Hae-wan sat in the corner of the last subway car, trying to calm his heart with deep breaths while avoiding the eyes of people that inevitably turned toward him with every step.

People’s gazes were drawn not only because Hae-eon’s scent was intense, but also because Hae-wan still couldn’t control his pheromones well. The doctor had said it would improve in about six months, but even though nearly a year had passed since the surgery, controlling the concentration of scent that changed with emotional fluctuations still felt difficult.

Then again, Hae-wan was slow at everything. Compared to him, Hae-eon was fast at everything. Because of this difference, despite their age gap, everyone regarded them like twins, so perhaps there had been an exquisite balance point between him and Hae-eon.

The columbarium, located in a quiet place that required taking the subway twice and transferring to a bus once, was inconvenient to reach but was the finest location Hae-wan could afford given his circumstances.

Hae-eon’s ashes were on the 7th tier inside the columbarium. It was positioned where 180-centimeter-tall Hae-wan had to stretch his hand slightly to reach it. Though he desperately wanted to place them on a tier at eye level, his financial situation hadn’t allowed for that.

Still, knowing that Hae-eon, who had never once been taller than Hae-wan, was looking down at him for the first time brought a small smile to his face, thinking Hae-eon would surely be happy about it even from heaven.

Reaching out his hand, Hae-wan stroked the brightly smiling face of Hae-eon in the photo beyond the glass door. His throat immediately tightened and his eyes reddened with heat, leaving him unable to say anything.

It had been quite a while since his last visit. Though he had tried to come often, the past year hadn’t been easy.

Recovery had been slow due to repeated inflammation after surgery, and after quitting his original job, it had been difficult to find proper work, so he’d had to get by doing part-time jobs.

What tormented him most was having to endure the grief of losing Hae-eon alone.

Because he couldn’t tell anyone about Hae-eon’s death.

The request not to tell anyone about his death until “their” birthday after next came around was one of the strange requests Hae-eon had made while alive.

Hae-eon and his birthday was at the end of March, and since Hae-eon had closed his eyes in early November last year, even now a year later, more than four months remained.

He hadn’t given a reason either. He had only said that when the time came, he would understand. When Hae-wan asked desperately if he had debts or something, Hae-eon had just smiled silently.

So Hae-wan had to overcome alone his deep grief and sense of loss without being able to lean on or share it with anyone, not even the orphanage director and teachers who were like mothers to him.

Moreover, perhaps Hae-wan might never be able to return to the orphanage where he grew up.

Not only because of guilt over not being able to announce Hae-eon’s death, but because of the fact that Hae-wan had received Hae-eon’s pheromone gland transplant.

Even when transplant surgery was performed, there had never been a case of transplanting pheromone glands to someone you knew rather than a complete stranger, especially someone as close as family.

Given the nature of pheromone scents, which were classified as individual characteristics, it was in some ways like transplanting someone’s exact face.

That was why Yu-jun had been horrified when they met again.

So Yu-jun absolutely couldn’t understand Hae-wan’s choice. He cursed both Hae-eon, who had half-forced the surgery, and Hae-wan, who had stupidly followed his wishes, saying they had both clearly gone crazy.

Though he firmly blocked curses directed at Hae-eon, he couldn’t say anything about those directed at himself. Sometimes even Hae-wan himself cynically thought that if the kids who used to call him “Yoon Hae-eon’s knockoff” in school met him now, they might applaud for having come up with such a brilliant nickname.

Thinking about such things made his heart complicated, so Hae-wan just shook his head to dispel his thoughts.

Hae-eon had always been smart and could see parts that Hae-wan couldn’t see. Even if he couldn’t understand immediately, he would come to know Hae-eon’s intentions as time passed. For now, he could only think that way.

Whatever happened between them, Hae-eon was Hae-wan’s only family in this world.

After spending time leisurely in front of Hae-eon’s columbarium niche for a while, when it came time to leave, Hae-wan hesitated briefly about what words to leave as a final greeting. Since it was the first memorial day, he wondered if he should say something special.

But he soon realized it was meaningless. When Hae-eon wasn’t by his side, what Hae-wan wanted to say was always the same.

“I miss you, really, really miss you. Hae-eon.”

Hae-wan closed his eyes. Hot tears quietly flowed down his pale face.

* * *

The next place he had to go was somewhere he had never been before.

Hae-wan took out the note Hae-eon had written from his pocket. On the note, in Hae-eon’s neat handwriting, was the name of a place called “Serim Arboretum” and detailed directions on how to get there.

This was precisely Hae-eon’s final request. He had a gift to give him, so please come to the place written on this note by 11 AM after he died.

It was another completely incomprehensible request, but compared to not announcing Hae-eon’s death and receiving pheromone gland transplant surgery, it was indeed an extremely easy request.

Getting off the bus and following groups of people heading in one direction, the arboretum entrance soon appeared before his eyes.

Serim Arboretum was a private arboretum operated by some corporate foundation, famous for its collection of beautiful plants rarely seen in Korea, which Hae-wan had seen on TV several times.

