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.”

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