Chapter 2 – A House Full of Silence

People think the sound of silence is peaceful.

They’ve clearly never walked into a mansion big enough to swallow your voice whole.

Silence in this house isn’t peaceful.

It’s heavy.

It sits on your shoulders like a weight you can’t shake off, whispering, “You don’t belong here.”

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The first thing I noticed when I opened the door was the smell—fresh lilies. The kind of flowers rich people keep around to remind you they have a gardener. Back home in Yongdu-ri, flowers grew wild in the yard. Here, they stand in crystal vases like prisoners.

My footsteps echoed down the marble hallway. Every echo sounded like a bad joke:

Look at you, country boy. Living the dream, huh?

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It was past midnight. Work ran late, because work always runs late when you’re trying to avoid home. I told myself it was because of some corporate merger I was handling, but who was I kidding? Nobody works until midnight to fix their marriage.

I loosened my tie, tossed my jacket over the leather sofa that probably cost more than my first car. The housekeeper had gone home hours ago. No maids, no noise, just… emptiness.

Our wedding pictures lined the hallway, mocking me. Two perfect faces frozen in time, smiling like they actually believed in forever. Every time I passed them, I wanted to laugh—or maybe punch something.

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Her bedroom door was shut.

Yes, her bedroom.

Once upon a time, we shared one. Then came the excuses:

“I work late, I don’t want to disturb you.”

“I need space.”

And just like that, two rooms, two lives, two strangers under the same roof.

People don’t tell you this part about marriage.

They tell you about love, compromise, partnership. They never tell you about the day your spouse becomes… background noise.

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I walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and stared at shelves full of expensive things I didn’t want to eat. Truffle pasta, smoked salmon, wine older than me. All of it carefully arranged by someone paid to care.

But right then, all I wanted was instant ramen. The kind that burns your tongue and tastes like college. The kind that feels real.

Instead, I grabbed a bottle of water and sat at the counter, staring at the glossy marble like it might give me answers.

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The clock ticked. The house stayed quiet.

Except… there it was. The faintest sound. Breathing.

I turned my head.

Her door was cracked open just enough for light to spill out.

So she was awake. Pretending to sleep, like always.

And me? I pretended not to notice, like always.

Funny, isn’t it? Two people living like strangers, too proud—or too tired—to admit they’re lonely.

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I thought about knocking. About saying something. Anything.

How was your day?

Do you hate me yet?

Do you even remember why you married me?

But the words stayed locked in my throat. Because deep down, I already knew the answers.

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I pushed back from the counter and walked down the hall. The floor was cold under my feet, like everything else in this house.

Her door was closer now. Through the crack, I saw her silhouette against the lamp light. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, head bowed, hair falling over her face like a curtain.

For a second, I wondered if she was crying.

And for a second, I wanted to care. I really did.

But then she looked up—just slightly—and that mask was back. The one I’d seen at the wedding, the one she wears for the world. Cold. Perfect. Untouchable.

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I walked past her door without a word.

Because if I stopped, if I spoke, something would break.

And I wasn’t sure which one of us it would be.

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My room was the same as always: neat, sterile, soulless. A five-star hotel without the warmth. I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor like it might tell me where everything went wrong.

I used to think love was like a case in court—you build it with evidence, facts, solid arguments. If you’re reasonable enough, if you fight hard enough, you win.

But this?

This isn’t a case I can win.

This is a sentence.

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The worst part?

I don’t even hate her.

I wish I did. Hate would be easier. Hate would mean I still feel something strong enough to matter.

Instead, all I feel is… tired.

Tired of the silence.

Tired of pretending.

Tired of lying to myself every time I look at her and think, Maybe tomorrow will be different.

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The city lights spilled through the curtains, painting the room in gold and shadows. Somewhere out there, people were falling in love, kissing under street lamps, laughing over cheap beer.

And here I was.

Married. Successful. Miserable.

Funny how life works, huh?

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I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling until it blurred. The silence wrapped around me like a second skin, suffocating, endless.

I closed my eyes and told myself I’d sleep.

That tomorrow I’d wake up and things would feel different.

They never do.

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