Of course the sun waits until today to come out in full shine. Jisung has shed his clothes, everything down to his jeans and undershirt. The tattoos on his arms are in plain view, all his manic teenage rebellion branded on his skin. He bears them. Even when his neighbours walk by and look at him and ask what he's doing — what on earth are you doing?

He's moving everything out of the house and into the front yard. He made a 'free stuff' sign and taped it to the retaining wall. He's already been in contact with a realtor. His home, his entire life, is laid out on the daisy-speckled lawn.

And what does it matter? He has nothing left to lose.

There's no plan from here on out. No direction. Just a few errands. He's going to stand in front of Minho, a person with nothing, and ask to try. Try to change something, something that could change everything. They'll start anew. They'll go somewhere far away. They'll do whatever it takes to control the violent impulses. They'll try.

Because Jisung has only one thing to lose.

He knows Minho has more to hold onto. He has a life. And he might not want anything to do with Jisung — the guy who almost strangled him, threatened him with a knife, who roped him into killing another human being. But Jisung wants to speak to him, just one more time. One last time. Then his questions will be answered. He'll know he has nothing left. And he'll go from there. Or he won't.

He clears out the basement first, all of his grandfather's things. Maybe they'll be given new life, maybe they'll make someone out there happy. It's strange to see the stone-walled basement empty, free of cardboard boxes and broken hula hoops and waterlogged extension cords. Hopefully the sun will dry them out.

The kitchen is harder to dismantle. He takes drawers of cutlery, mismatching pots and pans, lighters and flaccid rubber bands and stretched-out hair ties — and dumps it all onto a bedsheet. He makes a few trips back and forth between the kitchen and the lawn, then folds up the sheet and places it next to the other linens.

More than anything, it's embarrassing to comb through his own bedroom. A decade's worth of song-writing "progress" and almost every lyric makes him cringe. He never gets rid of clothes, maybe some doomsday hoarding instinct, or maybe he just doesn't want anyone to judge his past fashion choices. It all goes on the lawn.

The living room is also difficult; Jisung has to turn the furniture topsy-turvy to get it through the doorway. They didn't often use the living room in the past years; they spent their time together in Nini and Grandpa's room. He had tried to sell the couch, chairs and bookshelves a while ago, but his fliers were always covered with graffiti by morning. Eventually he has it all out the front door.

His house is alive with memories. Moving, breathing memories. He thinks about running into the kitchen for dinner, skipping over the heating grate so it wouldn't hurt his bare feet. Long nights lying awake, listening to his grandparents argue about money through the wall. Finding a dead bird in the garden and crying until... his sisters found him...

No. That wasn't him. He shakes his head.

He's carrying out a couple potted plants when he sees some of his neighbours looking through the boxes. The lady looks up at Jisung and smiles sympathetically.

"Are you going backpacking?" she asks him.

"No. My backpack's in that box over there."

She gives him that smile again. She thinks he's having a breakdown. He is.

Her children are poking around in a box of old toys. They seem taken with a set of knitted mice. Jisung crouches down and tells them that the mice are a family, a pair of grandparents and one son. Maybe he's being annoying, the kind of overbearing grown-up he used to hate, but he sits around while they empty the box on the grass, reliving every little joy through their eyes.

He leaves Nini's room for last. He hasn't gone in since she died. He was afraid he might find her ghost. Now he's afraid he'll find something that will ruin his plan. Something to care about. Something to live for.

He looks around the room, tentatively, like it might burn his eyes. The bed is empty. The TV is off. But nothing is out of order. It doesn't feel any more or less airless than the rest of the house. It doesn't feel like a tomb. It doesn't feel like something horrific happened here. It feels peaceful.

He starts emptying the dresser drawers. All her clothes are roomy and comfortable. One time Jisung made a roof for his pillow fort out of one of her dresses. She wasn't very pleased to have it pointed out... It was a great fort though.

He takes the maze of birthday cards — all from him — off the top of the fireplace. He clears out the drawer in her bedside table. Hair pins. An empty box of taffy. Her reading glasses. Then a locket on a chain.

He flips it open. At first he's not sure who he's looking at, then he realizes it's his father. Not too old, ten or so, unsmiling, with Nini's first husband standing behind him, hands on his shoulders. Big, heavy hands. A twinge in Jisung's gut. He's always wondered, Nini would never say, but he always wondered...

He can't forgive his father. Never. But he can understand.

He's about to take the TV set outside, but he sees the remote is missing. He almost smiles. Losing the clicker from beyond the grave. He gets down on his knees and looks beneath the bed. It's sitting there, collecting dust. He reaches under and pulls it out into the light.

There's a slip of paper stuck to it, a note written in messy cursive.

Don't be afraid, my little Little. You'll be okay. I promise.

So he sinks down and he cries. His heart betrays him, bleeding. Bleeding and bleeding. He feels like every piece of him is spilling out onto the floor.

How can she promise him so much? How could he ever feel okay again after he's been stripped of everything he is and set out into the open like a paper boat? What if the absence consumes him whole, leaves him an empty heart in a numb body, a breathing memory?

He rubs his hands over his eyes. The little white petal of a daisy falls into his lap.

He raises his hand to the light. The flower is wedged halfway beneath his nail, the stem winding around his finger.

Oh.

He remembers, from his dreams. Blossoming skin, skin like gossamer... His head falls back against the side of the bed. The room has stilled. His tears have stopped. And a smile pulls at his lips.

He closes his eyes. He sees a silhouette, black against white, somewhere out there.

Jisung just needs to reach him.