The banquet hall doors slammed shut behind Moon & Son's CEO, as he was taken to the hospital. So-young watched from the shadowed alcove, her white hanbok sleeves still streaked with caramel from the apricot twists. Across the room, Her mother pressed a steaming teacup into Grandfather's hands "the real antidote," brewed from chrysanthemums grown where Seong-ho's ashes were scattered.
"Drink slowly," Mother whispered to grandfather, her voice softer than So-young had ever heard. "The bitterness fades."
Father stood at the grand piano, fingers hovering over keys still stained with spilt champagne. Then, hesitantly, he began to play Arirang--the folk song Mother had hummed during So-young's childhood fevers. The melody trembled at first, then steadied as Mother joined him, her cheek resting against his shoulder.
Jeong's mist formed around So-young's ankles, guiding her through moonlit corridors to the ancestral apricot tree. Grandfather already waited beneath its branches, a half-eaten twist crumbling in his lap.
"He tried to poison me with my brother's favorite wine," he said without hesitation. "Just as they did in '69."
So-young sat beside him. Up close, he smelled of burnt sugar and benzodiazepines.
"Why show him mercy?"
The tree fluttered, petals drifting like snowflakes into their hair. Jeong's form solidified just enough to press translucent paws over Grandfather's missing pinky stump.
"Because," Grandfather whispered, "I once stood where Min-woo stands tonight."
The confession unfolded like dough under a rolling pin:
A 25-year-old Joon-ho burning his brother's journals to prove loyalty to their father.
The smell of apricot wood smoke.
Dawn distorted the sky coral when they finally rose. Grandfather pressed something cold into So-young's palm—Seong-ho's pocket watch, its gears still flecked with 1969 champagne residue.
"Teach him," he said. "Before the poison takes root."
They found Uncle at daybreak, passed out in the test kitchen's flour-dusted glow. His Brioni suit was ruined, fingers raw from failed dough attempts. Thirty-seven batches littered the counters—thirty-six dense lumps, and one perfect twist placed gently in his curled fist.
Jeong's fading whisper hung in the flour motes:
"Even burnt bread can nourish the soil."