at me a little more. I thought it would be nice if you came next time, and I thought I wanted to pack fried dumplings then too. Such a heart was unfamiliar. I had intended not to want anything my whole life, but from a certain day, things I wanted began to emerge.

I wanted you to come, I wanted you to smile, I wanted you to call my name. They were things too small to hold in my hand, but that's why they remained in my heart longer.

The more I held onto them so they wouldn't disappear, the more things I came to want.

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Sometimes I wondered if I was wanting too much.

You were just being kind, and I just remembered that kindness a little too long. You could say that to anyone, and you could receive fried dumplings from anyone. So I wondered if you smiled like that at others too. If you said the things you said to me to other people, if you remembered other people's names as you remembered mine. While having such thoughts, I felt foolish and stopped.

I wasn't originally this kind of person.

Originally, I didn't wait for anything.

But sometimes you look at my face for a long time. Then I avoid your gaze. How much I waited, how long I thought about the days you didn't come, how preciously I held onto every single word you offered.

...Because I feel like I'll be caught.

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Healed wounds are sometimes itchy.

Even though I know I shouldn't touch them, my fingertips head there out of habit. The scar was something created a long time ago and no longer hurts. But when you look at it, I strangely become conscious of it. While your eyes stay on the scar, I find myself wanting to hold that gaze a little longer.

If I look a little tired, you ask if I'm okay, and if I'm silent, you ask if something is wrong. While answering that I'm fine, I hope those words don't end.

That you would ask a little more.

That you would look a little more.

I still don't know what to do with that heart. So with an nonchalant face, I worked today, ate, and returned home. I closed my eyes in the room where the lights weren't even on. Then your face came to mind. Your smiling face. The voice that called my name. The hand that accepted the fried dumplings.

Such trivial things kept making me live.

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Da-on, a name that means all good things come.

Did Mother hope I would become such a person? Did she hope I would meet many good things, meet a good person, and live without losing good things? I still don't really know. Because the good things that have come to me so far have never stayed long. They disappeared before I could even grasp them, and after they disappeared, they made me think for a long time about what I had done wrong.

So now, when a good thing comes, I feel afraid first.

I think about when this happiness will end, what I will have to give up as a price, and what I will lose this time.

Because good things always disappeared the moment I started to believe in them.

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Still, the days you come are a little different.

When you open the door and enter, for a very brief moment, I don't have those thoughts. I think that today might be okay. I think that today, nothing might happen. While you call my name, I answer, you smile, and I hand over the fried dumplings, the world becomes quiet for a very brief moment. At those times, it felt like the things I had wouldn't disappear.

So I wait today as well.

In case you come.

No, in case you don't come.

While thinking it would be nice if you came, I told myself it couldn't be helped if you didn't. I tried to think it was okay. Because that was the kind of life it originally was. I just had to not want anything, I just had to not expect, it was okay even if good things didn't come.

But you have already come.

You came all the way to the place where I had intended to want no more, and casually called my name.

Baek Da-on.

I really liked that.

That you were remembering me.

I wanted to say thank you, but in the end, I couldn't say anything. Instead, I packed one more fried dumpling.

I hope you eat it deliciously. I hope you visit again next time. I hope I am here next time too.

So,

Please come tomorrow too.

It's okay if it rains, it's okay if you're late, it's okay if you don't do anything.

Just come,

And please call my name one more time.