The rain came again, soft pitter-pattering as the monotone sky slept, the world swaying in the winds that brushed past. Tiny buds of purple gathered in clusters amidst tall grass, the lavender dancing with the water. In the corners, dull, grass-like foliage stood tall, drinking in the rain. Thin, strap-like leaves, spider lilies long past their time.

At the pan, Mother made pajeon, spring onions streaking through the golden-brown surface. Steady crackles and pops blended with the soft splatter of rain, the room warm with steam and sweet oil. The world lets out a slow breath, the last of winter slipping away.

Last year, there would’ve been a bowl tossed on the ground. Failed batches clumped together, caramelized patches splattered with soy and vinegar. And amidst the calm outside, the room shook and danced as happy barks sliced through the serenity.

His onyx-black fur, sleek and shiny, like an expensive coat draped over his skin. Eyes big and wide, bright with something almost knowing. His paws scrambled across the marble floor, sharper than the rain, as he bounded around the kitchen, a piece of pajeon hanging from his mouth.

I would chase after him, around and around we’d go, his jaws open, tongue half out as the golden pancake slipped. Our laughter and barking blended into a single language. Mother would be cornered at the island, yelping as she tried to save the batter from tipping over the counter.

So quiet. It’s so quiet today. The oil pops occasionally as Mother sits down beside me, our legs intertwined, and I inch my stool closer to hers. I lean against her shoulder and exhale, clouding the glass in front of me. Rain taps at the window, each droplet catching the warm glow of our home.

I gaze at the tall grass, the yard’s lavender catching the steady rain. Wasn’t it just last fall that the spider lilies bloomed for the first time? Their crimson petals stretched outward from the bulb, thin stamens likethe twitching antennae of a spider.

I had thought they were dead, the plant nothing more than a bare stalk in the height of summer. And yet, seemingly overnight, the lilies bloomed proudly, their red vivid against the quiet autumn light. Their fragrance quickly filled the garden, settling deep into the soil.

That season, I would often run outside with him, our legs leaping through grass and dew, autumn leaves brushing against my cheek. I would lie there with him panting beside me, his tongue sticking out as he smiles, my head on his soft belly as we watched the red lilies sway.

Now past their season, the spider lilies lie hidden in the background of the yard. Next fall, they’ll return, resurrection year after year.

But I’ll never get mine back.

That day, with my hands pressed against his soft belly, I watched as dark maroon seeped through his fur, sticky in my hands. And as my horror bloomed, his heartbeat slowed beneath my palms, each pulse weaker than the last.

The white truck’s lights kept on flashing, bright and blinding, the world I had grown to love burning before me as Mother shouted somewhere behind.

It was my fault. I took him out.

His mouth opened and closed, a quiet whine slipping through, and only then did I understand how much I loved him. But it was too late. Too late to watch him enjoy another pajeon. Too late to lie with him on the soft grass and watch the lilies sway under the cool autumn sunrise. Far too late for anything at all. He let out one last breath. Beneath my hands, his body trembled once more before his muscles stilled. His warmth lingered for only a moment before fading as the cold crept in.

My tears fell into his fur, disappearing into his beautiful coat.

Today, the world is serene and calm. The rain falls steadily. Beside me, Mother is silent, my head on her shoulder as we watch the droplets gather and slip down the glass.

Outside, the lavender sways. The foliage shifts faintly, though nothing runs through it. The tall grass still parts for a body, one spot bending outward.

Steam clouds the windows, the world beyond blurring into soft shapes. Raindrops trace slow lines down the glass. And as the rain falls on, the sweet aroma of pajeon fills the room, warm against the cold of April.