Chapter 37 - Chapter 35: Episode 34 - Story of Those Left Behind
"Mom, Dad, I'm home!"
Min-ah felt the phantom sensation of Seon-ah opening the front door.
She rushed out to the living room, her heart aching with the desperate hope of seeing her son after all this time.
But that was as far as it went.
It was just a cruel, fleeting dream.
A month had already passed since Yu-rin and Seon-ah vanished.
The Gate accident was the only lead we had—the final trace of the couple who were on the verge of marriage.
Yu-rin's car, abandoned inside the Gate near the highway, was the only proof they had been there at all.
But inside the Gate itself, there was nothing.
Monsters kidnapping humans was common enough, but I couldn't accept it. I refused to believe that my lovely son, Seon-ah, and my future daughter-in-law, Yu-rin, were just gone.
"Uheuhuhuhu... My poor Seon-ah, what are we going to do..."
My husband, Hyeon-tae, lay beside me, sobbing uncontrollably.
We didn't speak, but we were both trapped in the same nightmare, terrified to voice our darkest fears aloud. We were paralyzed by the thought that if we admitted it, we'd be sealing his fate—that he might never come back.
As a hunter, I knew better than anyone what monsters did to the men they captured.
Somewhere out there, Seon-ah was likely being subjected to horrors I couldn't bear to imagine.
"Ah..."
Tears streamed down my face, accompanied by nothing but broken, gasping sobs.
In my heart, I knew he was likely dead, but my soul refused to accept it.
History had never recorded a single human returning after being dragged into a Gate by monsters.
For all intents and purposes, he was dead.
That was why those lost in Gates were officially listed as missing.
Many families chose not to hold funerals, clinging to the desperate hope that their loved one might be the first to defy the odds.
We were no different.
Our only son, Seon-ah, couldn't possibly be gone.
We lived in a state of denial, telling ourselves it was a lie that our kind, gentle son had met such a cruel end.
Today, we finally invited the in-laws over to clear out the house where our children had lived.
Life had to go on.
Both our families had agreed to seek closure. We had to accept that Yu-rin and Seon-ah were no longer of this world, and it was time to pack away their belongings.
As parents who had both lost our only children, we were meeting to offer each other what little comfort we could.
I helped my husband, who had been a broken shell of a man for the past month, and prepared to head to Seon-ah's place.
My own eyes were swollen from endless nights of crying.
I was embarrassed to show up in such a pathetic state, but I forced myself to pull it together.
Hyeon-tae had fainted the moment he heard the news.
Since then, he hadn't been able to sleep or eat properly.
I wasn't doing much better.
I had taken a long-term leave of absence, caring for Hyeon-tae while visiting the highway where the Gate had opened every single day for a month.
I'd stand there, calling out his name, imagining he might be hiding somewhere, waiting to escape.
A month later...
Finally, we were ready to find some semblance of closure.
Yu-ra's parents were in the same boat, and after much persuasion, we decided to face this together.
We had to.
Hyeon-tae's health was failing rapidly from the grief.
If I didn't do something, I feared I would lose him too.
I made the agonizing decision, knowing that the living must survive.
On the way, I found myself lost in memories of Seon-ah.
He was a son who had grown up showered in love, never once causing us a moment of trouble.
He had my husband's delicate features and my eyes.
He was a brilliant student with a wonderful girlfriend.
He had seemed anxious before the wedding, as if something were weighing on him, but it was all in the past now. There was no point in dwelling on it.
Whenever the memories became too much, my vision would blur with tears, forcing me to pull over.
I couldn't let myself sob, though.
If Hyeon-tae heard me, he would break down too.
Sadness is a contagion, and I had to be the strong one.
Eventually, we arrived at the house near Han-il University.
Yu-ra's parents were already waiting.
They looked just as devastated as we did.
Their faces were gaunt, with deep, dark shadows beneath their eyes.
"You've arrived, sadon-nim."
Even though Executive Director Yu-ra held a higher rank, she addressed me with honorifics out of respect for our bond as in-laws, despite me being ten years her junior.
"We're here. How are you holding up?"
It was a hollow question; no parent could ever be "alright" after losing their child.
But bonded by our shared agony, they accepted the sentiment.
"I still can't believe it. That they just disappeared... It feels like a nightmare. A never-ending nightmare."
As Yu-ra spoke, her husband's eyes welled up with fresh tears.
"Let's compose ourselves before we go in. I don't think I can handle what's waiting for us inside if we don't."
I suggested we take a moment.
If we walked in now, we'd likely collapse the moment we saw a trace of our children.
We stood in silence.
Anything we said would only lead back to them, and we were all at our breaking point.
A while later, we finally approached the door.
Yu-ra tried the password, but it didn't work.
She tried Yu-rin's birthday, but the lock remained engaged. She looked at me, helpless.
I understood immediately.
I stepped forward and entered Seon-ah's birthday.
The door clicked open.
Even though they were gone, the gesture spoke volumes about how much they had cared for each other.
The house was cold and stagnant, having been untouched for a month.
We wandered through the rooms, feeling the lingering presence of our children.
We had decided to do this because we couldn't bear to just wipe away their existence without saying goodbye.
I supported my husband, who was sobbing uncontrollably, and led him into the bedroom they had shared.
I stayed by his side, whispering that it would be okay, that Seon-ah must have been happy here.
Exhausted by his grief, Hyeon-tae collapsed onto the bed and fell into a fitful sleep.
The Yu-ra couple sat on the sofa in the living room, staring blankly into space.
They were likely imagining the life their daughter and my son had built together.
Then, I spotted a camcorder pointed toward the bed.
I paused, considering it.
I thought it might contain happy memories from before their marriage—videos we could watch together to find some comfort. I picked it up.
We were staying the night, so I decided we would watch it together once Hyeon-tae woke up.
I found myself looking forward to it, despite the pain.
They were always so close; surely there were videos of them eating, laughing, and enjoying their youth?
Maybe memories of their university friends?
The anticipation was bittersweet, a reminder that I would never see those moments again.
Still, a parent always wants to see their child's happiness.
If I didn't watch it now, I knew I would regret it for the rest of my life.
Even if it was just a glimpse, I needed to engrave these memories of my son into my heart.
Hyeon-tae was still fast asleep.
I took the opportunity to check the rest of the house, exploring the other rooms and the veranda.
I returned to the bedroom and pulled out some of my son's clothes, clutching them to my chest.
They had long since lost his warmth, but in my mind, I could still feel the heat of his presence.
I wanted to show them to Hyeon-tae the moment he woke up.