One: April 5, 2043

Minjeong saw it coming.

It was in the way she could barely raise her hand, the heart shattering weakness in her voice, and the way she showed a dazed-like beam as she laid on the hospital bed with her head sinking into the pillow. Minjeong knew these declines in her state and abilities foreshadowed the inevitable day she never wanted to come: her Ugi’s death.

Still, Minjeong knew it was Ugi’s time. In fact, she thinks Ugi passed away at the right time. With her being 79 and Minjeong being 29, an adult who has long been standing on her own two feet. Ugi has suffered long enough, both of decades of sorrow that she never explained to Minjeong and of old age.

Minjeong crossed the street along with a crowd of different people who were just beginning their day, causing her to sonder. Some were on their way to work, suitcase in hand; some were on their way to school; some were on their way to a diner to grab a plate of breakfast; and Minjeong? She was on her way to her Ugi’s funeral.

She remembered everything about Ugi the moment the wind blew and brushed on her face, reminding her of the touch that raised and cared for her in the most tender of ways and displacing her scarf a little. Minjeong fixed the source of warmth around her neck, securely tucking it in place to fight off the cold, as she thought of the first time she met Ugi.

It’s a day she will never forget: Minjeong was 5, Ugi was 55. A friend’s mom had just dropped off Minjeong at her mother’s workplace, an art studio where Ugi was also working as an art restorer at the time. Minjeong can still remember the somber and heavy atmosphere of the place the moment she walked past the entrance doors, she can remember how everything got heavier when Dami, her mother, was nowhere to be found anywhere around the studio. All the artists and workers were sporting looks of concern and sympathy for the then 5-year-old Minjeong. As young as she was, Minjeong still got a hint of what was going on. She just didn’t expect that the absence of her mother was already permanent.

Dami didn’t have a husband, or any other kids. The only person she had was her daughter, Minjeong. But the moment her plane crashed on her way to Amsterdam to meet up with a potential client together with three other artists from the studio, Minjeong was left all alone. No father, no siblings, no uncles or aunties, no one.

Amidst the sympathetic stares of everyone inside the studio, Ugi or Seulgi, was the only person to do something about it. She carefully approached Minjeong on the waiting bench, the same spot where Minjeong would wait for her mother Dami whenever work hours would get extended or she’d arrive earlier than expected, before she kneeled in front of the toddler. It was heartbreaking for her, but Seulgi still found the strength to calmly explain the situation to Minjeong. Knowing that Dami was a single mom who only had one child, Seulgi instead asked if Minjeong had other relatives, cousins, uncles or aunties, or even close family friends who can foster her. The answer was brief and shattering: no one.

That’s when Seulgi took matters into her own hands. She didn’t care if she was already 55 and five years away from retiring. She was much like Minjeong anyway, alone. Seulgi never married; she never had any kids either. Dami has always been like a sister to Seulgi despite the enormous gap in their age. Seulgi knew she had to take care of Minjeong for as long as she can, for as long as Minjeong needs her.

It’s been 24 years. Still, Minjeong knows to herself that she still needs her Ugi. Not to sustain her needs, not anymore, but to just be there for her because Ugi is the only family she has left. It would still be nice to have someone she can call auntie, someone who will continue to treat her like her own daughter, Minjeong thought. Someone who will continuously look after her even if she can live on her own now. 24 years aren’t enough. For her, it will never be enough.

The moment she arrived at the funeral shrine, a few people have already gathered and are seated on their respective seats. The wind continued to blow, rattling leaves on brittle branches, causing them to freefall in the cold air and paint the event with an even tenebrific tone. As Minjeong neared the ceremony that was about to begin, a man around her age quickly approached.

“You’re just in time. I saved you a seat, too.” Sungchan, her best friend, gave her a small smile. “Have you eaten?”

Minjeong curtly nodded, “At home.” Her eyes were fixed on the coffin that was getting closer and closer, “Is it almost time?” She looked up to Sungchan.

“Yes.” He answered, his voice faint and low. Sungchan then directed his gaze to a man in black, “The pastor was just waiting for you to arrive.” He gestured to him with his head.

Minjeong followed the direction of Sungchan’s head and saw the pastor conversing with a visitor.

“I see.” Minjeong responded in the same faint way before gulping, swallowing the tears that she saved for later. “Let’s get this done with.”

It was a typical funeral. Everyone had puffy eyes and white handkerchiefs in their hands. White roses were thrown over Seulgi’s coffin before myriads of soil finally buried her six feet under. Minjeong’s tears began to fall shortly after and immediately, Sungchan had a comforting arm over her shoulder to console his best friend. In spite of her watery eyes, Minjeong was still able to identify the people in the crowd: they were her Ugi’s friends, relatives, and sole brother that Minjeong hasn’t seen in a long while. Some of which were her own friends, the closest ones from college that Seulgi met and cared for like her own children whenever they would come over to their house to study or simply hang out.

Through it all, Minjeong could only think about how much she was going to miss Ugi and everything about her. There will no longer be someone calling Minjeong to dinner by her bedroom’s doorframe, no more unlimited sujebi during lunch and rainy nights, no more hearty and humorous conversations as she washes the dishes, no more piano melodies on weekends, no more warm embraces on melancholic nights, and no more half the life that their house used to have. Minjeong will forever be thankful to Seulgi for adopting her that day, for teaching her everything that she carries with herself today, for sending her to school, for making sure she’s well fed every day, for making sure she had the nicest of things from toys when she was young to clothes and shoes when she grew up, for treating her like she was Seulgi’s own daughter, her own family.

Once everyone leaves and the ceremony ends, Minjeong will go home to an empty house, and she knew that things will never be the same again.

“Thank you for coming. Please take care.” Minjeong repeatedly told the departing guests the moment the funeral was over. As she watched each and every guest leave, she can’t help but think that maybe most of them also lost a part of themselves; the very place where her Ugi once was, especially those who were close to her.

It wasn’t until majority of the people have left that she noticed someone other than Sungchan had stayed behind, Garam Kang, Seulgi’s only brother.

“Minjeong-ah,” He faintly called. The man himself was also growing old and weak, but he still had enough strength to smile the same way Seulgi did. He clutched his cane the longer he walked. Minjeong met him halfway to spare the man the trouble and pain of arthritis. 

“Hello, uncle.” Minjeong greeted him with a polite bow and her first smile of the day. “Did you come alone?” She came closer in case Garam needed some support, Sungchan did the same.

Garam shook his head, “My son’s waiting inside the car.” With an almost shaky hand, he took out a crisp envelope from the wide pocket of his coat.

“I visited Seulgi last week at the hospital. She specifically wanted me to give you this today.” The old man handed Minjeong the item in his hand. The latter immediately noticed her nickname written in bold ink on the back of the envelope. Mindoongie. Her heart twitched at the sight, knowing very well that she will no longer hear the only voice that called her that.

She accepted the envelope with both hands accompanied by a deep bow.

“It seems like there’s more she wanted to tell you after your last visit.” Garam explained, both hands landing on the marble handle of his cane. “Whatever t