Ji-Woo stood in front of her house.
Nothing had changed. The walls still carried the same faint cracks, the gate still creaked the same way it used to.
It was as if time had moved on without her—and the house had chosen to stay behind.
She walked forward slowly, pulling her hoodie lower, hiding her face, hiding herself.
Inside the compound, Mrs. Han was sweeping.
The sight alone shattered her.
Mrs. Han moved gently, humming her favorite song—the one that used to fill the house every morning.
Ji-Woo's chest tightened painfully. Her feet begged her to run, to cross the distance and fall into her arms, to feel that familiar warmth just once more.
Just one hug.
But she couldn't.
She watched as Mrs. Han swept past the corner where Ji-Woo used to sit and wait after school.
The same place where she used to laugh, complain, dream. Every stroke of the broom felt like it was erasing her piece by piece.
Her vision blurred. Tears spilled freely now, sliding down her cheeks as she bit her lip to keep from sobbing.
Without realizing it, Ji-Woo took a step forward.
Her foot crossed into the compound.
"Can I help you?"
The voice came from behind her.
Ji-Woo froze.
Her breath hitched as her body went rigid.
She swallowed hard, fingers trembling as she tugged her hoodie lower, shadowing her face.
"Who are you looking for?" the voice asked again.
It was Min-Ju.
He stood behind her, confusion written plainly on his face. His gaze lingered, searching, narrowing slightly—as if something about her presence felt wrong… or too familiar.
Ji-Woo turned slowly and shook her head.
"No one," she murmured.
She turned to leave.
"Wait."
Min-Ju reached out and caught her wrist. "Are you lost? I can help you—"
She flinched at his touch.
"No. I'm okay."
The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Min-Ju frowned.
"…Why do you sound familiar?"
Ji-Woo's heart slammed violently against her ribs. She pulled her hand free at once and turned her face away.
Min-Ju stepped closer, trying to see her. "Hey—can you look at me for a second?"
She shifted, angling her hood even lower.
"Please," he said, reaching out again. "I just want to see your face—"
She stepped back sharply.
"No."
Her voice cracked.
For a brief moment, Min-Ju tried again, moving to the side, hoping to catch a glimpse. But she turned away completely, hugging herself as if holding herself together.
"I said I'm fine."
And with that, she walked past him.
Min-Ju stood there, watching her disappear down the road. He hesitated, eyes lingering on her retreating figure.
"…That was strange," he muttered.
After a moment, he shook his head and turned back toward the house, brushing off the unease.
Inside the compound, Mrs. Han continued sweeping, unaware that her daughter had stood only a few steps away—close enough to touch, yet impossibly far.
--
It was 5 a.m.
Ji-Woo boarded the bus to Seoul quickly, as if staying even a second longer would break her completely.
The doors closed with a dull hiss, sealing her away from Jeonju—and from everything she loved.
She took a seat by the window.
Her hands rested in her lap, trembling slightly, but her mind refused to be still.
Fah… Mom… Min-Ju.
They had been her family once. Before everything went wrong.
Before she was dragged into the worst life she would ever live.
A cold mother who never looked at her twice.
Cruel bullies who found joy in her silence.
Annoying classmates who whispered, stared, judged.
And mysteries that wrapped around her life like chains, refusing to loosen.
Her life had been warm once.
The bus moved forward, the streets blurring past, but her chest only grew heavier.
Regret settled deep inside her as the scene replayed in her mind—standing outside the house, watching Mrs. Han sweep, hearing Min-Ju's voice.
She pulled her hoodie lower and let her head fall forward.
Then the memory came.
The real Ji-Woo.
The screech of tires. The flash of headlights.
She saw it again—Ji-Woo stepping into the road, the car rushing toward her. She had tried to save her.
She really had. Her body moved before her thoughts did.
But it was in vain.
The car hit Ji-Woo.
And then—it hit her.
The impact that bound their fates together.
Ji-Woo squeezed her eyes shut, her breath shallow, as if the memory itself hurt too much to breathe through.
Slowly, she lifted her head and turned toward the window.
The sky was still dark, the city half-asleep.
She stared outside, silent, broken, carrying a past she could never return to—and a future she didn't know how to face.
*****
Ji-Soo had only just returned.
Night had fully settled, not loud, not empty—alive in small ways. Crickets stitched the silence together with their steady rhythm.
Somewhere deeper in the dark, an owl called once, low and patient, as if watching the world breathe.
Ji-Woo walked alone, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her hoodie hung loose, the hood forgotten, letting the cool night air play with her hair.
Each step sent her hair swinging with the breeze, strands lifting and falling like they were dancing.
Her half-bangs slipped over her eyes, hiding them, shielding her from the world she didn't want to face.
She was almost home.
Then she stopped.
Her hand dropped slowly to her side as her breath caught.
In front of her gate sat Eun-Woo.
He was asleep against the metal bars, one leg bent with his foot propped up, the other stretched flat along the ground.
A food bag rested carefully on his lap, both hands loosely around it—as if even in sleep, he was afraid of letting it go.
Ji-Woo moved again, slower now.
Her footsteps echoed too loudly in the quiet street, each one sounding like a mistake.
At the sound, Eun-Woo stirred.
He blinked awake, rubbing his eyes, instinctively tightening his grip on the bag for a moment before realizing where he was.
Then he looked up.
They just stared at each other.
"…Where are you coming from?" he asked finally, his voice rough with sleep.
"Nowhere," Ji-Woo said.
Flat.
Final.
She didn't trust her voice to carry anything else. She was already breaking.
Eun-Woo frowned, standing as he stepped closer. "What happened? You look… down."
She didn't answer.
"Tell me," he said softly, reaching out, fingers brushing for her hand. "What's wrong?"
Ji-Woo looked away, lips pressed together, sealed shut.
"Just tell me what happened, Ji-Woo," he continued, his voice rising just a little—frustration tangled with concern.
"Where were you? You said you were sick."
She seized her hand back.
"I don't have to tell you anything, Eun-Woo!" she shouted, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
"Who are you…?"
The moment the sentence landed, she froze.
A tear escaped, sliding down her cheek.
"I—I am so—"
Before she could finish, Eun-Woo cut her off.
"I'm not that important to you?" he said quietly, exhaling hard. "Really? You're asking who I am?"
He looked at her for a long second—long enough to say everything he didn't.
Then he held out the bag. "Here."
Ji-Woo took it automatically.
Eun-Woo didn't wait.
He turned away, hands in his pockets, walking down the street without looking back.
Ji-Woo clutched the bag to her chest, her fingers tightening as regret flooded in—every word she had thrown, every silence she had chosen.
She stood there, watching his retreating back disappear into the night, the crickets still singing like nothing had broken at all.