He'd wear the hat he always wore. 
The ragged edges of the black hat are beautiful in his eyes. Ridges in which the dark fabric reveal the thinly woven strings are a memorable echo of the past and history. Then the faded initials of his name, the black ink smeared and blotted and dyed, resemble the familiar handwriting from the letters and notes he'd always received from her. The stiff brim is encumbered and untouched as the fragile covering of an hard boiled egg. And on the cap's panel resides -- in the smallest of font -- "Jeju."
When he closes his eyes and flashes back to the instant where the sprawling hills of grass were a luscious green, and the flowers were colored with a thousand varieties, and the sunset dipped at the rim of the ocean, melting into a million shades of gold, orange, pink, and red, he recalls having paid for his hat: a souvenir -- black as a bottomless pit of misery, agony, shame, sin, as black as the night sky where dreams dissipate and the living lose all purpose. 
Yet he wanted it: the black cap with the faint white letters spelling 'Jeju.' 
And when his sister, with her delicate hands, gracefully spelled out his initials into the back of the hat, he could already foresee the shame and dishonor and guilt that would accompany the loss of the hat. 
But then he'd lost her.
And it was his fault.

She wasn't entirely gone, however.
As pretty as she was, as angelic and beautiful and delicate as she appeared in his eye