Mrs. Kim entered the house without calling out.
The door closed behind her with a muted click—too soft for the force she had used. She stood still in the entryway for a moment, one hand resting against the doorframe, her posture rigid. Her breathing was shallow, measured, as if she were counting each inhale to keep herself steady.
Her heels clicked faintly as she moved inside.
She placed her bag on the couch, not bothering to straighten it. The room was immaculate, as always. Nothing out of place. Nothing wrong.
Except her.
"Water," she said.
Her voice was even. Controlled. Only the slight tightening at the end of the word betrayed her.
A maid hurried in, startled by the tone rather than the volume, and returned quickly with a glass.
Mrs. Kim accepted it. Her fingers trembled—just enough for her to notice. She adjusted her grip, annoyed at herself, and took a slow sip.
Cold.
The sensation grounded her for half a second.
Then the image returned.
The girl's face.
Too familiar.
She lowered the glass.
"The accident," she said quietly, more to herself than anyone else.
Her reflection stared back at her from the darkened television screen across the room. Pale. Composed. Untouched.
"She looks like Ji-Woo."
The words felt dangerous the moment she let them exist.
Not similar.
Not reminiscent.
Like.
Her hand tightened around the glass. She sat down slowly, back straight, gaze fixed forward.
Coincidence, she told herself. It had to be.
And yet—
"What if it isn't?" she whispered.
Her mind moved quickly, ruthlessly, through possibilities she had long forbidden herself from revisiting. Paths she had sealed shut years ago.
Hope crept in, unwanted and sharp.
Hope was worse than fear.
Mrs. Kim closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, forcing the thought down where it belonged.
Not yet.
If there was truth here, she would face it properly. Not like this. Not unraveling on a couch in an empty room.
She lifted the glass again, her hand steady now.
Cold logic first.
Always.
The Library
The library was quiet in the way only old buildings ever were—filled with sound, yet somehow hushed.
Ji-Woo moved through the aisles without urgency, her steps light, almost absentminded. She traced her fingers along the spines of books as she passed, not really reading the titles.
She liked this place. It asked nothing of her.
Her reflection flickered in the tall windows between shelves. Calm expression. Relaxed posture.
No one would guess how carefully everything was calculated.
She turned a corner too quickly and collided with someone solid.
Books slipped from a stack and hit the floor with soft, hollow thuds.
"Oh—sorry," Ji-Woo said immediately, crouching to help. Her tone was natural, practiced.
She gathered the books and handed them back with a faint smile. "You really planning to read all of these?"
Ji-Ho nodded once. No expression. No comment.
He turned and walked away.
Ji-Woo watched him go for half a second longer than necessary.
Still the same, she thought.
Some people never changed.
She straightened and continued walking—until she heard a voice that didn't belong.
Low. Controlled.
"…no leads."
Ji-Woo slowed instinctively.
Her steps became silent as she edged closer, slipping behind a tall shelf. She didn't need to see the speaker to know who it was.
Mi-Sook stood a few meters away, phone pressed to her ear. Her posture was relaxed, casual, as if she were discussing homework rather than a crime.
"That's good," Mi-Sook continued. "Make sure it stays that way."
A pause.
"I'm sure Ji-Soo isn't dead."
Ji-Woo felt the words land like ice water down her spine.
Her breathing stayed even. Panic was a luxury.
Mi-Sook ended the call and slipped her phone into her pocket.
"You can come out," she said calmly.
Ji-Woo didn't hesitate. Hesitation would look suspicious.
She stepped into view.
Mi-Sook turned, eyes sharp, assessing her with open curiosity. There was no surprise on her face. Only confirmation.
"Amnesia looks good on you," Mi-Sook said lightly. "It simplifies things."
Ji-Woo met her gaze. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Mi-Sook smiled—not unkindly. Not warmly either.
"I checked the accident records," she said. "Photos, reports, timelines."
She took a step closer.
"In one of the pictures, Ji-Soo was holding a bracelet."
Her eyes dropped, briefly, to Ji-Woo's wrist.
"The same one you're wearing."
Ji-Woo didn't look down.
She already knew.
Mi-Sook reached out and caught her wrist—not rough, not gentle. Just firm enough to make a point.
"Details matter," Mi-Sook said softly. "People forget that."
Ji-Woo felt her pulse jump beneath Mi-Sook's fingers. She kept her face neutral.
"You're assuming a lot," she said.
Mi-Sook released her and stepped back, folding her arms. "I'm observant."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Ji-Woo spoke.
"Ji-Soo looked like me," she said quietly. "Because she was my sister."
The air shifted.
Mi-Sook's expression changed—just a fraction. Enough.
Ji-Woo noticed.
Before either of them could speak again, a third voice interrupted.
"Is this a secret society meeting or something?"
Ji-Bok leaned against a shelf, arms crossed, unimpressed. "Because if it is, you picked the worst possible location."
Mi-Sook clicked her tongue softly and walked past him without another glance.
Ji-Bok watched her go, then looked at Ji-Woo. "You good?"
Ji-Woo nodded once. "She's nervous."
It wasn't a lie.
But it wasn't the whole truth either.
As Ji-Bok walked away, Ji-Woo remained where she was, eyes fixed on the space Mi-Sook had occupied moments earlier.
The game had changed.
And this time, she wasn't hiding anymore.
--
Ji-Ho exhaled softly and adjusted his glasses, his gaze dropping to the stack of books balanced in his arms.
"Yes," he murmured to no one in particular.
His eyes traced the spines, titles blurring together.
How much am I expected to finish this time?The thought surfaced briefly, without complaint.
He resumed walking toward his classroom, steps even, unhurried.
Halfway down the corridor, he stopped.
Not abruptly—just enough to notice.
A faint tightening settled in his chest. Subtle. Uncomfortable. As if the air behind him had shifted.
Ji-Ho didn't turn around.
Someone's there.
The thought wasn't fear. It was instinct.
He stood still for a second longer, listening. The hallway remained quiet. No footsteps. No voices. Only the distant hum of the building.
You're tired, he told himself. That's all.
He adjusted his grip on the books and continued walking.
The feeling didn't follow.
Or maybe—it simply knew better than to be obvious.
Ji-Ho didn't look back.