The title of the original artwork used for the oversized art wall — spanning more than ten meters across — was 〈Red Tree (丹梧, Dano)〉.
Over a rich, sensuous blue that soaked an entire face of the lobby, golden branches stretched like waves, and the countless leaves embroidered upon them were dyed red in the color of a sunset glow.
The fruits hanging in between were as lush and tempting as heavy clusters of grapes.
It had been about three years since Hyeon had handed this painting over to the Haein Social Welfare Foundation.
What was I thinking when I painted this?
The very person who had painted it stood before his own work, entertaining nothing but dry, hollow thoughts — yet this beautiful, abundant painting had left a deep impression on everyone who passed by it over the past three years.
The secondary-trait ward at the hospital established by Haein Group was as vast and luxurious as the painting that hung within it, boasting the highest level of medical care in the country, drawing alphas and omegas suffering from trait-related illnesses from all across the nation.
It was especially renowned in the field of infertility treatment.
And so, it seemed Hyeon’s painting had quietly come to symbolize fertility and abundance.
Not a single drop of that meaning was ever put into this painting.
Watching two omegas standing before his work with their hands clasped in prayer, Hyeon felt something beyond bafflement — a faint, creeping displeasure.
Whether someone had gone and spread a superstition or not, the brass caption bearing his name engraved in relief had even faded from being touched so often.
Why had those fruits — whose colors he could no longer even remember — come to carry such a meaning to people?
Far from feeling grateful for the affection, the unsanctioned interpretation only added to his sense of disorientation.
Hyeon gently placed a hand on the shoulder of the attendant secretary standing beside him.
“Chief Han, have that painting taken down. Right now.”
Perhaps because the unexpected scene had soured his mood, a sudden headache came crashing over him.
The symptom — where pheromones gnawed at his nerves and stripped him of his ability to perceive color — would surge and recede like this depending on his state of mind.
It was severe enough that his vision darkened and narrowed, and his voice sharpened along with it.
To Chief Han, who had long since memorized every one of Hyeon’s symptoms, it was nothing to be startled by.
With a brief nod, he immediately turned to check Hyeon’s complexion and reviewed the remaining schedule.
“This evening, there is a dinner appointment at the family home. It is a gathering to which Minister Ryu Jaesik and his wife have been invited — it was confirmed long ago. Will you be all right?”
“I’ll be going straight back to my studio.”
“Understood. Then shall I inform the chairwoman accompanying you, as I usually do, that you are feeling unwell?”
The words were delivered in his usual tone, and yet somehow they came across as a veiled threat.
Hyeon narrowed his eyes at Chief Han.
Meanwhile, lightning was still striking inside his skull.
The merciless migraine made his eyes ache, and his temples throbbed and pulsed with every beat.
The pain was unspeakable, but the reality that he had no excuse other than his condition was equally undeniable, so he had no grounds to argue back.
For the past three years — since the colors vanished — he had abandoned his work, his exhibitions, everything, and had long since become a man of leisure with no schedule to speak of.
Through the ringing in his ears, his mother Go Eunyeong’s voice reached him from somewhere behind.
She was the “chairwoman accompanying him” that Chief Han had mentioned.
“Hyeon, are you still up late a lot these days? Your headaches aren’t clearing up because you’re not getting enough sleep, are they? Are you taking the herbal medicine I sent over through Chief Han?”
She likely understood his withdrawal from his work as nothing more than the usual torment of an artist — and yet Go Eunyeong’s voice was filled with tender concern.
The warmth of a mother who still wished to look after her grown son came through clearly, yet it no longer settled his heart as easily as it had when he was young.
Hyeon tried to recall the color of his mother’s pheromones.
It had only been three years — and yet the color barely surfaced, like something glimpsed in a dream, and that felt like a defeat.
Ever since the world that had always blazed with color turned dull and gray like an old black-and-white film, even his senses had gone numb — he had lost all taste for things.
How could he possibly paint?
“Mother.”
To reassure her, Hyeon forced himself to arrange his expression into something composed.
“……Hyeon, are you all right? Why does your complexion look like this?”
“It’s just the artist’s ailment acting up again. I saw that painting after a long time and it’s not sitting right with me.”
“Really, you. I said that as a joke once, and you’ve been holding onto it all this time? You do this every time. You make Mother worry.”
“I might take it down.”
“Go ahead. Whatever our artist wants. But Hyeon, Mother……”
Go Eunyeong drew close, patted his shoulder, and with a theatrical groan, launched into the barrage of nagging that only a mother could deliver.
The repertoire was fixed.
Her youngest had no aegyo. His paintings had stolen all her love. He was never like this when he was little. She had actually fretted in her heart that he would be the first to marry and raise a baby because he was such a darling. She never imagined that sweet boy would grow up to be so cold and barren like this.
Go Eunyeong absentmindedly scrolled through her phone’s photo gallery out of habit.
She pulled out an old photo worn down by digital age and thrust it in front of both Hyeon and Chief Han — a beautiful baby that looked just like Hyeon.
When would she ever see a child like this again, she said; it was her one wish, so now was the time to date and marry, she said — and on that note, the lecture came to its end.
A baby.
It was a subject that drew nothing but a scoff from him.
Not only children — Hyeon was someone who kept even omegas at a distance.
