Chief Mourner at My Own Funeral
The scent of incense drifts closer.
Even before I open my eyes, my nose recognizes the space.
It is different from the incense used in ancestral rites.
It is thicker, more artificial, and heavier with sorrow.
I know this smell.
The distinct aroma of a funeral hall.
A scent that lingers only where a life has ended.
My eyelids are heavy.
It takes an effort to lift them.
My entire body feels foreign.
I see the ceiling.
A white ceiling, fluorescent lights.
The layout of the parlor comes into view.
An altar overflowing with white chrysanthemums, ribbon-draped wreaths, a folded folding screen, and the backs of people dressed in black suits.
I am sitting in the chief mourner's seat.
Strange.
I look down at the hands resting on my lap.
They are unfamiliar.
They are not my hands.
They are larger, younger, and free of calluses on the knuckles.
The joints are angular and the wrists are slender, but there is undeniable strength in them.
I slowly curl my fingers into a fist.
They move.
They move according to my will, yet they do not belong to me.
This body is large.
Sitting inside this unfamiliar frame, I feel how small I have become.
No, I haven't shrunk.
I have grown.
My consciousness, which has lived for fifty-two years, is now housed inside a younger, larger body.
The shoulders are broad.
The back is straight.
Beneath my solar plexus, I can feel the firm contour of abdominal muscles through the fabric of my clothes.
My height is at least five centimeters taller than my original self.
I look toward the altar.
There is a funeral portrait.
The moment I lay eyes on the face in the portrait, something quietly pierces the center of my chest.
It doesn't hurt.
It is a sensation far stranger than pain.
A deep, visceral realization—felt not in my mind, but in my very bones—that the face belongs to me.
Ha Minseok.
Aged 52.
That man is me.
I am currently sitting in the chief mourner's seat at my own funeral, staring at my own face in the portrait.
I take a steadying breath.
The lungs are large.
They draw in a massive amount of air.
I know something is wrong.
But I don't even know where to begin defining what "wrong" means in this situation.
Am I dead?
Since that is my funeral portrait, it seems so.
Am I in another body?
That also seems to be the case.
Whose body is this?
That, I do not know.
Living past fifty, the most useful habit I developed was never panicking.
The position of Marketing Director is not given to someone who loses their composure.
I was trained to maintain a poker face in the boardroom even when the data collapsed.
Right now, that training is manifesting in the strangest possible way.
The mourners move.
Figures in black suits bow before the altar, light incense, and offer condolences in hushed tones.
A few of them approach the chief mourner's seat.
I stand up reflexively.
This body knows the movement.
The muscles move first, and my consciousness follows.
"This must be so difficult for you."
A middle-aged man with a black tie and fatigue etched around his eyes.
He extends both hands for a handshake.
I reply.
"Thank you for coming."
The voice is unfamiliar.
It is not my voice.
It is deeper and clearer.
The resonance is entirely different.
I just spoke with this body's voice.
The middle-aged man bows his head and steps back.
The next mourner approaches.
And another.
Greeting, receiving, bowing.
My body moves ahead of my thoughts.
As if it has practiced this scenario many times before.
I take advantage of a brief lull to look at the portrait again.
Fifty-two years old.
I accept the fact that the man in the photo is me.
And I can guess who this body belongs to.
For a young man in his early twenties sitting in the chief mourner's seat, there is only one answer.
I see a woman walking in through the entrance of the parlor, holding a bundle of white chrysanthemums.
She is wearing a black traditional mourning hanbok.
The collar is neat, and the chest ribbons are tidily tied.
Her hair is swept back into an updo, held in place by a hairpin with a small white ribbon on a black base.
The attire of a widow.
Her face is bare of makeup, and her eyes are red.
She has been crying.
Crying a lot.
The skin beneath her eyes is swollen, and the bridge of her nose is flushed pink.
The moment I see her face, I know.
Lee Jiwon.
My wife.
The face I sat across from every morning, the face that slept turned toward me.
A delicate frame of about 168 centimeters, with a refined yet firm impression.
I recognize that this woman is my wife.
My funeral, my wife, and a young man sitting in the chief mourner's seat.
