Later that day, Ji-Woo sat at her desk, posture straight, hands folded neatly on the surface.
She had learned not to fidget.
The classroom buzzed with low conversation—nothing unusual, yet everything felt slightly off, as if the air had shifted while no one was looking.
The door opened.
Mi-Sook entered.
She didn't stop.She didn't scan the room.
She walked in like she belonged there—unhurried, composed, already certain of her place.
A few students instinctively straightened.
Mi-Sook moved down the aisle, greeting no one, acknowledging everyone. When she passed Ji-Woo's desk, she didn't look at her.
That was deliberate.
She took her seat two rows away and placed her bag down carefully, smoothing her skirt as she sat. Only then did she glance up—briefly, absently—toward Ji-Woo, as if noticing her for the first time.
Her expression softened.
Concern, perhaps.
Or something that resembled it.
Ji-Woo felt the shift immediately.
Mi-Sook leaned toward the girl beside her and spoke quietly—not a whisper, but low enough to invite attention.
"…She still looks tired," Mi-Sook said, voice mild. "Recovery must be harder than the doctors said."
The girl hesitated. "Who?"
Mi-Sook didn't answer right away. She simply tilted her head slightly, eyes flicking—just once—toward Ji-Woo.
Understanding spread faster than words.
"Oh," the girl murmured. "Ji-Woo?"
Mi-Sook nodded faintly. "I worry about her. She's been… different."
Not accusing. Observing.
The sentence drifted forward, desk to desk.
"Different how?"
"I heard she doesn't remember things properly."
"My cousin said amnesia patients can fake it sometimes."
"That's awful. Why would anyone—"
Mi-Sook raised a hand gently, stopping the conversation without force.
"No," she said calmly. "I'm sure she's trying her best."
The class watched her now.
Ji-Woo stared at the board, breathing steady. So this is how she does it, she thought. No blame. No anger. Just doubt.
Mi-Sook turned slightly in her seat, resting her chin on her hand. Her eyes finally met Ji-Woo's—not sharp, not hostile.
Sympathetic.
Almost kind.
Ji-Woo met the look for a second longer than necessary, then looked away.
Behind her, someone whispered, "She looks fine, though."
Another voice answered, uncertain, "That's what makes it scary."
Mi-Sook sighed softly—as if she hadn't meant for anyone to hear.
"I just hope she's not forcing herself," she said. "Sometimes people don't even realize they're lying—to others or themselves."
Silence followed.
Not heavy. Thoughtful.
The teacher entered then, breaking the moment.
"Take your seats."
Books opened. Pens moved.
Mi-Sook faced forward, attention already on the lesson, as if nothing had happened.
Around Ji-Woo, the glances had changed—not cruel, not open.
Curious. Measuring.
Ji-Woo felt it settle over her shoulders like invisible dust.
She didn't react.
She didn't smile.
She only thought, She's not attacking me.
She's letting them do it for her.
And that was far more dangerous.
---
After that day in the meeting room With other business workers, Mrs. Kim began to notice Ji-Woo.
At first, it felt accidental.
A glance that lingered half a second too long. A thought that returned when it shouldn't have.
Mrs. Kim had never been observant by nature. People existed around her, not to her. She listened when necessary, remembered what mattered, forgot the rest.
Yet now, her attention kept drifting—uninvited, persistent.
She watched how Ji-Woo walked.
The Ji-Woo she remembered moved as if apologizing for taking up space. Shoulders slightly drawn in. Eyes lowered. Her steps had always been careful, measured—like she expected to be stopped.
This Ji-Woo walked differently.
Her back was straight. Not stiff—balanced. Her chin lifted just enough to face forward. She didn't rush, didn't hesitate. Each step landed with quiet confidence, as though she trusted the ground beneath her.
Mrs. Kim felt a faint, unpleasant tightening in her chest.
She watched how Ji-Woo spoke.
Before, Ji-Woo's words had come unevenly. She used to glance up mid-sentence, searching faces for approval, retreating when voices grew firm.
Now, Ji-Woo spoke only when spoken to—and when she did, her voice didn't waver.
Soft. Controlled.
She didn't fill silence. She allowed it.
That was new.
Then there were her eyes.
Mrs. Kim noticed them most during meals.
Ji-Woo used to avoid eye contact at the table, gaze fixed on her plate. She would shrink under scrutiny.
Now, Ji-Woo lifted her eyes when addressed. Looked directly. Calmly. Then looked away again, as if she had already measured what was safe to give.
No fear. No eagerness.
Just restraint.
Mrs. Kim's fingers tightened slightly around her teacup.
And then—the eating.
Ji-Woo had never eaten properly. A few bites, a polite excuse. Food always left untouched, cooling on porcelain plates Mrs. Kim no longer remembered ordering.
This Ji-Woo ate.
Slowly. Neatly.
Each bite deliberate, chewed fully, swallowed without rush. Not hunger. Not obligation.
Awareness.
Mrs. Kim watched her lift her spoon, pause briefly, then continue—unbothered by being observed.
You never ate like that, Mrs. Kim thought.
The realization didn't come with shock.
It came with certainty.
She began to notice patterns.
Ji-Woo carried a small notebook now. Sometimes loose paper. Sometimes her phone, opened to notes she glanced at before answering questions.
Prepared.
As if she didn't trust her memory.
Or as if she was making sure no one could corner her with it.
Mrs. Kim didn't confront her.
She didn't accuse. Didn't probe.
She tested.
Casually.
"Do you remember," Mrs. Kim said one afternoon, her tone light, almost careless, "how much you hated jasmine tea?"
Ji-Woo paused.
Just a breath.
"I don't like strong scents," she replied. "They give me headaches."
Not agreement. Not denial.
A sidestep.
Mrs. Kim nodded as if satisfied, but something inside her went still.
That night, she pulled out old photographs.
Not the posed ones.
The forgotten ones.
Ji-Woo laughing with her head thrown back. Ji-Woo flinching at raised voices. Ji-Woo clasping her hands together when nervous.
Mrs. Kim studied them closely—then closed the album and stared into the dark reflection of the glass.
The girl in those pictures had been fragile.
The girl now living in her house was not.
Mrs. Kim set the album aside.
She didn't feel anger. She didn't feel relief.
She felt focus.
Later, alone, she opened her phone and scrolled past contacts she hadn't used in years.
Private investigators. Hospital administrators. Accident records buried under sealed reports.
She selected none of them yet.
Mrs. Kim was patient.
Whatever this was, it had been carefully done.
And careful things unraveled slowly.
She looked toward the hallway where Ji-Woo's room was.
The girl inside moved quietly, confidently—too confidently for someone who had supposedly lost herself.
Mrs. Kim's lips pressed into a thin line.
She would not rush.
But she would watch.
And she would find the truth—one detail at a time.