The house was warm with the scent of simmering broth and freshly washed undry, a testament to the love and effort Mi-rae poured into her family. Though modest, their home was filled with ughter and the soft patter of small feet—an ever-present reminder of the life she had built with Ki Seon Gyeom.

  Their eldest son, Minho, had always been the brightest among his peers. At sixteen, he was preparing to enter senior high school, his mind set on endless possibilities. With a quiet but determined nature, he often spoke of his aspirations—of studying engineering, of one day creating something that would leave a mark on the world.

  Mi-rae had him young, just nineteen, a time when she had barely figured out her own path. And yet, she never regretted a single moment. Minho was her greatest blessing, a motivation for both her and her husband to strive for more. Ki Seon Gyeom, with his excellent academic record, had secured a position under Chairman Choi Tae Sung, the powerful figure behind Daehwa Trading Group. Mi-rae, on the other hand, had pursued her dream of becoming a nurse, eventually nding a job at Hwayang Psychiatric Hospital after completing her degree and internship three years ago.

  Life had been challenging but fulfilling. Three years ago, their family had grown again, this time with the arrival of twins—Min-hwan and Min-young, their little whirlwinds of energy and joy. Raising three children while juggling their careers had been no small feat, but Mi-rae and Seon-gyeom had managed, relying on each other and the community around them. When both parents worked te, a babysitter helped care for the twins, and during the day, they attended a local daycare. It was only on weekends that Mi-rae insisted on doing everything herself—cooking, cleaning, and spending precious time with her children. Minho, even as he prepared for his future, never hesitated to lend a hand, whether it was watching his younger siblings or helping with household chores.

  But that summer was different.

  Minho had left for Seoul to get a taste of life ahead of high school. His aunt, who owned a small grocery store in the suburbs, had offered him a schorship and a pce to stay. She believed in his potential, saw the same determination in him that Mi-rae did. He had been hesitant at first, worried about the burden it would pce on his mother. The thought of leaving her alone with the twins weighed on him, but with the babysitter’s help and the structure of daycare, Mi-rae had assured him it would be fine.

  Still, the house felt emptier without him.

  During the week, Minho worked at his aunt’s store, organizing the storage and helping at the cashier. But every weekend, without fail, he returned home, throwing himself into chores and spending time with his younger siblings. He had always been reliable, thoughtful, the kind of son any mother would be proud of.

  But tonight, as Mi-rae sat in their quiet home, she found herself unable to sleep.

  It wasn’t the silence left behind by Minho’s absence that kept her awake, nor the usual exhaustion that came from bancing work and motherhood.

  It was him.

  Jang Ki Ho. Or rather, Choi Ji Hoon.

  The weight of what she had discovered pressed against her chest like an unbearable force. She wasn’t supposed to know. And even more, she wasn’t supposed to tell anyone.

  Yet, the notebook—his notebook—was still with her.

  She had meant to return it, truly. But in the chaos of her thoughts and the realization of what she had uncovered, she had hesitated. And now, it remained hidden in her home, a dangerous secret lurking among her children’s toys and undry.

  A chill crept up her spine as she sat up in bed, her fingers tightening around the edge of the bnket. There was something unsettling about it all. The way Mr. Jang had reacted. The way Kiho—Jihoon—had spoken, as if he had already accepted a past erased from him.

  And then there was her husband.

  Ki Seon-gyeom had always been perceptive, noticing the slightest changes in her demeanor. But she hadn’t expected him to find out about the notebook.

  Yet, he had.

  And he had said nothing.

  Mi-rae’s breath hitched. Why? Why hadn’t he confronted her? Why hadn’t he asked about it?

  Unless—

  A shiver ran through her. Unless he already knew.

  The thought sent her heart racing. What had she stumbled into? How much had been hidden from her? And if Seon-gyeom had known, then who else was watching?

  Unbeknownst to her, the truth she held onto so tightly was already slipping through her fingers.

  And their family—her children—were now in danger.

