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.”