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The house is empty this morning. The low hum of the fridge has settled into the uninhabited room of seats and tables. Like every morning, the trash bags take residence in the kitchen area, feeling a kinship with the mountain of unwashed dishes in the sink. If the empty room felt too stuffy for them, others of its kind piled on top of each other out on the balcony. The young boy had fallen asleep, curled up by the entrance. 

A stream of light sneaked in through the bottom crack of the front door. He squinted at the light. His mother did not come home during the night. He shivered at the brisk morning air and hugged himself. The boy did feel disappointed. But today is another day, and he will spend the day waiting as he did before. 

Every hour and minute counted on sitting at the doorstep poised to greet his mother a welcome home. He does not want to disappoint her. The boy stood up with ease, his body accustomed to sleeping on the hard wooden floors. He scurried to the bathroom, weaving through the empty containers and trash bags in the hallway. 

The bathroom is quaint. Above the sink was a mirror, to which the boy stood on his tiptoes to beam up at his duplicate, a gaunt boy around the age of 12 with short brown hair and pasty, warm-tinted skin. “Good morning, Ian!” A simple greeting to his replica, but nothing echoed back except for his likeness. That was not a problem for Ian. He did not have time for idle chatter, after all. Turning the knob, water gushed out from the faucet’s mouth. Ian braced himself, face scrunched, and plunged his head under the cascading icy waters. One second. Two seconds. He retreated his head back in haste. Teeth chattering, he cupped both hands to gather the water and splashed them lightly on his face. He shook himself, hair flying in all directions. Ian used to have a bar of soap for his morning routines, but he used the remainder to brush his teeth once he ran out of toothpaste. 

Ian ran back to the entrance, being extra careful of the trash littered in the hallway. He almost slipped when he heard the fiddling of the entrance locks in his rush. But the opening of the door was not from his home. It was the next-door neighbor’s. He heard the patter of tiny feet, followed by slower footsteps. It was the older couple next door with their dog for her morning walk. The elderly couple commented on the weather, worried about their grandchild stuck at school, and decided to prepare stew for dinner when their grandchild returned. Their chattering and the dog’s yapping faded as they went down the hallway, and Ian’s stomach rumbled.

Stew . . . He wondered what it could be. It sounded good. Sounded warm. Did his mother know how to make one? Ian’s stomach rumbled for another while. He did not want to leave his spot. What if his mother returned, and he was unable to welcome her home? Hunger gnawed at his insides, desperate to feed on something, anything. Unable to bear it any longer, he pitter-pattered to the kitchen. 

The nearly empty fridge was good for Ian. It meant his mother would be home any day now. The fridge had never fallen this barren before. It would only be a matter of time till his mother came home, and she’ll leave when the fridge and cupboard are stocked again. Ian found a carrot, bits of dirt clinging to the shriveled vegetable. He took two bites from the pointed end and returned it to the spot he found it in. He’ll have two more bites later in the evening to satiate his hunger should that become a need again. Still chewing, Ian ran back to his seat at the entrance, careful not to spill the contents in his mouth.

He sat back down and continued to chew, savoring the carrot. He straightened his back and continued diligently waiting. Ian used to spend his days watching television in the living room, having it on for days and nights, falling asleep to the sounds of the news and the occasional movie runs, being lulled to sleep by the sounds of people, sounds of life. He stopped watching once his mother came home one day, furious. 

She had screamed at him, wailing about the money wasted on the electricity, the water, the food, him and everything. Ian didn’t quite understand, but he must’ve done something wrong. His mother cried, her body lurching as she heaved out sob after sob. She had left immediately after the beating. Ian, while doubled over in pain, desperately wanted to make her proud, to prove he was all grown up and never disappoint her again. He did not want to be a bad child. He didn’t want to see her cry again. He didn’t want her to hit him again.

Whatever the reason for her outburst, Ian did not turn the lights and television on again. He learned to maneuver around the house in the dark. He got used to the cold. He took naps underneath the sunlight that streamed in from the balcony window. Ian hoped he would be praised, that his mother would smile and hug him with a squeeze, rewarding him with kisses as she nuzzled her face into his hair. Maybe if he was good, his mother would stay this time. So he kept waiting by the door, always ready to welcome his mother home. He imagined what her smile would be like.

He daydreamed. Pacing near the entrance helped him pass the time He heard a pair of jingling keys on the other side of him, followed by a barking of a dog. The old couple next door are already home. So who? 

“I’m home,” the grandchild’s modest and exhausted voice announced their arrival. There was a thumping of footsteps, followed by more gentle ones.

“You’re late!” barked the old man. “Dinner’s been ready for an hour, and we had to wait for you. I’m starving!” 

“He made stew for you,” said the grandma, a smile in her voice. “Welcome home.”

