A Day Allowed to Be Sad
Someone once says it.
They remember their mother's smile, beaming down at them when they were still in swaddling clothes. They remember her big, warm hands clasped tight around their own as she walked them to kindergarten. The way she took their picture on the first day of elementary school. The way she scolded them with a stern face when they got into trouble — and then, moments later, came over to gently pat their back.
Whether or not any of it was true...
Yeoncheong had always envied them, truly envied them.
From her infancy, through her kindergarten years, all the way up to her elementary school entrance — save for a handful of precious moments — she could only squint up at the clouded sky of the past and murmur, I think it was something like that... Her memories were nothing but a blur.
And even those vivid, special moments were destined to fade beneath the steady accumulation of newer memories. Keeping them alive took deliberate, constant effort — turning them over and over in her mind so they wouldn't slip away.
Of course, that was simply how nature worked.
The age of entering elementary school is eight. That's a good deal younger than Yeoncheong was now. The few people who *could* remember that far back were the strange ones. Forgetting older, less important memories was only to be expected.
Life goes on, and so the memories pile up. You simply engrave newer, more beautiful recollections on top of the old.
So memories don't need to last forever.
But...
A human life is not forever.
Nor does it flow along smoothly, like a perfectly round sphere.
Some people are fortunate enough to close their eyes peacefully, surrounded by family, having lived out their days in comfort. But far more are swept away — by accident, by illness, by someone's malice, or sometimes by the tide of an era called war.
The absence left behind carves a great hole in the hearts of those who remain.
Worse still, because no new memories can ever be made together, the hole only widens as the old ones are painted over and fade into the blur of time.
In that sense, Yeoncheong envied those who remembered the past as vividly as if it were yesterday.
Because it saddened her that even memories spanning barely half her life were already growing dim.
Because she was afraid that once her small handful of vivid moments blurred, nothing would remain at all.
Because the memories she treasured most were so warm, so tender, that they brought a smile to her face just thinking of them.
Mourning her mother's death, the young Yeoncheong had stayed frozen for a long while, both hands clenched tight around the memories that slipped through her fingers like sand. For a child just barely reaching double digits in age, it was, in a way, only natural.
But time doesn't stop for the living. Life went on.
Stopping was something.
A child of barely ten — a child who hadn't even taken her first steps into the wide world, who hadn't so much as glanced at it — was in no position to do.
So her father made a proposal.
'If you keep crying like this, your mom will be sad. What if we set aside a day where it's okay to be sad? For your mom's sake.'
He was an adult. Her only remaining parent. A smart man, too — and yet even he couldn't fully grasp a child's grief, which is why he offered such an awkward compromise.
'Ha... I really don't know what I was thinking back then, agreeing to stop crying like that.'
Looking back now, she could only sigh — *adults really don't understand kids at all.*
Still, the words *your mom will be sad* had lodged themselves firmly in the ears of a crying child, so it hadn't been a complete disaster.
She'd visited every year without fail, without skipping once. By now, she felt she could navigate the corridor with her eyes closed. In the still, settled air, a quiet sorrow and solemnity coexisted.
Yeoncheong stopped mid-corridor and turned. Despite the unhurried steps that passed confidently between the rows of tightly packed urns, the corners of her once-steady eyes were slowly reddening.
What if someone saw her? On any other day, she would have scrubbed her eyes dry. Not today.
Her nose sniffled along with her reddening eyes — but today, she made no effort to hide it.
Stop.
The footsteps that had kept time like a heartbeat came to a halt. Yeoncheong smiled at the urn before her — a comical expression, equal parts joy and grief. Paying it no mind, she greeted it.
"Mom... hi. I came alone today."
Today was her Day Allowed to Be Sad.
It was the anniversary of her mother's death.
Whether it was the memories engraved into her body over the years, or simply the fact that she'd spent 364 days out of the year keeping a straight face — the reality was that even when she wanted to smile and say hello, her eyes reddened against her will.
Yeoncheong let out a small laugh and stepped closer.
'This might actually be kind of nice...?'
As she'd slowly grown taller, there had been a point where she'd found herself looking *down* at the spot. But now, her eyes met it perfectly.
'Should I try it?'
Her longing for her mother remained unchanged, but there was one gesture she'd grown hesitant about as the years passed.
She thought she'd still done it through elementary school — at least until her first year of middle school. But then adolescence arrived, and though no one ever said a word, she'd become self-conscious about the eyes around her, and gradually stopped.
By now, though, she was shameless enough to play the puppy at festivals, and with her current appearance, it didn't seem like anything to be embarrassed about anymore.
Yeoncheong glanced around cautiously, then took one more step forward.
Her small, soft hand touched the cold glass. Her eyes squeezed shut. And with her head slightly bowed, she began to murmur.