  A Shift in the Air

  The day felt heavy. The sky outside the hospital window was an endless gray, the kind that pressed down on everything beneath it, suffocating, unyielding. A storm was coming—Mi-rae could feel it in her bones, though it wasn’t just the weather that sent a chill through her.

  Something had changed.

  She had always been composed around Kiho, gentle in the way she spoke to him, careful in the way she approached. He had come to expect it—the warmth in her tone, the ease in her presence. But today, something was different.

  She was different.

  Mi-rae’s fingers trembled ever so slightly as she picked up the tray of medication. She forced herself to take a deep breath, steadying her grip before stepping into Kiho’s room.

  The air inside was thick, the dim lighting casting long shadows along the walls. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his back straight, his eyes trained on the small window. It wasn’t until she approached that he shifted his gaze, slow and measured, fixing it on her.

  She didn’t meet his eyes.

  “Your medication,” she murmured, pcing the tray down on the small table beside him.

  Kiho didn’t move. He studied her, noting the way she avoided his gaze, the way her shoulders tensed when he didn’t respond immediately. Usually, she would offer a small smile, ask him how he was feeling—but not today.

  Today, she was cautious.

  Too cautious.

  “You’re quiet,” Kiho said finally, his voice even.

  Mi-rae forced a chuckle, shaking her head. “Just a long shift.”

  She was lying.

  She had been in the hospital long enough to know how to school her expressions, how to keep her voice level even when her heart was hammering inside her chest. But Kiho had been here long enough to notice the difference.

  The way her hands were too stiff. The way she barely looked at him.

  The way she had been avoiding him since that night.

  For a moment, he let the silence stretch, watching her as she busied herself with the tray, pretending not to notice his gaze. Then, slowly, he reached for the small cup of pills, rolling them between his fingers.

  “You always say something,” Kiho murmured, tilting his head. “Something encouraging.”

  Mi-rae’s throat tightened. “I—”

  “You look tired,” he interrupted, setting the cup back down. “Or… maybe something’s bothering you?”

  She stiffened, and that was all the confirmation he needed.

  Something was wrong.

  His expression didn’t change, but his mind was already racing. Had she seen something? Did she know? Had she found out what he had been keeping from her, the truth he had uncovered within those pages?

  Then his eyes flickered downward—just for a second—but it was enough.

  There, gripped tightly in her free hand, was his notebook.

  The same one he had found. The same one that held the truth about who he was—who they had tried to erase.

  Mi-rae realized her mistake too te. She had meant to return it, to put it back before anyone noticed, but now…

  Her fingers clenched around the worn leather cover as if she could make it disappear. She swallowed, feigning ignorance, willing herself to remain composed. “This was left in the hallway,” she said, voice steady. “I was just going to—”

  Kiho’s gaze darkened. His lips parted, and then he spoke, his voice calm, almost indifferent.

  “You have something that doesn’t belong to you.”

  The words struck her harder than she expected. Her pulse spiked, a sharp, erratic rhythm against her ribs. Her grip tightened around the notebook, as if doing so could shield her from the accusation.

  Her mind scrambled for an expnation, something reasonable, something that wouldn’t shatter the delicate bance between them.

  “It’s Mr. Jang’s,” she blurted out. “He left it in the doctor’s office.”

  Silence.

  Kiho’s expression remained unreadable, but his eyes held an unsettling sharpness, like a bde hovering just above the surface. “Mr. Jang’s?” he echoed, slow, deliberate.

  Mi-rae forced a nod. “Yes.”

  Another long pause. Then Kiho exhaled softly, shaking his head.

  “You’ve always been a terrible liar, Mi-rae.”

  Her breath caught. He had never called her that before.

  Not Mi-rae.

  It was always Miss Oh. Always the professional distance. Always the patient and the nurse.

  His tone was calm—too calm. But his eyes were dark, piercing, watching her like a predator who had caught its prey in a snare.