“Stew? Oh, that sounds amazing. It’s freezing out there, and the school labs are always so cold.” Ian heard their door close, and he heard nothing more. He felt more alone than ever. He pulled his knees up to his chest and tucked his head in. Maybe it’s good that he was alone. He didn’t want anyone to see him cry.

The house is dark. The nights are only colder and longer. Ian is freezing. He’s hungry. His mother will be home anytime now. He has to greet her with a loud voice, enough to compete with the greetings he hears every day from his neighbors. He would be announcing just how capable he is of loving and being loved as much as all of them. His diligence will only become a testament to his later statement that he, too, is a wanted existence in someone’s life. He has to be.

Ian let his mind drift, then he heard something inside the house, muffled and crackling. Ian recognized it immediately. Is it already that time? He sprang from his rooted seat with ease and bolted to the balcony glass doors. Crowned atop the hill of trash bags was the broken radio. There was no indication that it had turned on. Yet Ian hears the voice on the other side of the glass doors. So he hesitantly slid the door open, allowing a minuscule gap for the crinkling voice to drift through.

“–nd folks, on this beautiful winter evening here in Seoul, the temperature has reached zero degrees Celsius! We will be expecting our first snow of the year any hour now, so keep a lookout for that! On to the recap of yesterday’s story here on It’s 10 P.M., we were immensely fortunate––well, not as fortunate as our guest, no, no!––to be visited by the richest man in the world!” The radio show host’s voice flowed with passion as he recalled the story of last night’s guest. Ian remembers it well. The richest man in the world told the story of his great wealth in gold, priceless jewels, stocks (Ian didn’t know what that could be, but it must be money), and land. He boasted how his life is of comfort only humans could dare dream of, and their imaginations would not be enough to comprehend his lavish lifestyle, nor attempt to wish for it.  

“Goodness! If your life is that amazing as the richest man in the world, you must have everything you could ever wish and want for!” the radio host had remarked in awe, genuinely enthralled by the man’s story. 

The richest man in the world had paused and then confessed his greatest wish. His voice dripped with mourning and shame as he confessed his wish to see his children again, to reconcile with his wife. He had promised happiness for them, and he broke that sacred vow.

Ian recalled the guest the night before yesterday, the smartest girl in the world. She solved millions of problems that had stumped the “supposed geniuses of the past” as she put it, and even made technological and medical discoveries that would propel the human race’s progress for the future. And then she confessed how she wished she could find a way for her father to wake up from his prolonged sleep, the problem haunting her day in and day out with no solution within sight. 

That was how the radio show would go. The host would call in someone extraordinary to share their tales of their greatness, and conclude their story with their deepest wish. Whether the caller was telling the truth about themselves and their lives, it did not matter. Their wishes were always genuine.

“Our special guest tonight is indeed special. A recent fan, and a dedicated one, too! Not to mention our youngest!” Ian leaned in, his nose poking out into the cold air on the balcony. Who could this guest be? “Say hello to the listeners! C’mon now, no need to be shy.”

Silence, followed by the host clearing their throat. “Hey, kid. We mean you, the one shoving his face through the door.”

Ian reared back in surprise, his face no longer poking out the glass door. Him? The special guest for tonight?

“Yes, you! Silly boy, introduce yourself!”

His mouth opened and closed, trying to find the words. “ . . . Hello,” Ian croaked out. He was startled at how he could not recognize his own voice. When was the last time he spoke out loud?

The radio host laughed, and Ian felt embarrassed. “Yes, yes. Hello to you, too, Ian. Now, why don’t you tell us who you are?”

“I’m–” Who was he? He was the boy waiting for his mother to come home, and the one she leaves behind. “I’m someone who has the best mom in the world,” he announced.

“Oh? The best mom you say?”

“Yes.” Words out loud felt so bizarre to him. The way his mouth had to move to produce sounds for another individual, he had forgotten what it felt like to do so. “My mommy is the best. She loves me very much. In the morning, she wakes me up with kisses. They tickle a lot, and they make me laugh. It makes mommy laugh, too. 

She carries me to the bathroom and helps me wash my face. I don’t like the soap getting in my eyes. They hurt. But mommy’s there to make sure they don’t. She dries my face, pinches my cheek, and kisses my forehead. Then we have breakfast together.

She makes the best eggs in the world. They’re soft and yummy, and, and when I poke the yellow thing, it’s all gooey. Mommy helps me dress. S-She brushes my hair, and it feels nice. I brush my teeth, and she checks that I did. If I did good, I get a candy to eat later. Mommy walks me to school. We sing songs together. Sometimes we play tag, and I always catch her. I’m super fast!”

