Lee Hyukjae sits alone on the terrace of his bungalow house. The autumn evening air isn’t harsh but chilly enough to nip at his sagging 78-year-old skin. He slightly shivers when a gust of wind breezes by. If his daughters were with him, they would have nagged at him until he came inside, into the warmth of his living room’s foyer. But he sits in place, listening to the wind lulling a nostalgic harmony with the trees while the stars are dancing and glistening in the night sky. He sits in place, wanting to be alone with his years gone by.

Earlier that day, he attended the wake of his ex-wife. As he bowed in front of her casket, he could only wish he had treated her better. She was a good woman, a loving mother, and a patient wife. Too patient for her own good, he thought bitterly.

Their two daughters, Eun-joo and Ji-hye, hated him when they were kids. Despite their young age, the girls knew for a fact that their father wasn’t entirely theirs. They sensed that a greater part of him was somewhere else—with someone else. But maybe it was because they were young that they noticed and refused to tolerate it, unlike adults who always choose to remain unseeing when the truth is inconvenient and too painful to accept.

He loved his daughters to pieces, of course. They were what kept him sane during the most difficult years of his life. He respected and loved his ex-wife, but it was the kind one learns through years of companionship. Through candid eyes, that love was mild and feeble in comparison to the quiet but profound devotion he felt for him. Looking at it in hindsight, he can admit now that it was not enough, no matter how much he proved otherwise. It was not the kind of love she deserved. She was right many years ago, before they divorced, that all the love he gave her were scraps from what was left of his heart. He spent all his love on Lee Donghae, and he was incapable—and unwilling—of loving someone else with the same intensity and selflessness.

A single tear falls from his eye. 

My Lee Donghae. It’s been quite a while since the last time he allowed the name to freely roam his mind. He lets the name roll out of his tongue, and he isn’t even half-surprised that the effect is still the same—blinding and penetrating—after all these years. Hyukjae always thought that nothing endures. Not pain, not misery, not even love. Everything must have an end, yet four decades later, and his devotion towards Lee Donghae still knows no bounds. Every trace of Lee Donghae lingers and continues to outlive all of his other memories. He remembers Lee Donghae when he has forgotten everything else. His Lee Donghae. The only person he truly loved. A lot of things have slipped from his mind but not a single line, a single seam, a single crease of Donghae’s face. Not the highs and lows of his voice. Not the gleam and the wrinkle in the corners of his eyes. Not his affirming, gentle touch and affectionate, soothing caress. Not his endearing smile. Hyukjae remembers them all too well as if everything just happened yesterday and not decades ago. His senses have dulled with age but Donghae remains brilliant in his memory, despite this in retrospect because when all was said and done, he couldn’t keep Donghae’s shine when it mattered. His name fills him with an equal measure of bittersweet longing, a piercing kind of pain marked by an immense feeling of sorrow and regret. In the end, he could only mutter an apology. It was all he could say.

If only I had been braver.