Joon-ho turned five in the autumn of the fourth year they lived in the Hokkaido house.
The forest around them had grown thicker, the cedar trees taller, the path to the stream more worn from small feet running ahead. The boy had changed from a toddler into a child—long limbs, quick laugh, endless questions. He no longer fit in Ji-eun's lap the way he used to; now he sat beside her on the engawa, legs dangling, asking things that made the adults exchange silent looks over his head.
That morning he sat between Ji-eun and Min-jae at breakfast, spooning rice and miso into his mouth, eyes bright. He looked at Ji-eun suddenly.
"Mama, why don't I have a grandma like in the books?"
Ji-eun's spoon paused halfway to her mouth. The room went still. Dad's chopsticks stopped moving. Yumi looked down at her tea. Min-jae's hand tightened on his cup.
Ji-eun set the spoon down carefully. Pulled Joon-ho closer. Kissed his temple.
"Your grandma—my mama—went to heaven a long time ago. Before you were born. She would have loved you so much."
Joon-ho frowned.
"But Papa has a mama too? Where is she?"
Min-jae answered this time—voice steady, but quieter than usual.
"My mama also went to heaven. When I was little. Like you are now."
Joon-ho looked between them.
"So I only have one grandma? Oji-san's mama?"
Dad cleared his throat.
"My mama is far away. She's old now. She doesn't travel anymore."
Joon-ho thought about that. Then looked at Yumi.
"Onee-chan has a mama too, right? Where is she?"
Yumi's hand trembled on her cup. She looked at Ji-eun—asking permission without words.
Ji-eun nodded once—small, gentle.
Yumi leaned forward.
"My real mama… she left a long time ago. Before you were born. She wasn't safe for us. So Mama—Ji-eun—became my mama. She chose me. Just like she chose Papa and Oji-san. We chose each other."
Joon-ho blinked.
"So Mama is everybody's mama?"
Ji-eun smiled—soft, sad, proud.
"In a way, yes. I love all of you the same. You're my family. My heart."
Joon-ho thought about that. Then smiled—big, bright.
"I love you too, Mama. All of you."
He hugged her tight. Then hugged Min-jae. Then Dad. Then Yumi.
The moment passed. Breakfast continued. Joon-ho chattered about wanting to catch fireflies again tonight. The adults smiled, nodded, answered—but the question lingered in the air like smoke.
Later that afternoon, while Joon-ho napped, the four of them gathered in the living room. No preamble. No small talk.
Ji-eun spoke first.
"He's starting to ask. Not just about grandmas. About why we don't go to town. Why we don't have friends. Why the news on the radio never mentions normal things like school or parks. He's smart. He notices."
Min-jae nodded.
"He drew a picture yesterday. Us. The house. And a big question mark outside the gate. He asked what it meant. I told him it was the unknown. Things we don't know yet."
Dad rubbed his jaw.
"We can't keep dodging forever. He's five next spring. He needs school. Friends. A life."
Yumi looked at Ji-eun.
"But if we enroll him… they'll run his name. His face. Someone will recognize him. Or us."
Ji-eun stood. Walked to the window. Looked out at the forest—green and endless.
"Then we don't use his real name. We don't use ours. We create new ones. We move to a village. Small. Remote. Where people don't ask questions. Where records are paper, not digital. Where a family can arrive and be left alone."
Min-jae stood beside her.
"And if someone recognizes us?"
Ji-eun turned to him.
"Then we fight. Like we always have. But we give him a chance first. A real childhood. Before he starts asking why his family never leaves the house."
Dad nodded slowly.
"I'll make calls. Quiet ones. Old contacts. Find a village. A school. New papers."
Yumi looked at Ji-eun.
"You're sure?"
Ji-eun looked at the crib—Joon-ho sleeping, small hand curled near his cheek.
"I'm sure."
That night, after Joon-ho was asleep, the four of them gathered on the futon in the master bedroom. No words at first. Just touch. Ji-eun lay in the center. Yukata open. Naked. Waiting.
Min-jae knelt between her legs. Kissed her inner thigh. Then higher. Tongue slow along her slit—tasting her warmth, her arousal. Ji-eun sighed—long, soft.
"Yes… taste Mommy… slow…"
Dad moved to her head. Kissed her lips—deep, possessive. Hands on her breasts—squeezing gently, thumbs brushing nipples. Milk beaded. He leaned down. Sucked one—slow pulls.
Yumi straddled Ji-eun's thigh. Rubbed herself against it—slow, needy. Kissed Ji-eun's other breast. Sucked the nipple—milk flowing.
Ji-eun's hands found them—Min-jae's hair, Dad's shoulder, Yumi's back.
"Love me… all of you… make me feel everything…"
Min-jae licked deeper—tongue circling her clit, dipping inside. Dad sucked harder—milk sweet on his tongue. Yumi rocked faster—moaning softly.
Ji-eun's moans were quiet—restrained—but full of love.
"I'm close… don't stop… make Mommy cum… together…"
They worked her—slow, loving, synchronized.
Ji-eun came—soft cry, body trembling, pussy pulsing against Min-jae's tongue, milk spraying from her breasts.
They held her—sweaty, connected, breathing hard.
Ji-eun looked at them.
"Tomorrow we start planning. New names. New village. New school. For him."
Min-jae kissed her.
"For him."
Dad nodded.
"For all of us."
Yumi kissed Joon-ho's monitor.
"For our little brother."
They slept—tangled together, baby breathing softly in the next room.
But as the clock passed 3:00 a.m.—
The baby monitor crackled.
Not breathing.
A voice.
Soft. Whispered.
A child's voice.
Joon-ho's voice.
"Mama… there's someone in my room."
Ji-eun sat up—heart slamming.
The monitor showed the crib.
Empty.
Joon-ho was gone.
To be continued…
Joon-ho is missing from his crib. The monitor shows an empty room. The family wakes to silence and terror. Someone took him in the night. Who has the boy—and what do they want in exchange for his safe return?