Comrade Yun and the Art of Disappearing

Dear Hyeon,

You remember Comrade Yun, right?
The quiet man with the frayed hat and the chipped enamel cup.
He used to sit on the bench in the courtyard, beneath the old utility lines, always pretending to read a newspaper—though the pages were blank.

Now he’s gone.

No one saw him leave.
No suitcase, no goodbye. Not even Mr. So, who notices when someone changes their shoes.
Only Yun’s hat remained, resting on the bench.
And a folded piece of paper.
It said: “I’m practicing.”

You would have liked the way he spoke—slowly, like the words weren’t for now.
He once told me, “Disappearing isn’t about going somewhere. It’s about becoming light enough to be missed by the world.”

He said, “If you carry no weight, people stop remembering you’re there.”

Back then, I smiled politely.
But lately, I’ve started to notice strange things.

Ms. Lim says coins appeared on her counter, exact change—but no one was there.
Our cat stared into the empty hallway last night, tail twitching.
And Mr. Kang tripped over something that wasn’t there and muttered, “That better not be you, Yun.”

Around midday, under the cherry tree, there’s a shadow that doesn’t quite belong to anything.
It just rests there.
Soft. Like memory.

Sometimes I sit on his bench, a little to the side.
I don’t talk.
I barely breathe.
I’ve started practicing too.

When you come back, I’ll show you the spot.
It’s still warm.

Your brother,
Ji-ho