For days, I stayed in my room.
Her parents. My parents.
Everyone was worried, crying, calling my name, banging on the door.
I couldn't answer.
It was my fault.
Why did I let her go?
Why didn't I notice?
Where did everything go wrong?
Those questions tore me apart, over and over.
I didn't attend her funeral.
I couldn't. Seeing her one last time would have shattered whatever little remained of me.
After that, my mom and dad sent me to Seoul for school. Maybe they thought being away would help.
Maybe they believed that time and a new place could change something.
It didn't.
The trauma didn't fade.
Every night, the memories came back—clear, harsh, unyielding.
Her smile.
Her voice.
The snow.
Sleep became impossible.
That's when I made my decision.
I would become someone who could protect the people they love. Someone who would never feel powerless again.
And for that, I needed power. Power comes from money. Money brings influence. Influence brings safety. Together, they deliver success.
That is the path I chose. And now, here I am.
What do you think, Seo-ah?
The wind moved through the weeds, making the dry stalks rub against each other. The rails stretched ahead of us, dull and rusty, vanishing into the distance.
Seo-ah stood very still. Too still. Then she turned to me.
"Stop it." Her voice sliced through the cold air.
I looked at her, surprised.
"Stop talking like that," she said, stepping closer, her boots crunching on the gravel.
"Stop saying it was your fault."
I opened my mouth, but she wouldn't let me speak.
"You were a child," she said firmly. "Do you hear me? A child."
Her hands clenched at her sides, knuckles white.
"You didn't control the train. You didn't control the tracks. You didn't control the timing." Her voice shook, not from weakness, but from tightly held rage.
"Fate did. Circumstances did." She pointed at the rails.
"That did." The wind carried the metallic scent of old iron.
"You think becoming powerful fixes this?" she continued. "You think money, fame, success somehow reach back in time and save her?"
Her voice cracked for just a moment.
"All it did was give you a place to hide."
"My chest tightened. Her words were bitter—but true."
I was running from reality
"But no hiding in the hole, I clenched my fist."
A distant bird took flight. Somewhere far off, metal creaked. Seo-ah exhaled slowly, her shoulders dropping as if the anger finally had a way out.
"…But listen to me," she said quietly now.
She looked at the spot I had pointed out earlier—the darker stones, worn smooth by time. "You didn't abandon her," she said.
"You survived." Her eyes returned to me.
"But you abandoned yourself here." She didn't touch me. She didn't need to.
"I won't walk away," she said.
"Not today. Not here." She turned back toward the tracks.
"But don't turn yourself into a weapon and call it healing." The wind howled softly through the rails.
And for the first time since I returned to this place, "It felt like something was waiting to be faced."
At the same time, in a long, sun-baked building.
He stood on the rooftop, looking out over the city.
The wind swept across the concrete, carrying dust along with the low, constant hum of traffic. A loose sheet of metal rattled against the railing, clanging in sharp, uneven bursts.
Far below, horns blared, tires hissed against asphalt, and occasional shouts drifted upward, blending into the city's endless buzz.
Shin, the kid from earlier, did not flinch.
His hands stayed tucked inside his coat pockets.
His posture was calm and almost careless as his eyes scanned the grid of streets, rooftops, and walls of shining glass.
"Han Seo-jun," he said.
The wind caught the name, stretching it thin before swallowing it into the city.
"I wonder how you'll react," he continued, voice steady and eyes fixed on a distant, unfocused point,
"When you learn the truth." He paused.
"That day, Min Yuri was never meant to die."
A bird cut through the air nearby, startled by a sudden gust as its wings beat fast before disappearing between buildings.
"It was the cat," Shin said evenly.
"That was what was supposed to die." His fingers tightened slightly inside his pockets.
"That was my mistake," he went on. "She died instead."
Sunlight reflected off the windows far below, sending sharp flashes of light into his eyes.
"And now," Shin said, leaning forward just enough for the wind to tug at his hair,
"I'll fix what I did wrong." Concrete crunched beneath his shoes.
Somewhere close, a loose sign rattled violently as metal scraped against metal.
"And for that," he paused, letting the city's noise press in,
"You have to die."
The wind surged across the rooftop, lifting dust and sound alike. It carried with it a quiet sense of inevitability, as if the world itself had heard and accepted the decision. A moment later, I felt her presence.
I turned toward the tracks—the spot where she had been.
"Yuri… she's here. I can feel it," I whispered.
Seo‑Ah looked at me, frowning. "Sir, what are you talking about? There's no one here."
"I know," I said. "I know there's no one."
Still, my feet moved on their own. I stepped onto the spot and stood there.
Seo‑Ah's voice tried to reach me, but it sounded distant, like it was echoing from far away.
In that moment, I didn't feel pain. My memories—my whole life—unfolded in front of my eyes, rolling past like a film. Laughter. Snow. Promises. Fear.
"SEO‑JUN, NO!" Seo‑Ah's scream pierced through it all.
Suddenly, everything went quiet.