20 Years Ago –

  Hwayang Psychiatric Hospital stood in eerie silence, its weathered stone walls worn by time and secrets. The rain had just begun to drizzle, tapping against the barred windows like a ghostly lulby. The dim afternoon light barely filtered through the thick, gray clouds, casting long, wavering shadows across the pristine white floors. The scent of antiseptic mixed with the faint, musty air of old books and forgotten memories. It was a pce that felt trapped between past and present, much like the man who sat by the window.

  Jang Ki Ho’s fingers rested lightly on the cold windowpane, tracing invisible patterns on the fogged-up gss. Beyond the walls, a few patients wandered the courtyard, their steps aimless, their gazes hollow. He recognized them—familiar faces he had seen daily, yet none of them mattered. None of them knew who he was. But he did. He finally did.

  Behind him, Mr. Jang stood with his hands csped together, his expression carefully composed but betraying a flicker of unease. The air between them was heavy with words left unspoken, a delicate bance of hope and hesitation.

  “Kiho,” Mr. Jang finally spoke, his voice even yet ced with quiet urgency. “I know this is difficult. I know how overwhelming it must feel to remember.” He took a cautious step forward. “But please understand… this was never meant to erase you. It was meant to save you.”

  Kiho did not turn, his gaze fixed on the bleak horizon beyond the gss. The hospital’s walls, the sterile smell, the muted voices of nurses in the hallway—all of it suffocated him. He had lived in this false reality for too long. And yet, he wasn’t sure if reciming his past was a blessing or a curse.

  Mr. Jang exhaled softly, stepping closer. “You weren’t abandoned, Kiho. You were given a second chance—a life free from pain, from hatred.”

  At this, Kiho’s grip on his sleeve tightened. A small, bitter ugh barely escaped his lips, though he never once turned around. “A life that isn’t mine.”

  Mr. Jang’s throat tightened, but he held his ground. “It is yours if you choose to accept it.” His voice softened, almost pleading now. “Kiho, you have a chance to live without the weight of suffering. Without the burden of vengeance. Do you not see the gift in that?”

  Kiho finally shifted, his dark eyes meeting Mr. Jang’s with an intensity that sent a shiver down the older man’s spine. His expression was unreadable, a storm of emotions hidden beneath the surface. “Or was I simply discarded?” His voice was quieter now, but the edge of pain in it was unmistakable.

  Mr. Jang swallowed hard, struggling to keep the sadness from showing in his own face. “You were never discarded,” he murmured. “You were saved.” He took a step closer, his voice steady despite the turmoil in his heart. “And you still can be.”

  But Kiho did not respond. The silence between them stretched, thick with uncertainty and unspoken doubts. Outside, the rain fell harder, its rhythmic patter the only sound in the room. The storm had settled in, much like the unrest in Kiho’s mind.

  Days passed in muted silence. The rain continued its relentless dance against the windows, mirroring the turbulence inside Kiho’s mind. He spent hours sitting by the window, books open before him, though the words barely registered. His thoughts were a tangled mess, a war between the life he had been told was his and the truth cwing its way back into his mind.

  Then, one evening, the door to his room creaked open.

  A presence lingered just beyond the threshold, still and deliberate. Kiho barely lifted his gaze from the book in his hands, his fingers unmoving against the paper. But something felt different. The air shifted, an unfamiliar yet oddly familiar sensation settling over him.

  A woman in red stood there, her silhouette framed by the dim glow of the hallway light.

  He looked up from his book, expecting to see a nurse or Mr. Jang. Instead, a woman stood there, cd in red. The deep hue of her dress was like a striking wound against the sterile white of the room. The moment his gaze met hers, a shiver ran down his spine. She didn’t move, didn’t speak. She simply stared at him, her lips curled into a soft, knowing smile. There was something almost otherworldly about her, as if she didn’t belong here. Or perhaps, as if she knew that he didn’t.

  For a moment, neither of them spoke. She merely watched him, her lips curling into a slow, knowing smile. The intensity of her gaze unsettled him, though he wasn’t sure why. Something in the way she looked at him sent a cold prickle down his spine.

  Kiho’s voice was low, careful. “Who are you?”

  The woman in red tilted her head slightly, the shadow of amusement flickering in her dark eyes. She took a single step forward, just enough for the faint scent of something floral—something familiar—to reach him.

  Then, in a voice that sent ice through his veins, she whispered, “You do not belong here, my dear… Jihoon.”