If she is the widow and I am the chief mourner, there is only one possible owner of this body.
My son.
From the chief mourner's seat, I watch her walk toward the altar.
I cannot approach her.
I cannot stand up, nor can I call her name.
I am no longer her husband.
In this place, I am her stepson.
She kneels before the portrait.
She lays down the chrysanthemums and covers her face with both hands.
Her shoulders tremble.
She makes no sound.
She simply shudders.
I watch my wife weep before my portrait.
From the position of her son.
From a distance where my hand cannot reach.
The mourners steal glances at her.
I know I am staring too, but I cannot stop.
The line of mourners resumes.
I hear the name of my company.
"I had a connection with Director Ha back in the day..." Seolim Pharmaceutical.
My name.
My title.
Someone kneels before the portrait, reciting a fragment of my career in a low voice.
I listen to it in my capacity as the chief mourner.
An incredibly bizarre position to be in.
Minho appeared during a brief lull in the line of mourners.
A guy in a black shirt with his hair roughly pushed back.
He looks to be about my age.
The age of this body, that is.
Early twenties.
His eyes are sharp and his expression is blunt, but his stride is quick.
He lights incense at the altar, bows once, and turns toward the chief mourner's seat.
He looks at me.
Our eyes meet.
For about half a second.
He pauses.
"Taeyoon."
The name.
The name of this body: Ha Taeyoon.
The son of Ha Minseok.
I am currently inside my son's body.
Ha Taeyoon.
Twenty-two years old.
"Hey."
Minho grabs my arm.
Firmly.
"What's with that look on your face? What are you thinking about?"
I look at him.
I choose my words.
Just keeping it natural.
"My mind is all over the place."
Minho looks at me once more.
He narrows his eyes.
"Yeah, that makes sense. But... you seem different."
"Different?"
"Your eyes." He lets go of my arm. "There's a weight to them that wasn't there before. I don't know what it is."
I don't answer.
Minho stands beside me, looking out at the mourners.
"Have you eaten?"
"Yeah."
"How is your mom?"
"She's holding up."
"...Your dad passed away so suddenly, but aren't you acting a bit too composed?"
Those words shake me slightly.
But I am composed.
In my consciousness, the Ha Minseok in that portrait is me. I have already witnessed my own death. It is incredibly bizarre, yet I am perfectly calm.
Is it strange or natural for a man who lived over fifty years to remain unfazed at his own funeral?
"I'm not composed."
Minho doesn't press further.
He simply stands by my side.
That is enough.
The line forms again.
A mourner approaches.
A man in his early fifties.
Graying temples, gold-rimmed glasses, and a corporate badge pinned to his suit lapel.
Our eyes meet.
It happens in that instant.
Something switches on.
A sensation originating from just behind my forehead.
Like data rising up.
Like a screen materializing.
Brackets expand.
It isn't something visible to the naked eye.
Text floats up directly within my consciousness.
[TARGET: Park Sangcheol]
Relationship with Taeyoon: Ha Minseok's direct subordinate • Marketing Team Leader at Seolim Pharmaceutical • Met a few times at housewarmings and company events
[Weaknesses Observed by Taeyoon]
• Occasionally tried to speak casually (banmal) to my dad during drinking sessions → always got ignored
• Failed to control his facial expressions whenever my dad got promoted
• Frequently received phone calls regarding his daughter's marriage issues
[Secret Facts Remembered by Taeyoon]
• Dad once said, "Park Sangcheol got this far on brown-nosing, not actual skill."
[Taeyoon's Emotional Memory]
• "Don't really like him. He feels slimy."
The text vanishes.
A brief pause of about half a second.
"Taeyoon. You've grown so much. You look just like your father. So much."
There is emotion in his voice.
Whether it's genuine or not, I can't tell right now.
"We were all so shocked when your father passed away so suddenly."
"Thank you."
He steps back.
I process what just happened.
My son's memories surfaced.
In the form of data.
In the form of text.
I didn't know that man's name, yet it appeared inside my consciousness.
The things my son observed, felt, and remembered are being retrieved within my mind.
A son's memory interface.
I have borrowed my son's body, and I can access his memories.
I don't know how far this capability extends yet.
But I have confirmed that it works.