Transferring to a new school. Making new friends... Yeoncheong slowly, *very* slowly, unraveled everything that had happened over the past year, recalling each event as best she could.
Since they only met once a year, sniffling through the whole visit had been an annual tradition for the Yeoncheong of those days. So her father would joke that since he couldn't be seen from heaven, she should tell her mother everything that had happened — and Yeoncheong had believed every word of it.
Honestly... she couldn't quite remember whether she'd been that pure, or whether she simply *needed* to believe it. But she did remember, clearly, that it made her heart feel a little lighter.
Even now, as she murmured, her eyes were damp — but better than before.
Back in the day, she'd burst into tears, then start sniffling all over again just from recounting what she'd been up to. It struck her anew how much she'd matured in these past few years.
The last year had been the most tumultuous of Yeoncheong's entire life, so she stood there quietly, talking for a very long time.
How much time had passed? Yeoncheong wiped her eyes and took a step back.
"Ha... come to think of it, I got the order all mixed up. You must have been pretty confused when a random girl showed up out of nowhere instead of your son."
Given the place, talking to herself didn't look strange at all.
She took off her oversized coat — the kind that made her look like she'd completely given up on fashion — and set it on the chair in the center. A turtleneck sweater she wore often, and a black skirt. Compared to her usual nondescript hoodies and track pants, this was practically dressed up.
Yeoncheong stepped back to a proper distance and spoke.
"Dad keeps saying it, and so does the Board Chairman. That I look just like you, Mom. Is that really true? I just threw something together at first, then tried to dress it up a bit — I don't know if it turned out okay. Knowing you, Mom, would you have been fussing over me too, trying to dress me up in all sorts of things like my friends do?"
Maybe she felt awkward and self-conscious.
Her words were all over the place.
She spun around pointlessly, twisted this way and that, struck a pose with both arms spread out like she was balancing on a tightrope —
It was a side of her she never showed her friends.
"Phew..."
After fidgeting awkwardly for what felt like ages, Yeoncheong let out a sigh and dropped heavily into the chair. Her fingers fidgeted idly, and then, as if something had just occurred to her, she looked up.
"Oh, just in case you're worried — don't be. Dad and the Board Chairman are looking out for me. I mean... there's Mom and Dad's senior, too. And my homeroom teacher knows the situation and keeps an eye on me. I've even made some really wonderful friends."
Yeoncheong exhaled, paused for a beat, and continued.
"At first, I struggled a lot, wondering why this had to happen to me. But now... it's not so bad. Hmm, no... I'd even say it's been a good thing."
Yeoncheong smiled brightly, as if to prove she meant every word.
Meanwhile...
"Ha... we're screwed. We shouldn't have come in."
The friends who had been watching the whole scene from their hiding spot in the corner of the corridor couldn't utter a single word.
If anything, they wished they *hadn't* heard it. But even with some distance between them, Yeoncheong had been alone — so whether they wanted to or not, the words reached them.
It was the kind of thing that would justify turning down any appointment on the day of her mother's memorial. And knowing Yeoncheong's personality, she would have found it hard to suddenly bring up a memorial day to friends who didn't even know her mother had passed.
The puzzle pieces had finally clicked into place — but their expressions were dark.
"Damn it... *this* is why I said we shouldn't follow her all the way in."
"When did you ever say that?"
"Yeoncheong's mom... passed away?"
"This one wasn't in my predictions..."
Yeoncheong hadn't exactly kept it a secret, but they'd never pressed deeply either.
Death comes for everyone in its own order, but how many people their age have lost a parent? Living alone near the school, with a father said to be overseas — anyone would naturally assume the parents were just living elsewhere together.
"Ha... I really didn't want to believe it..."
Suyeon, who had somehow already known the truth, was the calmest of the bunch.
Nayun, who had been at the very front, turned around.
"Hey, shouldn't we bail before she catches us?"
"If she finds out we've been tailing her... ugh..."
Hasol shuddered at whatever mental image had just crossed her mind.
The consensus formed quickly. For now, they'd pretend they knew nothing and wait until Yeoncheong chose to tell them herself.
Just as they began tiptoeing backward, one by one —
"Come out."
Two clear, distinct words rang out from inside. Everyone froze.
They exchanged glances, half-wondering if she could possibly mean them — and then her voice came again, louder this time.
"Kim Nayun, Kang Hasol, Baek Suyeon, Yeon Seoha. All of you, come out."
It's you four I'm calling, so don't get confused. Yeoncheong had even kindly added their surnames.
Realizing escape was pointless, the four friends shuffled forward with their heads hung low, glancing about nervously like guilty criminals.
Yeoncheong looked up at them quietly from her chair. Her friends wanted to comfort her — her eyes were still red — but the mood didn't allow for it.
Suyeon, the ringleader of the surveillance operation, spoke up as their representative.