  The name sent a jolt through his chest. A sharp, cold breath left Kiho’s lungs.

  That name. His name.

  His entire body went rigid, his mind scrambling for an answer, for an expnation. His heart thundered in his chest as if trying to break free from his ribs. How did she know? Who was she?

  The woman continued to smile, unbothered by his reaction. If anything, she seemed pleased by the flicker of recognition in his eyes.

  Kiho swallowed hard, his throat dry. “Who… are you?” he asked again, this time with more desperation, more fear.

  The woman only chuckled softly, her ughter like a whisper of wind through the trees. She leaned in slightly, her presence overwhelming, intoxicating in its mystery.

  “The past always finds its way back, my dear Jihoon. No matter how hard one tries to forget.”

  Kiho’s breath came unevenly, his thoughts colliding into one another, spinning wildly. This woman—this dy in red—was not a stranger. He knew her. Somehow, somewhere deep inside him, he knew her.

  And that terrified him.

  Slipping Through the Shadows

  The dim fluorescent lights of Hwayang Psychiatric Hospital flickered slightly as Jang Ki Ho stepped into the main hallway, his pace unhurried, his expression neutral. He had spent years within these walls, locked in a cycle of routine and silence, but now, something had shifted. He was pnning an escape.

  For weeks, Kiho had been studying everything—the guards’ rotations, the nurses’ schedules, the yout of the facility. He noticed that during the early morning shift change, there was a window of roughly eight minutes where the security at the east wing entrance was at its weakest. He paid attention to which doors required passcodes, which had simple locks, and which ones were left slightly ajar when staff assumed no one was watching.

  To keep suspicion at bay, he had started participating in patient activities—something he had never done in his twenty-five years there. Indoor games like table tennis and simple exercises were avaible for patients with stable conditions. Art therapy was another option, where patients were encouraged to express their emotions through painting or sketching. There were also designated reading hours, group therapy sessions, and even gardening activities under supervision.

  Nurse Oh Mi Rae had been observing these changes closely. Unlike the other nurses, she was new—only a few years into her job—but she had taken a particur interest in Kiho. Something about him didn’t sit right with her. The older nurses dismissed her concerns, saying, “He’s finally coming out of his shell. Let him be.” But Mi-rae couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

  One day, as Kiho sat at the corner of the recreation room, pretending to be engrossed in a game of chess with another patient, Nurse Mi-rae approached him, arms crossed.

  “You never used to join these activities, Kiho,” she noted casually. “What changed?”

  Kiho barely gnced up from the board, moving a piece with practiced ease. “I suppose I got tired of being alone,” he said smoothly.

  Mi-rae arched a brow. “All these years of refusing to participate, and suddenly, you want to be social?”

  He finally looked at her, his gaze calm but unreadable. “Isn’t the goal of this pce to help us get better? I thought this is what you wanted.”

  Mi-rae hesitated. On the surface, it made sense. Progress was encouraged. And yet, something in his voice—calm, deliberate, almost rehearsed—sent a chill down her spine.

  The air inside Hwayang Psychiatric Hospital carried the faint scent of antiseptic and chamomile tea, a strange mix of sterility and forced comfort. It was a pce designed to soothe restless minds, but to Jang Ki Ho, it was nothing more than a cage disguised as a sanctuary.

  For two decades and five years, he had followed the routine set for him—silent meals, therapy sessions he barely participated in, and endless days spent staring at the same four walls. But now, everything had changed. He knew who he was. And he knew he didn’t belong here.

  His escape had to be precise. Every step calcuted, every movement rehearsed. He had begun observing, taking note of shift changes, hallway patrols, and which doors were left slightly ajar. But if he suddenly showed interest in the staff’s schedules, suspicion would arise. Instead, he chose a different approach—blending in.

  At first, it started with the morning walks.

  “I’d like to go outside today,” Kiho had said one morning to Nurse Oh Mi Rae, who was handing out medications at the nurse’s station.

  Mi-rae’s brows lifted slightly in surprise. In all her time working at Hwayang, she had never seen Kiho willingly step beyond the courtyard’s garden path. He was always the one lingering in the shadows, the patient who never sought companionship, the man who rarely spoke unless spoken to.

  “That’s good,” she said cautiously, scribbling a note on his chart. “Fresh air is always helpful.”

  She watched as he walked ahead, his pace steady, his hands tucked into the pockets of his patient uniform.

