After breakfast, the house slowly emptied.
The boys grabbed their bags and left for school, their voices fading down the road like they always did. The gate closed, and the house returned to its usual morning quiet.
Jina stood at the sink, washing the last plate. The water ran over her hands while her mind stayed somewhere distant.
From the living room, Jone’s phone rang.
He looked at the screen and answered.
It was his parents.
Jina could hear parts of the conversation from the kitchen, their voices faint but clear enough.
His mother was talking about the coming New Year. She said it had been a long time since everyone gathered together and that this year all the family members should come home. All the brothers, their wives, the children—everyone.
“New Year should begin with family,” she said.
Jone listened quietly.
“Yes, Ma,” he replied after a moment. “We’ll come.”
His father spoke for a while too, reminding him about the family tradition, how the house always felt alive when everyone returned.
Jone agreed again before ending the call.
For a few seconds he sat there, holding the phone in his hand.
Jina finished washing the plate and dried her hands on the towel before walking into the living room.
“My parents called,” Jone said. “They want everyone to gather this New Year.”
She nodded slowly.
She already knew what that meant.
His brothers.
Their wives.
The children.
And her sister-in-law.
For years these gatherings had been uncomfortable in ways that could never be explained out loud. Small glances. Careful conversations. The quiet awareness that something existed beneath the surface that no one dared to name.
But this morning Jina didn’t feel the same tightness in her chest.
“Alright,” she said simply.
Jone looked at her for a moment, as if trying to read something in her face.
But there was nothing to read.
Jina turned toward the window, watching the sunlight settle across the courtyard.
The New Year gathering was coming.
And for the first time in a long while, she wasn’t thinking about how to endure it.
She was only thinking about how clearly she would see everything.
After a while, Jone got ready for work.
He picked up his keys, said a quick goodbye, and left for the office like he did every morning. The sound of the gate closing followed him out, and soon the house fell quiet again.
When everyone left, the silence returned.
It was the kind of silence Jina had known for years. The kind that sat gently in the corners of the house, waiting.
She stood in the middle of the living room for a moment, not doing anything.
Usually this was the time when she would begin the next task—cleaning, arranging, planning the rest of the day. Her life had always been full of small duties that quietly filled every empty space.
But today felt different.
Her eyes slowly moved toward a corner of the room where an old wooden box rested on a shelf.
She hadn’t opened it in years.
Inside it were her brushes.
Once, painting had been part of her life. Colors, canvases, quiet afternoons where the world outside did not matter. She used to lose track of time while painting, her hands moving freely, her heart light.
Back then, life had felt cheerful.
Back then, she had felt like herself.
Jina walked slowly to the shelf and took the box down. A thin layer of dust covered the lid.
She wiped it gently with her palm and opened it.
The brushes were still there, lying quietly like they had been waiting for her.
For a moment, she just looked at them.
Then a small smile appeared on her face—soft, almost surprised.
Today, she wanted to draw.
Not because anyone asked her to.
Not because it was useful.
But because she missed it.
She missed the colors.
She missed the quiet happiness it used to bring.
And maybe, she thought, picking up a brush again was a small way of remembering the woman she used to be
