There is a house. You wouldn't notice it. It doesn't stand out. It blends seamlessly into the urban tapestry, a canvas of identical brick facades and manicured lawns. The paint is chipped in the same places as its neighbours, the garden unkempt but not suspiciously so. Curtains always drawn, lights never too bright, a subtle anonymity that speaks of a life lived in quiet obscurity. The bins go out on the right days. Deliveries arrive and are signed for. The couple living there smiles at postmen and nods at passing neighbours, a performance of normalcy that is both convincing and chilling.
It is the kind of house you forget even as you stand in front of it, a house that exists in the periphery of your vision, a house that fades into the background noise of your everyday life. A house that holds a secret, a secret that is both terrifying and strangely alluring.
Inside, the quiet is too precise. Each room arranged like a still-life, a meticulous composition of furniture and objects, each in its designated place. Nothing out of place. It smells faintly of lavender and boiled barley tea, a scent that is both calming and unsettling, a reminder of a life lived in a carefully constructed bubble of normalcy.
Downstairs, the television hums static beneath a muted news channel, the flickering images a stark contrast to the stillness of the room. Eun Hye-won folds laundry into tight, perfect squares on the living room floor, her movements practiced and precise, a testament to a life lived in a rhythm of routine. Her hands move with practiced ease, as if she's done this for decades. Because she has. She's been doing this for a long time.
In the kitchen, Jang Min-jae rinses teacups with methodical precision, the sound of running water a rhythmic counterpoint to the silence of the house. The tap runs, a steady stream of water filling the sink, the steam rising from the surface like a silent sigh.
"Yeobo, you know she's remembering," Hye-won murmurs.
Min-jae nods without looking up, his gaze fixed on the task at hand. "She's always been strong-willed," he replies.
"Not stubborn. Not rebellious. Just... disoriented," Hye-won says.
"It happens," Min-jae replies.
There's no panic between them. No urgency. Only the soft, shared rhythm of a belief so deep it no longer needs reinforcement. They are in control. They have always been in control. They know what they are doing. They know what needs to be done.
Hye-won smooths a towel with her palm, her touch gentle yet firm, a gesture of control. "She still walks near the river. She looks at the faces. I think she's waiting," she says.
"She must be confused," Min-jae replies, "Poor thing."
She folds another towel. "She'll understand soon right, Yeobo?," she asked reassuringly.
Min-jae turns off the tap, the sound of running water abruptly silenced, the silence of the house settling back in like a shroud. He wipes his hands on a clean towel, his movements precise and practiced, a testament to a life lived in a rhythm of routine. He walks to the lounge doorway, his gaze fixed on the television, the flickering images a stark contrast to the stillness of the room. "And the boy?" he responded.
"He's resisting. Just like before," Hye-won replies, her voice a soft murmur, a statement of fact rather than a question. She's not surprised. She's expected this. She's been waiting for this.
"Some people take longer," Min-jae replies.
Hye-won lifts her gaze, her eyes meeting his, a silent exchange of understanding. She smiles, a gentle, reassuring smile that is both comforting and unsettling. "That's why we're here," she says softly.
They speak like caregivers. Like people whose task is sacred. And in their minds, it is. They are the guardians of a fragile peace, the protectors of a carefully constructed reality. They are the ones who know the truth, the ones who understand the darkness that lies beneath the surface of everyday life. They are the ones who are always watching.
In the basement, there are no locks. There is no need. People don't run when they forget why they would. They are content in their ignorance, their memories a hazy blur, their identities a fragile construct built on the foundation of their forgotten past.
A young man—barely twenty—sits in a wooden chair by the wall, his gaze fixed on the blank wall opposite him, his mind a blank canvas. His name was once Dong-hyuk. Now, he doesn't use a name. He doesn't remember needing one. He hums to himself, a slow, looping rhythm, a melody that is both familiar and unsettling.
Kkogkkog sumeora. Meolikarag boila.
The tune comes to him without effort, a melody that has been ingrained in his subconscious, a reminder of a past he cannot remember. He sings it like he's brushing his teeth, a mindless, automatic action.