  For the next several days, he kept up the routine, walking longer each time. He would sit on the benches near the perimeter, where he could observe the security cameras and the way the gates were locked. He took note of which nurses were strict about time and which ones barely gnced his way when checking the roster.

  Then, he started joining activities.

  The first time he entered the recreation hall, several patients turned to look at him. Some with vacant stares, others with mild curiosity. A group was pying indoor basketball, their ughter echoing through the room, while another sat around a table doing art therapy, coloring abstract patterns with careful precision.

  “Kiho?” A nurse called out. He turned and saw Nurse Kim, who had been working there for years. “Are you here to join?”

  “Yes.”

  A simple response, but it was enough to make the nurses take notice. Mi-rae, who had been monitoring from the other side of the room, narrowed her eyes slightly. Something about this didn’t feel right.

  Kiho picked up a basketball, dribbling it a few times before taking a shot. He wasn’t particurly good at it, but that wasn’t the point. He needed to be here, where patients had slightly more freedom, where he could move around unnoticed, where he could blend in with the people who weren’t constantly under surveilnce.

  By the end of the week, he was engaging in group therapy sessions. He didn’t talk much, but he listened. He learned which doors remained unlocked during sessions, which windows were loose enough to pry open, and which staff members left their keycards unattended for even a second.

  The days passed, and Mi-rae continued to watch Kiho. She noticed how he observed things—his eyes tracking every nurse’s movement, every security personnel’s timing. He never asked too many questions, never drew attention to himself, but she could tell he was memorizing details. Then, one evening, as she was heading back from the supply room, she saw him.

  Kiho was stepping out of the employee-only room.

  He didn’t see her. The moment sted only a second, but it was enough for Mi-rae’s breath to catch in her throat. That room was off-limits to patients. It was where staff stored confidential records, uniforms, and, most importantly, the staff key cards.

  She quickly turned away, acting as if she hadn’t seen anything. Her fingers clenched at her sides. She should report it. She should tell the head nurse. But something held her back. If she confronted him now, he would know she was watching him. And if she was right about his intentions, she needed to catch him in the act.

  As the days passed, the changes in Kiho continued. The other nurses barely noticed, but Mi-rae knew. She should have stopped him then.

  Because soon, Kiho wouldn’t just be pnning an escape. He would make his move.

  The Shadow’s Ascent

  The idea first took root in his mind after the dy in red’s visit. The moment she had uttered those words, “You do not belong here, my dear, Jihoon,” something inside Kiho had shifted. The name—his real name—unlocked fragments of his past, pieces that didn’t quite fit the life he had been living inside these cold, sterile walls.

  He began to observe. The hospital’s hallways stretched endlessly in pale grays and whites, their monotony broken only by the occasional sound of footsteps echoing against polished floors. Every night, the staff switched shifts at precisely 9 PM, and the security guards made their rounds every thirty minutes. The exits were heavily monitored, but the cameras—he had counted them—had blind spots. The problem was getting through those blind spots’ unseen.

  He started walking more, joining the other patients in their activities—something he had never done before. He pyed indoor sports, crafted meaningless paintings, and even sat through therapy sessions, all while discreetly memorizing every detail of the building’s structure. The designated nurses barely paid him any attention, dismissing his newfound enthusiasm as a sign of progress. But Nurse Oh Mi Rae wasn’t so easily fooled.

  One evening, as Kiho walked past the hallway near the staff room, Mi-rae saw him slipping out of the restricted area. Her heart pounded as she watched him disappear around the corner. She knew she should report it, but something held her back. Instead, she observed, her suspicion growing with every passing day.

  Then, the night of his escape arrived.

  The rain poured heavily outside, a relentless downpour drumming against the hospital windows. The wind howled through the narrow gaps, rattling the panes, while distant thunder rumbled low across the sky. It was the perfect distraction, the perfect cover. At precisely 8:55 PM, Kiho slipped into the dimly lit maintenance corridor, his pulse steady despite the turmoil beyond the walls. He had spent the day tampering with the breaker box, setting up a brief but crucial disruption—thirty seconds where the security feeds would flicker into darkness.

  Thirty seconds was all he needed.

  He moved like a shadow, silent and precise, his breath measured as he bypassed the usual patrols. The power surged, then dipped, and in that instant, he was already slipping past the main hallway, unseen, unnoticed. His heart pounded in his ears, but his hands remained steady as he reached the back exit. The heavy metal door stood just a few steps away—freedom just within his grasp.

  Then—

  “Where do you think you're going, Kiho?”