Arriving in front of the arboretum, Hae-wan hesitated briefly at the entrance. It seemed he needed to buy a ticket to enter the arboretum, but the note’s contents differed from that.

Hae-wan turned his steps and walked along the fence as the note instructed, then discovered a small side gate and stopped. At first it seemed locked, but when he pulled, it opened.

No matter how he looked at it, it seemed like a gate only staff could enter, making him very hesitant to go in.

But since the note clearly stated to enter through that side gate, Hae-wan looked around briefly, swallowed hard, and went inside.

As soon as he entered, he could see a huge glass greenhouse at the end of a trail that continued ahead. And going into that glass greenhouse was what Hae-eon had requested.

The light snow that had fallen the previous night was softly piled on the arborvitae trees. The trail floor was the same. Though it wasn’t much snow and would likely melt soon, it was clean except for a few scattered footprints.

Hae-wan walked slowly along the path with his pounding heart. The feeling of being somewhere he shouldn’t be wouldn’t go away, so even after placing his hand on the greenhouse door, he stood hesitating for a while.

Nevertheless, the fact that it was Hae-eon’s final request gave him courage.

Fortunately, he couldn’t sense anyone’s presence nearby. He opened the greenhouse door and carefully stepped inside.

Unlike the outdoor winter where knife-sharp bitter wind blew despite warm sunlight, the warm air inside the greenhouse wrapped around Hae-wan’s frozen body warmly.

Since there were no instructions about what specifically to do after entering the greenhouse, Hae-wan stood there blankly for a moment, looking around the garden filled with plants. The lush trees that met Hae-wan’s eyes, having just walked through the bleak winter, were like scenes from tropical rainforests he’d only seen in documentaries.

Drawn to the exotic, green scenery, Hae-wan moved his steps like he was entranced. A deep, rich forest smell swirled around his nose. Though it was definitely different in texture from Hae-eon’s, scents of that kind still had an aspect that made some longing seep into Hae-wan’s heart.

But then, someone grabbed Hae-wan’s arm and turned him around with strong force.

Hae-wan looked up in shock with wide eyes at the tall man wearing a black mask who had turned him around.

His first thought was that the man was big. He was tall enough that 180-centimeter Hae-wan had to look up at him, and his build could only be described as literally thick.

What caught his eye next were impressively dark black eyebrows on a perfectly sculpted straight forehead. Under those handsome eyebrows were jet-black pupils that seemed strange in their darkness.

At the same time, he smelled damp earth, massive tree roots digging into that earth, a musty burnt scent, and a sweet fragrance felt faintly like mist.

That smell made Hae-wan’s heart race to some bus stop he had now forgotten.

“Hae-eon.”

And when the man opened his mouth.

“Now it’s proven, isn’t it? What I said to you back then.”

The man speaking to him with a deep, low voice as impressive as his overwhelming physique was someone Hae-wan knew.

Yeo Kang-hyun.

The boy who had made twenty-year-old Hae-wan experience his late-blooming first love, and the boy who had loved eighteen-year-old Hae-eon.

That very boy was standing before Hae-wan’s eyes, having leaped over eight years of time.

In a situation he couldn’t have predicted at all, Hae-wan froze and could only stare at him without saying anything.

Unlike his stiffened body, his mind arbitrarily conjured up images of Kang-hyun from memory like sparking embers.

Dark curly hair, thick eyebrows, handsome forehead, jet-black pupils, everything was the same.

But soon, realizing a certain fact, Hae-wan unconsciously drew in a sharp breath.

The black pupils that had been constantly wandering without knowing where to look, broken and unfocused, were fixed straight on Hae-wan’s face without moving away even an inch.

He was seeing. Unlike during his teenage years.

“Hae-eon?”

However, at Kang-hyun’s voice flowing out again toward him as he stood unable to say anything, Hae-wan snapped to attention like ice water had been poured over his head.

He had definitely said Hae-eon.

Hae-wan was slow to catch on. He was never quick to judge situations. But strangely, in that brief moment, the situation fell into place like placing the last piece of a puzzle in an instant.

During his teenage years, he had visual impairment. In other words, he had never seen Hae-eon’s face.

Hae-wan knew Kang-hyun, but Kang-hyun didn’t know who Hae-wan was.

Hae-wan smelled like Hae-eon. Kang-hyun was calling him Hae-eon.

Kang-hyun was mistaking Hae-wan, who smelled like Hae-eon, for Hae-eon.

Hot heat surged from deep in his chest, making his face flush bright red. Hae-wan roughly shook off Kang-hyun’s arm that was holding his arm.

Kang-hyun looked flustered. Though half his face wasn’t visible due to the mask, his emotions were clear just from his writhing eyebrows.

Like someone was choking his throat, words wouldn’t come out properly. Hae-wan barely managed to speak.

“You’ve… you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

And Hae-wan ran with all his might and escaped the greenhouse. Behind him he could hear Kang-hyun’s voice calling for him, no, for Hae-eon, but he couldn’t stop.

Even after running down the trail and escaping through the side gate, Hae-wan kept running. Only when his heart felt like it would burst and he was out of breath could he finally stop running.

Hae-wan recalled his conversation with Hae-eon.