The sound of coins clinking together as Hyukjae tips them from wallet to hand gets lost in the din of the shop, milk steaming and the rhythmic click of the espresso hopper, the beep of the warming oven and the cheery greeting of the barista from the front of the line. Hyukjae pushes the coins around on his palm, counting them out, hopeful that he has enough change to add a shot of syrup to his espresso. He shuffles forward as the line moves up, still three or four people deep.

(“What can I get for you?”

“Just a regular latte, please, and a chocolate muffin.”)

He knows the barista will add a dollop of milk to his shot for free, helping to mask the bitter taste. The sweet drinks always cost so much. He can swing an espresso though. Maybe he could do without the syrup, but what’s 500 won in the grand scheme of things, really?

(“I’m sorry, but we’re out of chocolate. I have blueberry, or what about a lemon scone?”)

Hyukjae yawns. Lack of sleep makes his nerves tingle, but he needs the caffeine to clear the fog from his head. As much as he’d like to wrap his hands around a warm cup of hot chocolate, hold that feeling all day at work and take it right back home to his freezing apartment, he’d also like to eat some lunch today.

(“... Oppa?”

“Hm? No, you must be mistaken.”

“What? What do you mean? It’s me, it’s your Hyesun.”)

He must have missed the blueberry-versus-lemon debate, because there are only two people ahead of him now, and the barista is asking the next person for her order. He’ll be fine, his paycheck will cover the heating bill when it comes in on Friday. He just forgot about it. Lack of focus, see.

“It’s me, it’s your sister, can’t you tell?! Are you blind?! Oppa, please - !”

The pitch of the woman’s voice rises over the sound of coffee beans in the grinder, and when the machine completes it’s task, a hush falls. Everyone watches in mild alarm as she steps towards the man waiting at the hand-off plane, looking bewildered, clutching a small pastry bag. The woman catches the sleeve of his coat with her fingertips, but it’s pulled easily out of her grasp when the man steps back.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, you’ve got it wrong!”

“No, oppa please, why are you saying this?” she wails, lunging for him, clinging to his shoulders, face wet with tears.

“I don’t even have a sister!”

That seems to have done it. Anguish rips from , grip loosening with a sudden weakness. The man looks shaken and pale. He grabs his latte and turns, hesitating a little, but a man from the back of the line steps forward to corral the hysterical woman out of the way. The man she thinks is her brother takes this opportunity to slip out the door, letting in the cold air.

“N-next please,” the barista asks, mouth tight. The barista behind the espresso machine is staring at it blankly, hand curled around the knob of the steaming wand but not turning. Hyukjae doesn’t pay attention to what the person ahead of him orders, attention drawn to the woman who is now staring with wide eyes at the man who had corralled her. He doesn’t seem to be comforting her, though. He holds something in an outstretched hand, voice low and quick. Another loud “No!” tears from , which everyone now studiously ignores. She rips from his hand the paper he’d offered - something like a business card, maybe - and tears it in two, letting the pieces fall to the floor, followed swiftly by her tears.

Hyukjae looks away, now. The sound of her crying leads back toward the door, and when it swings shut it locks out the cold air and the wailing both.

He offers the barista a brief smile when he gets to the front of the line. She refuses his money, flaps a hand at her coworker behind the machine, who gets to work on pulling a shot for Hyukjae - mocha, milk, and all. He never thought he’d be a regular at a coffee shop, but there he is.

He drinks it in house. His thoughts split between the warmth, the bitterness not wholly swallowed by the syrup, and the silence that took the place of the woman’s cries. He glances down at his feet.

“Thank you, it was delicious, I’ll pay you back one day! Promise!” Hyukjae says, handing the empty demitasse mug back to the barista, who laughs and shakes her head.

“Have a good day! Pay it forward, okay?”

Hyukjae nods, waves, ducks to pick the two halves of the business card off the floor, and heads to work.

It’s not until the end of the day, when he pushes the door open to his apartment, that he pulls the card from the bottom of his coat pocket. He leaves the coat on, sits at the end of the bed, and examines them.

Placing the torn pieces side-by-side reveals a stark, borderless card. An address, a phone number. And one simple, elegant word: ERASURE.