During a brief gap in the line of mourners, the scent near the entrance shifts.
My sense of smell notices it first.
Another scent layers over the funeral hall's incense.
Floral.
It is a floral scent, but not from actual flowers.
It's perfume.
A scent entirely out of place in a funeral parlor.
It is so fresh and vibrant that it stands out immediately.
I turn my head.
A woman is standing at the entrance.
A black dress.
Ten centimeters above the knee.
A black cardigan is draped over her shoulders.
By the standards of funeral attire, it lacks proper decorum.
It is black, but that is the only appropriate thing about it.
Her long, straight hair, dyed light brown, cascades down her back.
Her eye makeup is sharp and flawless.
She hasn't cried.
The woman slowly walks inside.
Something can be read from her stride.
There is sorrow, but sorrow is not all of it.
Her eyes scan left and right.
She isn't doing it consciously; it's a habit.
She is simultaneously calculating what this space looks like, who is present, and how she appears to others.
A person calculating her surroundings at a funeral.
Standing beside me, Minho speaks in a low voice.
"She's here."
"You know her?"
"That's Serin. Your girlfriend."
At those words, the area behind my forehead begins to react again.
[TARGET: Yoon Serin]
Relationship with Taeyoon: Dating for 3 months • Business Administration classmate • Sophomore • First met at a department gathering in Spring 2024
[Weaknesses Observed by Taeyoon]
• Social media followers stalled at 2.3k for three months → directly links to self-worth anxiety
• GPA: 2.9 (as of last semester)
• Prefers expensive items without visible logos → tends to find security in luxury that only those in the know recognize
[Secret Facts Remembered by Taeyoon]
• Had three overlapping boyfriends in high school (she told me directly, almost like a boast)
• Once said she would rather starve than buy a fake bag
[Taeyoon's Emotional Memory]
• "It feels like she doesn't like me, but rather the image of me."
• "She's definitely pretty, but I can't tell what she's really thinking."
The text vanishes.
I quietly steady my breath.
Taeyoon's girlfriend.
She walks toward the altar holding a single chrysanthemum.
She takes a stick of incense and lights it.
She bows.
Her shoulder line slips out from beneath her cardigan.
Her long legs extend beneath the short dress.
164 centimeters.
On the slender side.
Neat, clean lines.
She straightens up.
She looks at the funeral portrait.
I can't tell if she is truly sad.
Her lips tremble slightly.
She walks over to the chief mourner's seat.
She looks at me.
"Taeyoon."
There is a slight rasp in her voice.
"You came."
"Of course I did. How could something like this happen so suddenly..."
She takes hold of my arm.
Her fingers rest on my wrist.
They are cold.
Perhaps because the funeral hall is chilly, or maybe her hands are just naturally cold.
"You must be having such a hard time."
"I'm fine."
Her eyes scan my face.
It is a gaze meant to gauge my grief, but at the same time, she is checking something else.
Just how broken I am.
And how much comfort she needs to offer based on the depth of my despair.
A calculation is running behind her eyes.
"Aren't you hungry? Have you eaten?"
"I ate."
"Now that I'm here, I'll stay by your side."
She stands next to me.
She doesn't let go of my arm.
I feel the sensation of her hand.
This body reacts.
If it didn't, this body wouldn't be twenty-two.
The reaction is natural, and I am merely the observer.
Minho clears his throat on my other side.
His gaze flickers between Serin and me.
"I'm going to step outside for a bit."
He quietly slips away.
While Serin stands beside me watching the mourners, I look at her.
From the side.
Her long eyelashes, the slender bridge of her nose.
The floral perfume drifts into my nose.
One would think it would clash horribly with the incense of the funeral hall, but it doesn't.
The space simply absorbs her.
At the hem of her dress, the fine, dense stitching of her lace underwear peeks out for half a second before vanishing.
As she shifts her weight.
There is no logo.
It is a pattern only those in the know would recognize.
She chose this dress for mourning because it is black.
And likely because it is the black garment in which she looks the most beautiful.
How she looks standing beside her boyfriend comes before her grief.
That doesn't mean she is a bad person.
She is simply that kind of person.
Someone whose calculations run automatically.