[A week earlier]
Jae-min had been cleaning out a shelf of old books when the photograph slipped free from between two pages, fluttering down to land face-up on the floor.
He picked it up, curious, and found himself looking at a woman seated in an ornate chair, elegant and composed, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Behind her stood a man in formal attire, hands clasped, the unmistakable posture of household staff.
"Jihan," he called. "Who's this?"
Jihan crossed the room and took the photo gently, something soft and distant crossing his face the moment he saw it. "My mother. This must be from a few years before she passed—she'd have still been in good health here."
"She's beautiful."
"She was."
"Who's the man behind her?"