  Mi-rae forced a shaky exhale, shaking her head. “I didn’t read anything.”

  A pause. Then—

  Kiho smiled.

  Not the soft, confused smile of a patient trying to piece together a fractured identity. No.

  This was something else. Something colder.

  He took a step closer, closing the distance between them until she had to tilt her chin up to meet his gaze.

  “Tell me, Mi-rae,” he murmured, voice like silk ced with venom. “When did you find out?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  His hand lifted, slow and deliberate, until his fingers brushed over the leather notebook still clenched in her grasp. Her breath hitched.

  He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Say my name.”

  Mi-rae stiffened, her heart hammering against her ribs. “Kiho—”

  “No.”

  He exhaled softly, shaking his head. “Not that name.”

  Her blood ran cold.

  “I don’t—”

  “Say it.”

  The notebook trembled in her grasp. The room felt too small, the walls pressing in, the air too thick to breathe.

  She had known.

  He had known that she had known.

  And now, there was no escape.

  His gaze burned into hers, waiting, daring her to speak the truth she had been trying so desperately to deny.

  Mi-rae’s lips parted, but no words came.

  Because she knew—whatever she said next, there was no going back.

  A Silent Understanding

  The air in the room was thick with something unspoken, something sharp enough to slice through skin. Mi-rae could feel it pressing down on her, suffocating, clinging to her like an unseen force. Her heart was still pounding from the exchange—Kiho’s voice, the way he had said her name, the way he had demanded the truth from her.

  She needed to leave.

  But her legs felt heavy, unwilling to move as if the floor itself had turned to quicksand. Her fingers trembled at her sides, her breath shallow and uneven. She couldn’t meet his eyes anymore—not after what had just passed between them. Not after the silent war fought between her fear and his certainty.

  And then, the door creaked open.

  Mi-rae jumped, her pulse spiking.

  Mr. Jang stepped inside, his usual composed expression unreadable, his gaze shifting from her to Kiho. “Miss Oh,” he greeted, his tone even, polite.

  She didn’t respond.

  She couldn’t.

  Her throat was dry, her mind screaming at her to move, to say something, to act normal. But she couldn’t shake the weight of Kiho’s piercing stare at her back, the way he had forced her into silence.

  Mr. Jang’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing at first. He took a slow step forward, and it was only when he repeated himself—“Miss Oh”—that she flinched and barely managed to whisper back, “Good evening.”

  Her voice was brittle, like gss on the verge of shattering.

  Then she turned and hurried past him, her hands curling into fists to stop them from trembling. She needed to get out, to breathe air that didn’t feel tainted with unspoken truths and suffocating dread.

  Mr. Jang watched her go, his eyes lingering on the way she moved—too fast, too stiff, like she was running from something.

  He turned back to Kiho.

  The man who sat before him was not the patient he had come to control. He was not the broken, lost mind they had shaped, sculpted into a new identity. No, this was something else.

  Kiho was facing the window again, his back straight, his hands resting idly on his p as if nothing had happened. As if the room was not filled with the echoes of something irreversible.

  But Mr. Jang knew better.

  Then, his eyes nded on the notebook resting on the small table beside the bed.

  His stomach dropped.

  Slowly, deliberately, he walked over and picked it up, flipping through the pages without truly reading them. He didn’t need to. He already knew what was inside.

  Mi-rae had seen it.

  That much was certain.

  His fingers tightened around the worn leather cover, his knuckles turning white. He exhaled slowly, forcing down the unease curling in his chest before shifting his gaze back to Kiho.

  The man did not look at him, did not acknowledge his presence in any way. But Mr. Jang knew.

  Kiho knew that she knew.

  And worse—he knew that Mr. Jang knew as well.

  For the first time in years, Mr. Jang felt something foreign settle in his bones. A feeling he had not needed to entertain in a long time.

  Doubt.

  Because if Mi-rae had seen the truth and Kiho had remembered, then everything they had worked to bury, everything they had erased, had just been pulled back into the light.

