The door to Ji-Woo's room closed softly behind her.
She didn't bother turning on the lights.
Her heels were the first to go—kicked off without care, one landing near the dresser, the other rolling under the chair. She loosened the pins in her hair, letting it fall around her shoulders in a heavy curtain, and then she dropped onto the bed on her back with a loud, exhausted sigh.
The mattress dipped. The silence rushed in.
"Wow…" she murmured to the ceiling, voice rough but light, like she was pretending to joke with someone who wasn't there. "Unnie really did try."
A small smile tugged at her lips.
"But… you liked it. That's what matters."
She closed her eyes.
For a moment, the room felt too big.
"Ji-Woo unnie," she whispered, barely sound at all. "Anywhere you are… heaven, maybe… I hope you know I really miss you."
A quiet laugh slipped out—not free, not happy. Just fragile.
"I miss Min-Ju. Mom. Fah…" Her voice cracked slightly, then steadied. "Fah… my love. My best friend. I miss her too much."
She rolled onto her side, then pushed herself up to sit, elbows resting on her knees. The air felt heavy in her chest.
She sighed again.
Then—knock.
She didn't ask who it was.
She already knew.
"Come in," she said.
Mrs. Kim entered without hesitation. She looked the same as she had all evening—composed, elegant, unreadable. In her hands was a thick photo album, its leather cover worn at the edges.
She sat beside Ji-Woo on the bed, placing the album between them, and opened it.
Photographs.
A small child with messy hair and scraped knees.A crooked grin.Birthday candles blown out too early.A little girl laughing, mid-run, captured imperfectly.
Ji-Woo leaned closer before she could stop herself.
Funny thing was—she remembered.
Not as Ji-Woo.
As Ji-Soo.
Her throat tightened. Her vision blurred for half a second, but she forced it back, biting down hard on the inside of her cheek.
Mrs. Kim turned a page. Then another.
"Do you remember this?" she asked quietly.
Ji-Woo nodded once. Careful. Controlled.
"Yes."
Her fingers hovered over the page, never touching it.
Then she paused.
Her gaze fixed on one photo.
Two little girls.
They looked similar. Too similar.
"Who's that?" Ji-Woo asked, her voice softer than she intended. "The other girl."
Mrs. Kim's hand stilled.
For a brief moment—so brief it could be missed—she hesitated.
"That," she said at last, closing the album slowly, "was your twin."
That was all.
She stood, smoothing her skirt, as if nothing delicate had just been placed between them.
"You should rest," Mrs. Kim added calmly. "It was a long night."
And then she left.
The door clicked shut.
Ji-Woo sat very still.
A tear finally escaped—just one. She wiped it away quickly, almost angrily, and sniffed once, steadying herself.
"No," she whispered to the empty room. "Not now."
She lay back down, staring at the ceiling, heart beating too loud.
The album's weight lingered long after Mrs. Kim was gone.
******
The field was loud.
Shouts cut through the air, shoes scraped against dirt, the ball thudded and rolled in sharp, practiced rhythms. Boys crowded one side, jerseys pulled on hastily. On the other, girls tied their hair back, laughter mixing with the sound of whistles.
Ji-Soo stood far behind them.
Too far.
She kept her hands folded in front of her, fingers tight, shoulders slightly drawn inward. She didn't wear the uniform like the others. She hadn't moved when her name had been called.
She watched Fah run.
The ball stayed close to Fah's feet, moving as if it belonged there. Every turn was precise. Confident. Effortless. The way people played when their body remembered before their mind could doubt.
Ji-Soo's stomach twisted.
I can't do that.
She had always avoided balls. The sound, the speed, the expectation.But the real Ji-Soo hadn't.
That was why they kept calling.
"Ji-Soo!""Over here!"
She didn't respond.
Across the field, Min-Ju paused.
The ball rested under his foot. Sweat dampened his hair, strands clinging to his forehead. His eyes lifted—not searching at first, just drifting—until they found her.
Still standing there.
Still not moving.
His grip tightened slightly. He swallowed and started toward the girls' side.
"Come on, bro," someone laughed, grabbing his arm. "Focus."
He hesitated—then let himself be pulled back into the game.
Fah noticed.
She slowed, letting the ball roll to a stop before turning her head. Her gaze found Ji-Soo almost immediately. Fah jogged over and stopped beside her, close but not crowding.
"What?" Fah asked softly, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Come on. You play really well. You can be on my team."
Ji-Soo shook her head at once.
"No," she said, the word leaving her too quickly. She exhaled, quieter now. "I don't like playing."
Fah tilted her head. "Since when?"
Ji-Soo didn't answer.
"I can't," she said instead. Softer. Final.
Fah studied her for a second longer, then shrugged lightly. "Okay. No pressure."
She turned—just as another girl grabbed Ji-Soo's wrist.
"Don't be boring," the girl laughed, already pulling. "We're short a player."
Ji-Soo stumbled a step. Then another.
Hands nudged her from behind. Someone laughed. Someone shouted directions she didn't understand.
The noise closed in.
Her chest tightened.
"Hey—stop," Fah said, reaching out.
But the circle shifted.
A final push.
Ji-Soo stumbled forward, lost her balance, and fell.
Her head struck the ground with a dull sound.
She didn't move.
"Ji-Soo!" Fah's voice broke through the noise.
Nothing.
The field froze.
Then everything rushed at once.
Min-Ju was there suddenly, kneeling, his movements steady but fast. He slipped an arm beneath Ji-Soo's shoulders and another beneath her knees, lifting her carefully—bridal-style—without hesitation.
"Clear a path," someone said.
He didn't run.
He walked fast, controlled, jaw set.
Fah followed, pale, silent.
The nurse's office door swung open.
Min-Ju lowered Ji-Soo onto the bed gently, as if afraid even the air might hurt her.
"Mrs. Nurse," he said.
Not panicked.
Not loud.
Just firm.
And waiting.