Chapter 57: The Last Sunday
Dojun spent his last Sunday the way he spent every Sunday: with his family.
He was seventy. The number still surprised him. In his first life, he’d died at forty-seven—never knowing what seventy felt like. Seventy felt like mornings that started slowly, joints that complained about weather, and a deep, settled gratitude for every day that the universe hadn’t decided to take back its gift.
Junior brought his wife and daughter. Dojun’s granddaughter was three—tiny, fierce, with her grandfather’s hands and her mother’s laugh. She called him “Poppa” and demanded to be held at all times, a request Dojun never denied.
Jihoon came, as always. Seventy-two and retired, but still bringing snacks, still making jokes, still the steadiest friend in any timeline.
Hana cooked. She was sixty-eight, silver-haired, still the most brilliant person in any room she entered. She had published twelve papers since Dojun’s retirement, won two more awards, and was currently advising the Korean government on neural interface policy.
They ate. They talked. The granddaughter threw rice at Jihoon, who caught it and ate it with exaggerated appreciation. Junior described Compass’s latest project. Hana argued with Jihoon about politics. Dojun held his granddaughter and watched them all with the quiet wonder of a man who had once built an AI that ended the world and was now holding a child who represented everything he’d built instead.
After dinner, after the dishes, after the granddaughter was asleep in her car seat and Junior’s family had gone home, Dojun sat on the porch with Hana.
“Good day,” she said.
“Best day.”
“You say that every Sunday.”
“It’s true every Sunday.”
She leaned against him. The Pangyo night was clear. Stars visible—always a gift.
“Dojun.”
“Hmm?”
“Thank you. For choosing this life. For choosing me.”
“I’d choose you in every timeline.”
“Even the ones where you didn’t regress?”
“Especially those. I’d find you anyway. Some things aren’t about time travel. They’re about gravity.”
She kissed him. The porch light flickered. The stars held steady.
It was, as Dojun said every Sunday, the best day.