Three years later, a call came from my sister.
“Yoonjae, Father… he passed away… You should come, shouldn’t you?”
I didn’t really feel like crying. He wasn’t my real father anyway. A scorching summer day at my childhood home— My sister, whom I hadn’t seen in a long time, was still as delicate and beautiful as ever. I know I should hide it, keep it buried, but that’s easier said than done.
“I’m sorry, Yoonjae… I’m sorry that someone as filthy as me… is your sister.”
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