He wears soft, worn clothes, nothing restraining. The sleeves are too long. He likes them that way. He's comfortable in his ignorance, his memories a hazy blur, his identity a fragile construct built on the foundation of his forgotten past.
Across the room, a girl—perhaps twelve—rocks gently back and forth, her gaze fixed on a puzzle she never finishes, her mind a blank canvas. Her name is Sun-mi. Or it was. Now, she answers to whatever is said softly enough. She's content in her ignorance, her memories a hazy blur, her identity a fragile construct built on the foundation of her forgotten past.
Sometimes they talk. Not in sentences. Just in questions that never seek answers. They are content in their ignorance, their memories a hazy blur, their identities a fragile constructs built on the foundation of their forgotten past.
"Do you like the yellow days better?"
"The yellow ones hurt my head."
"Mine too."
They nod together.
Above them, soft music plays through a speaker embedded into the wall, a constant drone that fills the air with a sense of unease. The couple call it ambient wellness. Others call it noise. They are content in their ignorance, their memories a hazy blur, their identities a fragile construct built on the foundation of their forgotten past.
There are seven rooms like this. Some with children. Some with adults. One with a man named Jae-hwan. He's fifty-three. He's been here two years. His original name still rests at the back of his throat, but he hasn't said it in months. He teaches the others how to tie knots, how to build paper boats, how to breathe through panic.
He doesn't try to leave. He tried once. It didn't work. No violence. Just silence. They took him back upstairs, sat him down, fed him soft porridge with anchovies and pear. Told him he was just tired. That people panic when they feel displaced. They never shouted. They never threatened. They asked him to stay. So kindly.
"We gave you a name when no one else did."
"We gave you quiet."
"We gave you peace."
He believed them. He still does. Most days.
Outside this house, the city lives in rhythms. Inside, time folds. Not all those who stay are broken. Some choose it. Like Han Ji-yul. Once a med student. Top of her class. Anxious. Lonely. No family. No purpose beyond the next exam. The couple found her on a bridge. Not ready to jump, but ready to disappear.
"You don't have to be who they told you to be."
That's what Hye-won said. Now, Ji-yul teaches the younger ones basic numbers. She sings to them. She helps them write new names they won't forget. She's not a prisoner. She's convinced she was saved. Even if she sometimes wakes up crying without knowing why.
Hye-won and Min-jae don't call it keeping them. They call it sheltering. Every name is chosen with care. Every room is designed with "emotional neutrality." They don't allow phones. Not because they fear contact. But because the outside world, they say, is toxic. It would undo the peace they've carefully built. No one is starved. No one is struck. No one screams. But no one remembers either.
Ji-ho once lived in the blue room. So did Seo Yoon. They were both let go. Not because they passed a test. But because the couple believed they were ready.
"Sometimes, they carry the lesson better outside."
That's what Min-jae said when Ji-ho left. Hye-won had simply nodded. "He'll be back, Yeobo."
In the kitchen, Hye-won lights a candle. Lavender. She places it on the table where a child once wrote her first new name.
"Do you think he's getting closer?" she asks.
Min-jae doesn't answer immediately. He pours tea into a white ceramic cup.
"He's remembering. But not clearly," he replies.
"The song is still with him," Hye-won says.
"It always is, we sang it after all" Min-jae replies.
She stirs honey into her drink again, her movements precise and practiced "Jagiya, should we retrieve him?" she asks.
"No," Min-jae says softly.
"And the girl?" Hey-won asks.
"She's nearly ready," Min-jae replies.
They sip in silence, the only sound the gentle clinking of their teacups, a rhythmic counterpoint to the silence of the house. They are content in their ignorance, their memories a hazy blur, their identities a fragile construct built on the foundation of their forgotten past.
Somewhere in the house, someone hums the tune again. Kkogkkog sumeora. Meolikarag boila. The air holds it gently, like a secret, a reminder of a past that is both terrifying and strangely alluring. The couple listen, their smiles both gentle and unsettling. They wait. Because they always do. Because they always have. They are the guardians of a fragile peace, the protectors of a carefully constructed reality.