  His body tensed, his breath caught.

  Nurse Oh Mi Rae stood just beyond the exit, her figure illuminated by the weak emergency light above the doorway. The storm outside cast flickering shadows across her face, but her eyes—steady, sharp—were filled with something unexpected. Not accusation. Not fear. But concern.

  His jaw tightened. “Move.” His voice was low, edged with warning.

  Mi-rae didn’t flinch. She stood firm, her expression unwavering. “You don’t understand what you’re doing,” she said softly, the wind carrying her words through the narrow corridor. “It’s not safe for you out there.”

  The distant crack of thunder rattled the walls, but the real storm was the one brewing between them.

  “You have no idea what it’s like to be me,” Kiho snapped, his voice tight with frustration. “Twenty-five years, Mi-rae. Twenty-five years in this pce, not knowing who I really was, living a life that isn’t mine. Do you know what that feels like?”

  She took a deep breath, her grip tightening on the notebook she held in her hand. “Then let me help you. If you leave like this, you’ll always be running. But if you come with me, we can fix this the right way.” She stepped closer. “Chairman Choi Tae Sung—your father. You’re not the same boy he remembers, Kiho. He would be proud of the man you are now.”

  Something in her words made Kiho falter. Could it really be that simple? Could he return to the world outside, recim the life he had been stolen from him?

  The cold night air clung to Kiho’s skin as he stood in the dimly lit street, his breath shallow, his mind at war. The weight of Mi-rae’s words settled over him, heavy and suffocating. A part of him wanted to turn away, to disappear into the darkness before this illusion of kindness could shatter. Yet, another part—small, desperate—longed to believe that maybe, just maybe, she was telling the truth.

  Mi-rae’s fingers tightened around her phone, her voice steady despite the tension crackling in the air. “It’s te. Let’s talk somewhere safe first.” Without hesitation, she dialed a number.

  “Seon Gyeom,” Mi-rae said, her voice calm but firm, “can you come pick us up?”

  There was a brief silence before his familiar voice came through, gentle yet ced with concern. “Where are you?”

  “Outside Hwayang Psychiatric Hospital,” she answered, stealing a gnce at Kiho, whose expression remained distant. “Can you come quickly?”

  A quiet sigh followed on the other end. “I am almost home but I’ll be there soon.”

  Mi-rae lowered the phone, exhaling softly. The night air was cool against her skin, the quiet hum of the streetlights the only sound between them as they waited.

  Minutes stretched into eternity as they waited in silence. Kiho barely moved, his shoulders stiff, his jaw clenched as though bracing himself for the inevitable. The streetlights flickered overhead, casting long, ghostly shadows along the damp pavement. The rain had lessened to a faint drizzle, the st remnants of the storm clinging to the air. The world around them was eerily still, the quiet amplifying the weight of unspoken words.

  Then, the low hum of an engine broke the quiet. A bck Mercedes-Benz W140 sedan pulled to a smooth stop beside them, its polished exterior reflecting the dim glow of the streetlights. The familiar, heavy creak of the door opening cut through the silence, and Seon Gyeom stepped out—tall and broad-shouldered, his sharp yet kind features momentarily softening when his eyes met his wife’s. But as his gaze shifted to Kiho, the warmth faded, repced by something more cautious, more unreadable.

  Mi-rae moved first, pcing a gentle hand on her husband’s arm. “Let’s go home.”

  Seon-gyeom didn’t argue, but the stiffness in his posture betrayed his unease. He gave Kiho one st unreadable look before opening the back door. Without a word, Kiho slid into the seat, his body rigid, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts.

  The drive was silent, the weight of unspoken words thick between them. The rhythmic sound of the tires against the asphalt echoed in Kiho’s head, his fingers gripping the edge of his sleeve. The farther they drove, the deeper the feeling of unfamiliarity settled in his bones.

  When they finally arrived, the car pulled into the driveway of a modest but elegant home nestled in a quiet neighborhood. A young woman stood by the door, waiting with a warm but knowing smile—the twins’ babysitter.

  Mi-rae stepped out first, offering her a grateful nod. “Thank you for staying with them. I hope they weren’t too much trouble.”

  The babysitter shook her head with a small ugh. “Not at all. They were full of energy, though. They kept asking when you’d be back.”

  Mi-rae sighed, already picturing their little faces lighting up when they saw her. “I’ll go to them now.” She reached for the babysitter’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Get home safe.”