When he made the face he always made upon hearing something he didn’t want to hear, Go Eunyeong caught on immediately and shot him a look.
“Regardless, don’t even think about skipping out on tonight’s dinner. You know how much effort Grandfather put into arranging this meeting with Minister Ryu and his wife, don’t you? When elders introduce someone to you, you say thank you and at least meet them first. All right?”
“……Don’t you ever get tired of this?”
“Hyeon, yes? Hmm? Yes?”
Even a man as towering as an old tree gets pulled into a tight embrace like a little boy, because he’s the youngest.
Go Eunyeong was not short herself, yet standing beside Hyeon she looked almost petite.
Because he knew that every touch and every word of hers was steeped in genuine affection, Hyeon could never bring himself to flatly refuse his mother alone.
“All right.”
“You promise?”
He gave a vague nod with the intention of brushing it off later, and Go Eunyeong immediately lit up with delight.
She called her own secretary, who had been following behind her, to her side and confirmed the details of that evening’s appointment one more time.
Left to walk on his own, Hyeon lengthened his stride and swiftly made his way out of the hospital lobby.
Once he put distance between himself and the shadow of his large painting, the headache seemed to ease just slightly.
“Haah……”
The moment he reached the smoking area, the first thing he let out was a sigh.
The pheromone cigarettes — effective for easing neurological symptoms — had now become more of a dependency than a help.
It was hard to believe that in only three years, he had grown this weak — weak enough to crawl willingly into a foul-smelling, grimy place like this.
Hyeon dropped the cigarette after only two drags and pulled a handkerchief from inside his jacket to wipe his hand.
He tossed even the handkerchief into the bin, and the eyes of those standing nearby slid sideways and pressed against his back.
He exhaled the blue smoke still lingering in his mouth and left the spot as though fleeing.
He was pressing a hand against one eye, trying to push down the pain that refused to subside — and it was in that moment.
A deep, sweet scent he had long forgotten brushed the tip of his nose.
It wasn’t as though the attendant who had prepared his handkerchief had spritzed perfume on it — and it was far too early in the season for flowers to be blooming.
A self-deprecating laugh slipped out.
So now I’m having phantom scents, too.
Then, something small and colorful intruded upon his narrowed field of vision.
Like a single drop of ink falling into water.
He snapped his head up and looked ahead — and there in the middle of a world painted entirely in gray and white, a permanent yellow, a vivid forsythia yellow — no, a person — stood there, faltering.
“……Seowoo?”
Hyeon’s pulse lurched into the rhythm it had kept three years ago.
Yoon Seowoo, clutching a heap of white blankets against his chest, blinked his large eyes — and took one step back.
Had he heard his voice? No. Before that — they had spotted each other first.
At the vivid, saturated color that seemed to have swallowed every last drop of light in the world, Hyeon was momentarily struck senseless.
Like someone seeing a flower for the very first time after gaining sight, the shocking beauty locked his entire body rigid, like paint hardened in a tube.
“You’re going to fall.”
His body moved faster than his mind.
His feet, acting beyond his will, kicked off the ground and in just a few strides closed the distance to the stumbling Seowoo.
Like that night three years ago, Hyeon wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him into his arms without hesitation.
A harrowing sensation shot up through his right wrist as it gripped the railing to bear their weight — but he paid it no mind.
No — it would be more accurate to say he didn’t even notice.
The moment the space between their two bodies converged to nothing, the pheromones that burst from Seowoo brought color flooding back to everything around them.
Hyeon’s vision was drenched in rapture.
Only now, having lost color, did he understand that winter had been a season of such rich and abundant hues.
“You were going to fall. Seowoo.”
The ragged breath that escaped him without his knowledge landed against Seowoo in an undignified rush.
As Hyeon clenched his teeth and forced composure onto his face, the person held in his arms only rolled his round eyes, his expression awash with flustered embarrassment.
That their gazes wouldn’t meet — Hyeon felt a sudden, inexplicable frustration at that.
“Are you all right? You need to be careful on the stairs.”
“Um…… first, let go — please let go of me.”
As Seowoo squirmed and pushed against him, the heap of white blankets in his arms moved along with him.
A puppy? Before Hyeon could even work out what it was, an unfamiliar high-pitched voice, bright as birdsong, came bouncing out.
“Appa?”
A small palm suddenly reached up and touched Hyeon’s cheek.
Surprised by the warm, soft sensation, Hyeon’s eyes went wide.
The blanket bundle parted, and Seowoo’s scent mingled with the baby’s.
It was as though someone had layered cherry blossom over permanent yellow and painted a cloud radiating pink-lemon light.
As his dizzy vision steadied, Seowoo’s awkward smile finally came into focus.
He took one step back, then bowed his head in a polite bow.
As his hair swayed, the sweet scent spread wider and fuller.
“Thank you for catching me.”
The brief words were spoken so softly they were barely audible.
He pulled the baby tightly into his arms as if to conceal it, then quickly turned to leave — and Hyeon reflexively reached out his hand.
“Wait — Seowoo.”
He had only pulled slightly, but the turning body lurched heavily.
Hyeon grabbed Seowoo before he could crumple to the floor, pulling him close and sinking down with him.
The baby sandwiched between them burst into a fit of delighted laughter.