  And now, there was only one thing left to do.

  Ensure that nothing came from it.

  No matter the cost.

  The Lady in Red

  The night was suffocatingly still, the kind of silence that felt alive, pressing against the walls and creeping into the spaces between breaths. The psychiatric ward hummed with an eerie quiet, broken only by the distant, rhythmic beeping of machines and the occasional muffled footsteps of night-shift nurses pacing the halls. Outside, the wind howled through the skeletal branches of the leafless trees, their shadows swaying against the window like outstretched fingers cwing at the gss.

  Kiho sat rigid on his hospital bed, his fingers tangled in the crisp sheets, gripping them as if anchoring himself to reality. The fluorescent lights above flickered, casting distorted reflections on the polished floor, making it seem like the walls themselves were breathing. A dull throbbing settled in his temples, but it was nothing compared to the gnawing sense of something crawling beneath his skin—something forgotten, waiting to be unearthed.

  Beyond the closed door, nurses whispered in hushed voices, their words indistinct, dissolving into the static hum in his head. It was always like this at night. The world outside continued, but inside these walls, time felt stretched thin, like a thread about to snap.

  And then—

  A voice.

  Not external, but deep within him, threading through the fractures of his consciousness, gentle and steady, yet carrying the weight of something undeniable.

  You were never the problem. You were just misunderstood.

  The words slithered through his mind, not as a memory but as a presence. A whisper woven into the marrow of his being, as if it had always been there, waiting for him to listen. The air shifted, thickening, pressing down on his chest. His breath came slower, shallow.

  And then, the memory struck. Lightning, sharp and searing.

  A woman.

  She had been there, sitting beside him, the silk of her sleeve brushing against his arm as her fingers ghosted through his hair. A scent—jasmine, soft yet lingering, curling in the cold air like an unspoken promise. Her voice had been warmth against the storm in his head, her presence a tether when everything else had unraveled.

  His pulse pounded in his ears. He knew who she was now. Not a phantom of his shattered mind. Not a figment conjured by desperation.

  She had been real.

  The woman who had always believed in him.

  His babysitter.

  A sharp gust of wind rattled the window, and for a fleeting second, he swore he felt it—an icy breath against his neck. The air in the room grew dense, the fluorescent lights overhead buzzing louder, casting the room in a washed-out, flickering glow.

  And then—

  A whisper, right by his ear.

  “I never forgot you.”

  The blood in Kiho’s veins turned to ice. Slowly, like a marionette controlled by unseen strings, he turned his head.

  And there—standing in the doorway—was a figure draped in crimson.

  The Lady in Red.

  The hallway behind her was impossibly dark, as if the fluorescent lights had been swallowed whole. She stood just outside the reach of the dim glow, her face obscured by shadow, but he could feel her gaze—deep, penetrating, like she was peeling him apart yer by yer.

  His lungs refused to work. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t look away.

  The wind outside screamed through the trees, the walls groaning under the pressure of the storm. The air in the room dropped in temperature, biting against his skin.

  And then—

  She stepped forward.

  The light flickered once.

  And in that fraction of darkness—

  A whisper of memory bled through.

  Mi-rae, standing in the hospital hallway, her breath fogging in the unnaturally cold air. She had seen her too—just for a second, a fsh of red among the sterile white walls, a shadow where there should have been none. The woman’s presence had sent an unbearable pressure crashing down on her chest, forcing her to clutch the railing for support.

  And the eyes—watching, knowing.

  Then, just as quickly as she appeared, she was gone, leaving behind only a lingering scent of jasmine and the suffocating weight of something unspeakable.

  The memory shattered as the light flickered back.

  And when it did—

  She was gone.

  But the scent of jasmine remained, curling in the air like a ghost of something long lost, long buried.

  Kiho’s breath shuddered out of him, his fingers trembling where they clutched the sheets.

  Somewhere, deep in the hospital, a door creaked open.

  And then, silence.

  END OF CHAPTER 11