  With a small bow, the babysitter gathered her things and left, disappearing down the quiet street.

  The house stood warm and welcoming—a stark contrast to the cold, sterile walls of the psychiatric ward. White curtains swayed gently behind the rge windows, the golden glow of the living room lights spilling onto the neatly kept front porch. Flower pots lined the entrance, their vibrant colors standing out against the night, carrying a sense of home.

  As the front door opened, a burst of ughter rang from inside. Two tiny figures peeked from behind the living room couch, their bright eyes wide with curiosity.

  Kiho turned his head and saw them—two small children, a boy and a girl, peeking at him from the hallway. Min-hwan and Min-young. They were no older than three, their eyes wide with innocent curiosity.

  Kiho’s throat tightened. It had been years—decades—since he had seen children up close. Something about them made his chest ache.

  “Who’s he, Mommy?” Min-hwan, a small boy with tousled hair, clung to his sister’s hand.

  Mi-rae crouched beside them, her voice soft. “A friend.”

  Mi-rae knelt beside them, brushing their hair gently. “Say hello.”

  The little girl hesitated before whispering, “Hello.”

  The boy, bolder, stepped closer. “Are you sick?”

  Kiho blinked. He wasn’t sure how to answer.

  Min-young, the quieter of the two, tilted her head, her little fingers gripping the edge of her mother’s sweater. “Why does he look so sad?”

  Kiho’s breath hitched, but he said nothing.

  Before Mi-rae could respond, Seon-gyeom gently ushered the children toward the hallway. “It’s te. Off to bed now.”

  The twins pouted but obeyed, casting one st curious gnce at Kiho before toddling ahead. Seon-gyeom followed, scooping them up effortlessly—one in each arm, their small bodies fitting perfectly against him. Min-hwan let out a sleepy giggle, resting his head against his father’s shoulder, while Min-young rubbed her tired eyes, mumbling something incoherent.

  As he carried them to their room, their tiny fingers clung to his shirt, their breathing slowing as drowsiness took over. The warm glow of the bedside mp cast a soft light over the room, illuminating the neatly arranged toys and stacks of bedtime books. With practiced ease, Seon-gyeom lowered them onto their beds, tucking the bnkets snugly around their small frames.

  Min-hwan peeked up at him, his voice barely above a whisper. “Daddy… is he gonna stay?”

  Seon-gyeom’s hand lingered on his son’s head, gently smoothing down his hair. He hesitated for a moment before replying, his voice quiet but steady. “Just for tonight.”

  Min-young, already half-asleep, murmured, “He looked sad…”

  Seon-gyeom felt a pang in his chest but simply pressed a soft kiss to their foreheads. “Sleep now.”

  As their breathing evened out, he lingered for a moment, watching the peaceful rise and fall of their small chests. Then, with a quiet sigh, he turned off the mp and stepped out, closing the door behind him.

  Mi-rae turned to Kiho. “Come, let’s sit.”

  The living room was warm, the scent of jasmine and honey lingering in the air. Mi-rae handed him a cup of tea, steam curling from the surface. Kiho wrapped his fingers around the cup, the warmth grounding him, though his heart still felt cold.

  Mi-rae led him down the hall, stopping before a slightly ajar door. She pushed it open, revealing a tidy room filled with books, a few sports trophies on the shelves, and a desk with an open notebook.

  “This is my eldest son’s room,” she said softly. “He’s on summer break and won’t be home, so you can stay here tonight.”

  Kiho stepped inside hesitantly, his eyes scanning the room. It felt lived-in, full of someone else’s presence—a stark contrast to the empty, lifeless spaces he had known.

  Seon-gyeom stood by the living room entrance, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. The warm glow of the house lights softened the sharp angles of his face, but the concern in his eyes remained unwavering. He met Mi-rae’s gaze, searching.

  “We need to talk.”

  Mi-rae felt her chest tighten. She had expected this conversation, but now that it was happening, it carried more weight than she anticipated. Without a word, she followed him into the kitchen, where the quiet hum of the refrigerator was the only sound between them.

  Seon-gyeom let out a slow breath, his fingers resting on the counter as he gathered his thoughts. His voice was calm, steady—not accusatory, not angry, but firm. “Mi-rae… what are you doing?”

  She swallowed, her hands csped together in front of her. “I just—”

  “You brought Jang Ki Ho into our home,” he said gently, turning to face her fully. “I need to understand why.”

  Mi-rae inhaled deeply. “Because I couldn’t turn my back on him.”

