It was a high-rise flat, soaring above the surrounding skyline, floor-to-ceiling windows and white marble floors. The air conditioner was quiet, but running diligently; neither the heat nor the humidity of Seoul's indian summer were palpable inside. "Do you like it?" asked the father. "I do," said the son. But they watched one another, and the father could see the flat brought his son no joy. So he left the son there, and on his way home, he wondered if they had too much, if their sheer wealth had brought them too far from the human experience. It occurred to him, upon arriving home, how much his house looked like an office- looming ceilings, harsh lights, still, empty air that he, his wife, and the staff could never fill on their own. He made his way to the library, itself cavernous but filled at least with others' thoughts, and picked up a book. *Emptiness of the mind,* the first page said, and that was good enough; he left the library with it tucked under his arm. _______________________ The son called, some months later. The father, disturbed from his meditation, picked up. "Hello?" "Hello, Father. Are you busy?" The father thought about saying *I am,* but he'd have to call the son back, and he intended to spend the rest of the day with a completely clear mind. That was critical, after all, to enlightenment. "No," he said instead. "What do you need?" "I liked the first bed I bought for the flat," said the son hesitantly. "But I'd like one with a room divider attached, for better feng shui with the windows-" "Very well, I'll transfer some money." "No, I- I have enough." The father glanced at the Buddha across from him, the statue silently reprimanding him for interrupting his meditation. "Then what do you need?" he demanded, that reprimand making him curt. "I thought we could go look at some beds together." "I can't," said the father, Buddha's eyes scraping against his skin. "I have a meeting soon." *Be empty,* he told himself. *Empty.* He wouldn't be empty under the lights of a department store, his son at his left elbow and a salesperson at his right. "Oh," said the son. "Okay. Bye, then." "Bye." He hung up quickly, and transferred some money just in case- then he silenced his phone and settled in, feeling the gaze upon him lighten to something like approval. _________________________________________________ Some time passed, and the son was at the house for the father's birthday dinner. They were awaiting guests, so the father used the time to study his book. "I bought a new bed," the son offered. "Do you want to see a picture? The bed comes with a room divider, with a long silver arm. It looked a little strange in the store, but once it was in the flat, I flipped the orientation, and it suddenly looked right." The father found this topic unconscionably materialistic, but he rather supposed that was how one was meant to be, at his son's age, and in any case, he had to be empty. So he did not chastise him, and instead said: "I will meditate until our guests arrive." He sequestered himself in his meditation room, back to the door, and did not notice his son picking up the book he'd left behind on the couch. ___________________________________ His son behaved oddly at dinner. He refused any drink, and ate only lightly- and when a colleague's daughter asked after his life, he said: "It matters not. It's empty of meaning." "Why did you say that?" asks the father, once they're on the way home. "Your book," said the son. "I feel as if I have a will, for the first time in my life. It's all empty, so does it matter why I said that?" "No," said the father. "No." A sudden dread began to rise within him. "Don't read it. It's not for you." "Why shouldn't I? I feel flipped to rightness, as I flipped that damned divider. I admired you always, Father, before, before I was empty. And now I understand. There isn't." "There isn't what?" The son stared at the father, devoid of any emotion. "There isn't," he echoed. And the father looked around himself, saw the walls of his son's mind- saw his hopes, and his fears, and the house where he'd been raised. "Everything is empty," said the voice, his son's, but too alien to be his son. The sound bounced off the clouds and toys and walls. "Nothing matters. I could do anything. I could choose a random number. It wouldn't even matter if I just said- twenty-five, no, twenty-six, twenty-six, twenty-six, twenty-six..." That awful, monotonous chant continued, and the walls began to crack, falling down around him, until even the father's heart beat to that rhythm, twenty-six, twenty-six, twenty-six. He came back to himself, abruptly, the chauffeur's white eyes close to his face, rough hands shaking his shoulders. "*Beoljeon,*" gasped the chauffeur- and once he saw the father was awake, he let go of his shoulders and fled. And there in the backseat, the father turned his head to see his son rocking back and forth, insensibly, muttering "twenty-six... twenty-six... twenty-six..."