A full month had passed since the icy night at the river.
Since the fall.
Since the scream swallowed by the black water.
Since the moment Harin had finally let her pain break open and fly free.
She woke up the next morning the way someone wakes from a dream that lasted too long.
Sheets cold.
Throat tight.
But the mind… clearer than it had been in years.
That was the first day of the purification.
Every morning, she drank a bitter herbal mixture with warm water, plants, prayer, and stubborn hope.
She called it her "shadow remedy."
It scraped her throat every time, bringing tears to her eyes.
But it was the kind of pain that healed, not the kind that destroyed.
Some days, she vomited until her body shook.
But each time, she felt a piece of the darkness loosen its hold on her.
And afterwards, when the tears came…
they weren't the silent, suffocating ones.
They were new tears cleansing ones, soft and honest.
Each night, she trained with Jahoon, her brother turned coach, shield, and silent witness.
She ended every session breathless, trembling… but freer.
At first, her punches were timid.
Too gentle.
As if she feared punching through the silence itself.
But slowly
hesitation became strength.
Fear became force.
Her fists began to draw lines of truth in the air.
Every punch:
a memory released.
Every breath:
a night of fear exhaled.
Every bead of sweat:
a grief untied.
Jahoon watched her quietly.
In his eyes lived pride, sadness, and a deep love that hurt.
He watched her being reborn not with fire, but with discipline and silence.
Yet something inside Harin remained empty.
Not fear.
Not pain.
Something deeper.
She missed creating.
So that day, she gathered her courage and pushed open the glass door of a small art gallery.
An exhibition dedicated to unfinished works canvases suspended between life and abandonment.
There was something comforting in their incompletion, as if every brushstroke carried a breath that hadn't finished its journey.
Harin walked slowly, her steps soft against the marble floor.
Her eyes hovered over a painting in pastel shades wilted flowers under a blue sky.
A beautiful hurt lived in it.
She didn't understand why… but she felt it.
And that's when ,
Junwoo saw her.
He had stopped in front of the gallery without knowing why.
Just an instinct.
A strange pull in his chest, as if someone had called him there without speaking.
When he looked up, he froze.
There she was.
Back turned.
Fragile… yet inhabited.
Found you.
He hadn't imagined her.
When she turned, their eyes met.
And for a single second, the entire world dimmed around them.
Junwoo approached slowly, afraid the moment would shatter if he moved too fast.
"Does this painting speak to you?" he asked softly.
Harin blinked, startled.
Her eyes were clear, but tired.
She nodded.
"It's unfinished," she murmured, "but somehow… it says everything."
"Maybe some things are more beautiful when they stay incomplete."
A sad smile touched her lips.
"Or maybe some things deserve an ending."
They stood there, not speaking what they truly meant ,
but feeling the same invisible pull.
They walked through the gallery side by side.
Talking little.
Yet the silences between them were full.
They spoke about colors, music, wounds that don't bleed.
At one point, he asked:
"Are you an artist?"
"I was. Now… I'm just trying again."
"I stopped making music," he admitted.
"But sometimes… a voice, a face, brings it back."
When they stepped outside, night had fallen.
The air smelled of winter.
"I'll call a taxi," she said.
"No. Let me drive you home. Don't move my car's close."
She nodded quietly.
While he walked away, Harin sat on a bench, the cold wrapping around her gently.
Her eyelids grew heavy.
The day had been too long.
Her heart, too full.
She didn't even notice when sleep finally took her.