  Seon-gyeom studied her for a long moment, his gaze softening just slightly. He knew his wife—knew her heart, her stubborn kindness, the way she could never look away from someone in need. It was one of the things he had always loved about her. But this… this was different.

  He sighed, running a hand down his face. “Mi-rae, I know you want to help, but this isn’t just anyone. You know what kind of family he belongs to. You know how complicated this could get.” His voice held no anger, only quiet concern. “For years, I’ve worked with Chairman Choi, and even now, I don’t know if this is a good idea. We should have never been involved in this.”

  Mi-rae shook her head. “We’re not getting involved in their problems.”

  Seon-gyeom sighed, his voice gentle but firm. “But aren’t we?” He met her eyes, concern deepening in his gaze. “Because right now, it feels like we’re stepping into something we don’t fully understand.”

  He took a small step closer, his tone quieter, more careful. “Mi-rae… I just need to know. What are you hoping to do by bringing him here?”

  Mi-rae’s fingers curled slightly. “I just want to do what’s right.”

  Seon-gyeom exhaled, his gaze filled with something unreadable. “And what if doing what’s right brings nothing but pain?”

  She hesitated. “I don’t know.”

  His lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes searching hers. “Then tell me this… what happens after tomorrow?”

  Mi-rae drew in a slow breath. “We bring him there. And then we leave.”

  Seon-gyeom studied her, sensing the conviction in her words but also the uncertainty beneath them. He sighed, his voice turning softer. “Mi-rae, I know your heart is in the right pce. But I just… I don’t want you to get hurt by this.”

  “I won’t,” she whispered, but even she wasn’t sure if it was true.

  Seon-gyeom reached for her hand, his warmth grounding her. “And what if it doesn’t end the way you hope?”

  “Then at least I’ll know I tried,” she said, gripping his hand tightly. “I can live with that. But I can’t live with doing nothing.”

  Seon-gyeom let out a quiet sigh, nodding slowly. He understood now. It wasn’t about Kiho, not entirely. It was about Mi-rae and the kind of person she was—the kind of person who could never walk away, no matter how complicated things became.

  After a long silence, he finally relented. “Alright. Tomorrow, we take him to Chairman Choi.” He held her gaze. “But after that… we let it go.”

  Mi-rae nodded, though deep down, something inside her whispered that things would not be so simple.

  Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, the world silent under the weight of the night.

  Mi-rae reached for her phone, her fingers hesitating for a brief moment before dialing. Seon-gyeom remained by her side, his expression unreadable as he listened.

  After a few rings, Mr. Jang’s calm yet slightly cautious voice answered. “Nurse Oh?”

  “Mr. Jang,” she said softly. “I… I have Kiho with me.”

  A pause. When Mr. Jang spoke again, his tone was careful. “I see. What happened?”

  “He escaped from the hospital,” she expined gently. “I found him outside, and I brought him home for the night. I wanted to let you know that I pn to bring him to Chairman Choi tomorrow.”

  Mr. Jang exhaled slowly. “Miss Mi-rae… I don’t know if this is the right decision.”

  “I understand,” she said, her voice steady yet kind. “But I believe it’s something that needs to happen.”

  Another silence stretched between them before Mr. Jang finally relented. “Alright. I’ll be at the mansion. I’ll brief Chairman Choi in the morning.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  “Just… be careful,” Mr. Jang said, his voice carrying a weight she couldn’t quite pce.

  As the call ended, Mi-rae lowered the phone, her gaze meeting Seon-gyeom’s. He didn’t say anything at first, only letting out a quiet sigh before finally speaking.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  Mi-rae gave him a small, weary smile. “So do I.”

  In Minho’s room, Kiho y on the unfamiliar bed, staring at the ceiling. The house felt too warm, too full of life. It was a feeling he had long forgotten—a feeling he wasn’t sure he deserved.

  Would facing his father change anything?

  Or was he only chasing another illusion?

  He closed his eyes, his breath slow and measured.

  Tomorrow.

  Tomorrow, everything would change.

  And Kiho wasn’t sure if he was ready for it.

  Where Memories Still Linger

  The morning was crisp, a thin veil of mist clinging to the earth before the golden hues of dawn slowly melted it away. A soft breeze rustled through the trees outside, carrying the scent of damp grass and the faintest hint of blooming coral honeysuckle. The quiet hum of the city beyond the residential area was still subdued, the world only just beginning to stir.

