“Appa, can I have an advance on my allowance?”

I tried to make my eyes look as convincing as possible as I begged my father to be more generous with my weekly stipend. He glanced at me from the newspaper he was reading and I smiled hopefully, only to receive a mischievous chuckle.

“Ah, Jiyong. You make me laugh,” I heard him say as he went back to browsing the paper.

I let out a frustrated groan and sat on a couch across him, my face contorted into a scowl. He finally put down the paper and said reprovingly, “You just maxed out one of your credit cards. I saw the particulars in the letter the credit company sent and all you bought were toys.”

“It’s what Omma would want,” I answered after a long pause. “If she was still alive, she’ll buy those toys. Besides, those are not just toys,” My voice hushed and my eyes lowered. “They’re collectibles.”

The silence between us was long, deafening and awkward. It usually is whenever Omma gets mentioned. It’s like the very word makes us mute.

My father heaved a deep sigh and said, “Fine, you can get your allowance in advance. But you have to work for it.”

My eyes lit up like a small child’s as I heard him agree and I smiled broadly. The smile died when he told me what I had to do.

It has been more than fifteen minutes since I arrived at the address given to me but I was still outside, staring at the house before me. If I would have to describe the house in one word, abandoned would be most proper. My father hasn’t used the house for a long time and making me clean it looked more like a punishment, instead of a job. I groaned inwardly as I opened the door and walked inside.

This would take a century to clean.

That was the first thing I told myself when I saw how dusty the place was. I slowly made my way inside the old house, dragging the cleaning supplies my father got me. If it weren’t for the extra money, I wouldn’t even bother going here, let alone clean it. I went upstairs, deciding which part of the residence I should clean first, and stopped on a room that was once a recording studio.

Everything was covered in dust—the control panel, the microphones, the swivel chairs—and the soundproof glass looked so dirty. I grimaced and wanted to back out but thought better of it, and began to clean that dreary place.

After an hour or so, I finally managed to clean half of the room. I wiped the sweat starting to form on my brow and moved to a drawer that I haven’t cleared yet. I started to remove the first and second drawers' contents and dumped it into a bin when I saw it was of no use to me. However, when I reached for the third drawer, I found it locked.

I got a bunch of keys from my backpack and tried every key into the hole. The first key fit perfectly and I let out a sigh of relief. I opened it, only to find a lone red book.

Curious, I flipped the cover and saw that it was a diary—my father’s diary. My curiosity got the better of me and I started to browse the journal.

“No dates?” I muttered as I turned every page.

What kind of a diary is this?