Daddy, Don't Go
Daddy! Don't go! ……………
Daddy had come back. And now he was trying to leave again.
Kim Bom knelt before the altar, illuminated only by a single candle. The black-and-white photo of her father flickered in the trembling flame.
In her mind, Yeoreum's words from a few hours ago echoed relentlessly.
The emotes were a hit. I made money. From now on, I'll make a ton. So I'm leaving this rural backwater with no internet... leaving his daughter behind... for Seoul.
……………
About twenty years ago, on an afternoon when she was six. In a rundown rural house with barely any furniture. Kim Bom lived there alone with her father. She had no memory of a mother. She'd never met any relatives.
Her father knelt down to meet her eye level. His pale face, his ragged breathing. She still couldn't forget it.
"Bom-ah, Daddy's feeling really sick today. Really sick."
Little Kim Bom looked up at him.
"If Daddy collapses or passes out... call 119, okay?"
Kim Bom nodded. Her father swallowed a few pills and slumped onto the sofa. Soon his eyes closed, and his breathing grew steady. He seemed to have fallen asleep.
The house was wrapped in silence. The ticking of the wall clock's second hand, distant barking dogs, children's voices outside the window.
To six-year-old Kim Bom, the quiet house was unbearably boring. No toys. The old TV was tiny, with no fun channels. She'd read all the picture books. There was nothing to do.
Still, she held out. For about thirty minutes. But a child couldn't endure longer than that.
Finally, her little feet headed for the door.
Just a quick play outside, and it'll be fine.
That's how she convinced herself. Turning the doorknob let sunlight flood in.
Friends were outside. Huhaeri Village was depopulated now with aging and decline, but twenty years ago, kids weren't that rare.
They were jumping rope. Kim Bom dove right in.
……………
Play was fun. Jumping rope, throwing stones, playing in the dirt. The sun began to set. The sky turned orange with dusk.
When someone said they were heading home, Kim Bom stood too. That's when she noticed the changed sky.
Already? The sun's down?
Her heart sank. Daddy might be awake. She might get scolded for sneaking out without permission.
Kim Bom ran on her short legs. Out of breath, but she didn't stop. Home came into view. Still quiet.
She burst through the door.
"Daddy! I just played for a bit!"
The house was silent. No lights on. No father on the sofa.
"Where'd Daddy go?"
She checked the kitchen. Empty. Bathroom door—empty too.
"Daddy?"
Finally, she went to Daddy's room. The door half-open. Peeking in—
Daddy lay on the floor.
"Daddy, why're you sleeping there?"
Kim Bom approached and shook his arm. No response.
"Daddy, get up. You'll catch a cold sleeping there."
Still nothing. Her hand touched his cheek. It was cold. Ice-cold.
"Daddy?"
She shook harder. His head lolled limply to the side. Eyes half-open, but not seeing her.
Six-year-old Kim Bom didn't know death. But she knew something was wrong.
Like in hospital play, she pressed her ear to his chest. No sound.
"Daddy, get up."
Tears came. She didn't know why she cried. Just scared.
"Sorry. I just wanted to play a little. I won't go out again."
Daddy didn't answer.
……………
Only after everything was over did Kim Bom realize. Daddy had died. And it was her fault.
If I hadn't left the house. If I'd stayed by Daddy's side. If I'd called 119 sooner.
An unbearable guilt for a six-year-old. And Kim Bom still hadn't escaped it.
The candle flickered, shadows dancing on her face at the altar. A smile formed on her lips. Just like her usual bright one—corners upturned, dimples appearing.
But even as she smiled, transparent tears streamed endlessly down her cheeks.
Kim Bom touched her face. Wet.
……………
After losing her father, Kim Bom received a divine calling and became a shaman. She thought accepting the spirits would bring peace. Free her from the guilt of killing her father.
But nothing changed. She still dreamed of that room where he collapsed. Still felt the cold cheek on her fingertips.
She endured. This was her karma.
Through her teens, twenties, to today.
Kim Bom pulled out her phone, looked at Yeoreum's photo. Snuck at the market a few days ago.
Then her gaze shifted to the black-and-white photo on the altar. Father's face and Yeoreum's. They didn't match physically. Of course not—different builds, ages.
But Kim Bom saw it. Beyond the flesh... the essence. The soul.
From the first meeting at the bus stop.
And not just that. The name, the chronic illness. Being an orphan. Overwhelming evidence.
Yes. The gods hadn't abandoned her. They'd accepted her atonement. Rewarded twenty years of prayers and tears.
With Father's reincarnation... named Yeoreum.
Of course, this logic was known and believed only by Kim Bom. Everyone else would call it nonsense.
But it didn't matter to her. It was undeniable truth to her alone.
The candle flickered. Kim Bom breathed deeply. Tears stopped. Her mind cleared.
"Daddy died because I left his side."
The murmur slipped from her lips.
"If I separate from Daddy again this time... it'll happen again."
Her logic was simple. Yeoreum was Daddy's reincarnation. He didn't remember due to reincarnation, but he was definitely her daddy. The previous-life daddy died when she left his side. So Yeoreum, as reincarnation, would die if separated from her.
Absurd logic. But absolute truth to Kim Bom alone.
"Daddy said he's going to Seoul."
Success, money, leaving this rural Huhaeri.
She couldn't let that happen. Absolutely not.
"I won't let him leave."
Kim Bom clenched her fist.
"This time it's different. I'll hold on no matter what. I won't let us part no matter what."
She wouldn't repeat that day twenty years ago—clutching her cold father's body, wailing.
She'd stop it, by any means.
And at that moment.
A strong gust blew through the wide-open window. Whoosh—
The altar candles snuffed out in unison. The room plunged into darkness.
In the pitch black, only Kim Bom's eyes gleamed faintly.
……………
Saturday afternoon. Warm sunlight bathed Kim Bom's courtyard.
Yeoreum lay on the porch, arm pillowed under his head, on his side. His face peaceful. No worries, no cares.
Kim Bom stood beside him. Motionless. Just gazing down at his sleeping face.
Daddy.
Her lips moved silently.
Ten minutes passed. Yeoreum still deep in nap.
Finally, she moved. Into the living room, to a dusty old closet in the corner. Grasped the handle—creak, it opened.
Dark inside. Her hand reached deep, fumbling. Pulled out a black bag.
Unzipped. Thick twine. Nylon rope. Blue duct tape. Cable ties.
First, the twine. Rough texture scraped her palm. She murmured an apology inwardly.
Sorry, Daddy. But I have no choice.
Yeoreum said he was going to Seoul. Money, success, leaving this place.
She couldn't allow it. It'd be like twenty years ago. Father died when she left his side. Same this time. Yeoreum would die the moment they parted.
Her unshakeable conviction. Her personal truth, no matter what anyone said.
Twine in hand, Kim Bom headed back to the porch. Yeoreum still asleep, same position.
She knelt beside him. Wrapped twine around both hands.
Wrists first, then ankles. Quick, before resistance.
She leaned in. His face right there. Noses almost touching. His warm breath brushed her cheek.
Warm.
Her hand froze in midair. She looked again at his sleeping face. Childlike. Defenseless, pure, fragile.
Unknowingly, she dropped the twine. Thud. But Yeoreum didn't wake.
She stared at the fallen twine. Then back at Yeoreum's face.
Long time like that.
Suddenly, Kim Bom realized she couldn't move.
She was a shaman, but also a daughter. Harboring regret and obsession, yet guilt too.
In the end, her choice—