"Um... h-how long have you known?"
"A while. Since before Hasol showed up, I could see one or two silhouettes at a time. They were familiar silhouettes, so I was about ninety percent sure — but once Hasol appeared, it hit one hundred percent."
Once again, too many people had been the problem.
They'd had no excuse to begin with, and now they had even less to say.
"I'm sorry!"
Strike first — apologize before the other person can get angry.
Deciding that was the only path to forgiveness, Suyeon abruptly dropped to her knees. Hasol, Nayun, and Seoha, reading the room, followed suit one after another, kneeling before Yeoncheong.
"Hey, hey! Ugh... what are you doing!"
It would have looked utterly bizarre to any observer, so Yeoncheong rose from her chair and hauled each of them to their feet by force.
Wiping sweat as she pried up her friends, who were stubbornly resisting, Yeoncheong sighed in exasperation.
"Ha... kneeling first thing. So you *do* realize you did something wrong?"
"I'm sorry..."
"I never imagined we'd... end up acting like your moms..."
Her friends, still lacking in life experience, had no idea what to say and simply hung their heads. Yeoncheong, apparently disliking the atmosphere, waved a hand dismissively.
"It's fine. I never told you, after all. And if I'd really hated being seen, I would have caught you all and sent you home the moment I noticed you following me."
"Oh."
"I already told you all that you're wonderful friends, and... anyway. I don't want Mom seeing us bicker in front of her, so I'll let it slide. Just this once."
She'd had every opportunity to send them away. But she hadn't — because, just as Seoha had shared a story with them that she'd never told anyone else, Yeoncheong had made her own quiet decision.
These were friends who cared enough about her to trail her all the way here. Perhaps it was okay for them to know.
As everyone silently thanked her for her generosity, Suyeon — who had gathered everyone and planned the surveillance in the first place — was brimming with tears of guilt.
"Yeoncheong... I'm so sorry!"
The moment Suyeon, soaked through with regret over her needless suspicion, lunged at her, Yeoncheong shoved her friend away in a panic. Under normal circumstances, she might have accepted a certain amount of it. But today, *she* was the one feeling raw and tender, and it was too much.
After calming Suyeon down — and with Seoha leading the way, wanting to pay her respects even if only briefly — the friends each greeted Yeoncheong's mother.
Watching them made her heart stir all over again for no particular reason, so Yeoncheong promised to come back next year and hurried her friends out of the columbarium.
The moment they escaped the columbarium's characteristic atmosphere, the friends unleashed all the questions they'd been holding back. Of course, this was only possible thanks to Yeoncheong's blanket permission: you already know, so ask me anything.
"Why didn't you ever tell us your mom passed away?"
"You never asked. And what kind of topic is that for me to bring up first?"
"When did she pass?"
"The year I turned ten."
Why she was such an incredible cook: years of hands-on experience had honed genuinely solid skills.
And why, for all her time at an all-girls school, her resistance to women remained so hopelessly nonexistent — a good part of it came from growing up in an environment where it wasn't just her school but her very *home* that was all-male.
The more they heard, the more it seemed like a miracle she'd grown up this well-adjusted at all.
Which meant...
These friends — the very ones Yeoncheong herself had vouched for as *wonderful* — were never going to sit still.
They stroked her hair. They hugged her. They pressed up against her so closely that a passerby would have wondered what on earth was going on.
They'd braced themselves for some degree of rebellion. But Yeoncheong was so docile about it that Hasol, puzzled, studied her friend closely.
"Yeoncheong, when I saw her sitting on my lap earlier, I thought she'd totally adapted by now. But she's still this weak when it comes to this kind of thing?"
"Wouldn't it be weirder if I were *good* at this kind of skinship?"
"Still. There must be a reason... oh."
Hasol pondered for a moment why Yeoncheong could be so embarrassed by this type of touch — and quickly realized it. She used to be a boy, and growing up alone with her father had left a deep impression of her mother's absence.
"Yeoncheong. From now on, I'll pat your head plenty, so this kind of thing won't feel embarrassing anymore."
"May I respectfully decline?"
"Declining is not an option."
As if her opinion didn't matter in the slightest, Hasol flashed a meaningful smile — and then wrapped Yeoncheong in a tight hug so she couldn't escape.
"Ah! Me too, me too!"
Suyeon barged in, insisting she got a turn.
Then the other friends joined in as well...
In an instant, Yeoncheong had been reduced to something resembling a favorite stuffed animal, and a deep sigh welled up inside her.
'Ha... this is genuinely infuriating... I didn't tell them precisely because I didn't want them seeing me like this...'
Given the occasion, she'd expected it would be hard to break free if things escalated like this — but now that they were tangled around her even more tightly than she'd imagined, Yeoncheong had no idea what to do.