The Child We Waited For [Morning / University Hospital Research Building]

Taekyung sat at the head of the conference table.

Growth data from a human brain organoid filled the screen.

A tiny piece of neural tissue grown from human stem cells.

Not a complete brain, but a tissue model that recreated part of the process by which the human brain develops.

That was a brain organoid.

One of the researchers changed slides.

(Researcher) : “From the eleventh month of culture, electrical activity becomes rapidly more complex. The vascular-like structures are also more stable than in the previous batch.”

Taekyung raised a hand.

(Taekyung) : “Put the expanded transplantation study on hold.”

The room went quiet.

(Researcher) : “Professor, the animal transplantation data already—”

(Taekyung) : “Surviving and functioning normally are two different things.”

Taekyung continued calmly.

(Taekyung) : “We still don’t know enough about how stably this tissue integrates with the host brain. Blood vessels connecting to it isn’t the end of the story, and electrical signals alone don’t prove normal function.”

Another researcher asked carefully,

(Researcher 2) : “Still, if we’re thinking about clinical potential, shouldn’t we start moving faster now?”

Taekyung shook his head.

(Taekyung) : “Patients are not people we use to discover what we don’t know.”

He had always been like that.

Procedure before speed.

Verification before possibility.

In the lab, he was known as a man almost frustratingly strict about principles.

When the meeting ended, Taekyung checked his phone.

There was a photo from Jian.

An ultrasound image.

A short message beneath it.

‘They said the baby’s still holding on well today.’

For the first time that day, Taekyung’s expression softened.

They had waited a long time for a child.

For the first few years, they had laughed and said, “It’ll happen when the time is right.”

Then hospital appointments became the center of their calendar.

Tests.

Injections.

Retrievals.

Transfers.

Waiting.

Failure.

Then waiting again.

Jian had put pregnancy tests deep inside a drawer, only to take them out again, more times than either of them could count.

Even watching her go through that, Taekyung rarely spoke easily of hope.

He was afraid that if he did, she would only fall apart again.

So even after twelve weeks of pregnancy, they bought nothing for the baby.

Only after twenty weeks did they buy their first pair of tiny socks.

(Jian) : “There’s really going to be someone who wears these, right?”

(Taekyung) : “Yeah.”

Even as he answered, Taekyung stared at the socks for a long time.

It was still hard to believe.

[Night / Home]

Jian was in the final month of pregnancy.

She sat on the sofa, one hand resting on her belly.

(Jian) : “Are we really sure Hajun is the best name?”

(Taekyung) : “It’s the one you like best.”

(Jian) : “And you?”

(Taekyung) : “I’m fine as long as you don’t change your mind.”

Jian laughed.

At that moment, her belly shifted sharply.

Taekyung put his hand there.

A tiny foot pushed against his palm from inside.

Taekyung smiled without saying anything.

This was the child they had waited so long for.

So naturally, both of them thought the same thing.

From now on, surely only happiness remained.

[Twelve Days Later / University Hospital Consultation Room]

The doctor had a newborn brain MRI displayed on the monitor.

Taekyung understood at a glance.

Part of the cerebral cortex was abnormally thin.

There were broad regions that had not formed sufficiently at all.

(Doctor) : “It is a severe congenital brain malformation.”

Jian looked at Taekyung.

Taekyung kept staring at the screen.

(Jian) : “It can be treated, right?”

The doctor paused to choose his words.

(Doctor) : “With current medicine, there is no treatment that can replace damaged brain tissue with normal tissue.”

Jian’s lips trembled.

(Doctor) : “Developmental delay and recurrent seizures are highly likely, and in severe cases, it can also affect survival.”

(Taekyung) : “What kind of prognosis are we looking at?”

As if realizing Taekyung was a physician, the doctor answered more directly.

(Doctor) : “Statistically, around age five is the most dangerous period.”

Five.

The moment he heard that number, Taekyung could say nothing.

At home, in a drawer, there was still a pair of tiny socks they had never even opened.

Hajun was only twelve days old.