  Inside the house, warmth settled in every corner. Mi-rae moved around the kitchen, her hands deftly preparing a simple but hearty breakfast. The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee blended with the scent of warm toasted bread, eggs sizzling gently in the pan, and a pot of soft porridge simmering on the stove. A small dish of pickled radish sat beside a bowl of kimchi, and she garnished a pte of sliced fruits, adding a final touch to the meal.

  The twins were still sleeping soundly in their room, their soft breathing rhythmic against the quiet house. And in another room, Kiho, too, y undisturbed, his body curled slightly under the warm bnkets. His face was peaceful, his breaths slow and even, as if for the first time in years, he had found rest in something other than the cold, sterile walls of a hospital. The morning light seeped through the curtains, casting delicate shadows over his features.

  Mi-rae approached his door, hesitating for a brief moment before knocking softly. “Kiho?” she called gently. “Breakfast is ready. We should be leaving soon.”

  There was a faint stir from within before silence. She knocked again, a little firmer this time. “Come eat something before we go.”

  A few moments of silence passed before the rustling of sheets could be heard. Kiho groggily opened his eyes, the unfamiliar softness of the bed momentarily disorienting him. He sat up, running a hand through his hair before standing. When he stepped out of the room, the inviting scent of breakfast met him, and for a fleeting moment, he felt something akin to belonging.

  At the dining table, Seon-gyeom sat with a cup of coffee in hand. His pte remained barely touched, only a few bites taken from his meal. Kiho joined them, sitting across from him, hesitating slightly before picking up his spoon. Mi-rae tried to keep the atmosphere light, making small talk about the weather, the gentle transition from winter to spring, the blooming of flowers in the neighborhood gardens. But beneath her words, a quiet uncertainty lingered.

  Seon-gyeom drained the st of his coffee, setting the cup down with a soft clink. “I'm going to take a quick shower,” he said, pushing his chair back.

  Mi-rae nodded. “Alright. We'll leave soon.”

  Kiho kept his gaze on his bowl, spooning porridge into his mouth. There was warmth here, a kind of quiet he hadn't felt in years. It wasn't suffocating or oppressive. It was different—almost unfamiliar. A home.

  Just as they finished breakfast, the doorbell rang. A young woman stepped inside, bowing politely. “Good morning, Mrs. Oh.”

  Mi-rae smiled. “Good morning, Soo-jin. The twins are still asleep, but they might wake up soon. Their snacks are on the kitchen counter, and if they ask for me, just tell them I’ll be back ter.”

  “Of course, don't worry,” Soo-jin assured her.

  Before leaving, Mi-rae went to the twins' room. She knelt beside their beds, brushing their hair softly and pressing a kiss to their foreheads. “Mommy will be back soon,” she whispered.

  Seon-gyeom, Mi-rae, and Kiho finally headed to the car. They didn't exchange words, but the air was heavy with unspoken thoughts. Seon-gyeom's grip on the steering wheel was firm, his expression unreadable, but every now and then, his eyes flickered toward Mi-rae—a silent assurance that he would protect her. Mi-rae, in turn, met his gaze, her own filled with quiet determination. They had made a promise. They wouldn’t meddle. They would leave once this was done. Kiho, sitting in the back, gazed out the window as the scenery shifted. The bustling streets of the city slowly faded, repced by winding roads lined with aged trees. The further they drove, the quieter it became—the hum of traffic long behind them, repced by the occasional chirping of birds and the rustling of leaves in the breeze.

  The countryside city was not too modern, with traditional houses scattered across vast fields, their tiled roofs weathered by time. Stone walls lined the roads, enclosing old homes with wooden gates, some with nterns still hanging from the eaves. The air carried the faint scent of damp earth and distant smoke, as though someone had just stoked a fire.

  As they neared the Choi estate, Kiho’s heart pounded. The tall, iron gates stood ahead, aged but sturdy, their intricate design untouched by time. The long stone wall surrounding the mansion bore ivy creeping along its edges, a testament to the years that had passed. The car slowed to a stop before the entrance, and the guards stationed there moved forward, their expressions strict, their postures rigid.

  This was it. The pce he once called home. Yet now, it felt more like an impenetrable fortress.

  Seon-gyeom lowered his window. Recognition flickered in the guard’s eyes, and after a brief pause, they stepped aside, allowing the car through. They parked in an open space, the gravel crunching under the tires. The Choi mansion loomed before them, its grand facade unchanged despite the passing years. The early morning light painted the stone walls in hues of amber and gold, casting long shadows across the neatly trimmed hedges that lined the estate. The iron gates had long since closed behind them, sealing them in with the weight of history that clung to this pce.