Ian cleared his throat, voice still rusty. “. . . S-She picks me up when school is done. She asks me what I did. Mommy loves my stories. She gives me a hug, and said she missed me the whooooole day! She asked me what I wanted for dinner, and I wanted stew! The stew Mommy makes is the best. It’s yummy, and she always asks if I want more. She always makes more. She plays games with me, any game I want for however long I want with her, and then she helps me get ready for bed. Mommy reads me a story, and gives me a kiss goodnight and tucks me in. She says, she says she’ll miss me when I’m sleeping, and I call her silly. I’m right here! I–I–I’m always he–here.”

Ian knew he was crying. He didn’t know when it started. He could almost see the day he spent with his mother, so tangible and real to him. But it was not. He knows better than anyone.

“Oh, your mother sounds wonderful. She must love you very much.”

“Yes,” Ian sobbed. “She does.”

“With a mother like that, I don’t think there’s anything else you could ever want or want to be, hm?” 

Ian paused, because yes, with a mother like his he would never wish for anything more. He could never! But there was something, lodged deep inside and nestled there to stay. “No, I do have something I wish for.” He felt the shell crack, and before he could stop it, it burst into song.

“I… want to leave here.” 

“Leave?” the host was ever so perplexed, yet highly amused at the silly wish. “And never see your mother again?”

“I want to leave. I don’t want to be here anymore.” Ian sniffled. He wondered if he should have wished for his mother to return, but he didn’t want to see her leave again. He could have wished for his mother to love him, but Ian still could not admit to himself that she does not. He knows his wish is selfish, perhaps cruel, and the proof that he is a bad child. Yet, his wish had surged out of him, released from its chains at last. 

The radio host was silent, and Ian felt ashamed. “Then step outside, boy.”

Ian snapped his gaze at the broken radio, eyes wide in disbelief. “I can’t. I’m not allowed.” The last time he disobeyed that rule, his mother threw a glass cup at him. Thankfully, she missed.

“Let me show you how to leave. Just step outside.”

Ian stood hesitantly. He pushed the glass doors to the side with all the strength he could muster from his malnourished and small body. He stepped out and watched his breath float and fade away.

“Look over the ledge, boy”

“. . . I can’t.” The balcony was fenced with a stone wall, taller than Ian.

“Use the trash bags. Climb on top of them,” instructed the host.

He did. When Ian reached the ledge and felt the wind blow, he gasped.

So many lights before him, scattered about. They twinkled in many colors, all decorated onto the tall spires and blocks stacked on top of each other. Flakes of snow fluttered down, making the scene before the boy glitter all the more. “Oh, how pretty…” 

“Feels like you’re flying, huh?” said the radio host.

“Yes!” Ian gleefully laughed. He stretched his arm out, leaning forward to reach for the lights, to grab the snow. He was so close!

“Hey, kid! Don’t!”

The new voice startled Ian and he felt himself slip He gripped the trash bag in time, preventing his fall. He turned to his left and saw a tall, terrified individual. Ian remembered where he heard the voice before, although he never heard them yell. It was the college student next door, living with their grandparents. “Kid, listen to me, okay?” 

Ian nodded, staring. So this is what the student looked like.

“Step away from the ledge. Nice and slow. Hold on tight to the trash bag,” the student instructed. “Don’t move. Stay right where you are.” 

Ian did as he was told while the student stepped outside to their own balcony. “Just, hold on, okay?” The student hoisted themselves up onto the top of the railing, stepped over the large gap to Ian’s side of the apartment. “C’mere, kid.” They opened their arms, and Ian found himself reaching out to them. They hugged him close. “God, you’re freezing! How long were you out here?” Ian didn’t answer and just clung to their warmth, shivering. He hadn’t realized how cold he was. 

The student peeked inside and saw the state of the apartment. Looking down at the child embracing them, skin and bones and trembling all over, the student made a decision. “Let’s get you some food. We need to warm you up.” They lifted Ian up until he could wrap his arms around the student’s neck. “You holding on tight, kid?” 

Ian nodded.

“Good. Look only at me, got it?”

Ian squeezed onto them with everything he got. He was so weak, they could barely feel him. They stepped over the gap once again, much more cautiously this time, gripping Ian close. Once their feet touched the floor, they hurried inside, calling for their grandparents. While the three adults fussed over him, devastated at the condition Ian was in, he never let go of the student, face buried in their shoulder as he just clung to them, gripping their shirt. He felt the student holding him, gentle and warm. Ian felt safe. He wondered if this is what it felt like to be loved.  

Jeeyoung Whang's short story won third prize in the Eleventh Annual Humanities & Sciences Undergraduate Writing Contest. Jeeyoung is a Junior majoring in Animation at the School of Visual Arts. They were born in Korea and grew up in Missouri. The stories they are interested in telling through writing or their animations are the answers to the “what if?” questions they pose to themselves, exploring the best ways to convey them. They hope that they are able to finish the many piles of books that surround them soon, before the avalanche can overtake them.