  Seon-gyeom cast one st gnce at Mi-rae, as if to reassure himself that she was safe. She met his gaze with silent strength, her expression steady even as the air around them felt heavier with each passing moment.

  Kiho, however, barely noticed their silent exchange. His eyes remained fixed on the mansion, his mind drowning in memories. Even after two decades and five years, it stood exactly as he remembered—grand, towering, and imposing. Time had barely touched it, yet everything about it felt distant, unfamiliar. His fingers curled into fists as ghosts of the past crept into his mind. This pce had once been his home. But was it still?

  His gaze drifted past the front doors to the side of the estate, where beyond the walls y a garden—his mother’s garden. He could still picture her there, kneeling on the soft earth, her hands delicately tending to the flowers she so dearly loved. She would hum as she worked, her voice blending with the rustling leaves and the distant chirping of birds. He had spent countless afternoons watching her, pying with the soil between his fingers, inhaling the rich, earthy scent of the garden. It was one of the few memories of warmth he had from this pce.

  A breeze swept through the courtyard, rustling the leaves, and for a brief moment, it almost felt like he was back there, watching her again. The thought tightened something deep in his chest.

  The sound of footsteps approaching pulled him from his thoughts.

  Waiting at the entrance was Mr. Jang, standing tall against the backdrop of the grand estate, his tailored suit as pristine as ever. Time had painted streaks of silver in his neatly combed hair, deepened the lines around his eyes, but nothing had stripped him of the quiet dignity he carried. His gloved hands were folded neatly in front of him, but there was a weight in his posture, an unspoken emotion he dared not voice.

  For twenty-five years, he had only known Kiho within the cold, sterile walls of the psychiatric ward. He had seen the boy shackled by whispers, by fear, by the ghost of a past too cruel for a child to bear. But now, standing before him was not the fragile, broken boy from those years—nor the monster others had feared.

  This was Kiho, back in the home that had once been his.

  When his gaze met Kiho’s, something flickered in his usually impassive eyes—nostalgia, surprise, perhaps even sorrow. He had long expected this day would come, though not in this way. He had wished for Kiho’s return as a choice, not a circumstance. Yet, despite everything, he could not deny the sense of inevitability.

  A faint, knowing smile touched his lips. His voice, steady yet ced with something gentler, carried across the quiet morning air.

  “Welcome back home, Kiho.”

  Wordlessly, he led them inside.

  The mansion was just as Kiho remembered—high ceilings, chandeliers that refracted light into shimmering patterns on polished floors, walls adorned with timeless artwork. The scent of aged wood and delicate incense lingered in the air, mingling with the faint trace of fresh tea. His footsteps echoed slightly as they walked through the vast hallway, a stark reminder of how small he once felt in this house.

  And then, in the living room, a man stood waiting. His dark suit was crisp, his posture unwavering. His hair, now streaked with gray, was neatly combed back, his face lined with years of experience and burdens carried. His once sharp gaze had softened just a fraction, but Kiho recognized him instantly.

  Chairman Choi Tae Sung.

  His father.

  Emotions cshed within him—anger, sorrow, longing. His throat tightened as he forced himself to look away, his jaw clenched. Kiho’s breath hitched. The sight of his father brought a surge of emotions he wasn’t prepared for. He was sad. Then angry. Then sad again. The memories of being ignored, of being abandoned, all cshed with the sudden reality of being back here.

  “Sit,” the Chairman finally said.

  Kiho’s gaze settled on the old woman as she entered the room, carrying a tray with steady hands. Though the years had left their mark on her—her once jet-bck hair now streaked with silver, the lines on her face deeper—there was no mistaking who she was. Madam Yoon.

  She had been his mother’s most trusted person in this house, the quiet presence who had once cared for him like he was her own. Now, she moved with a slower grace, pcing the delicate cups of tea on the table with practiced precision before stepping back with a slight bow. The familiar fragrance of the tea drifted through the air, a scent Kiho hadn’t encountered in years, stirring something deep within him.

  Silence stretched between them, thick and unyielding.

  Then, at st, Chairman Choi spoke.

  “I never knew this day would come.”

  The Reunion That Never Was

  The morning light filtered through the heavy drapes of the Choi mansion, casting long, golden streaks across the polished floors. The air carried a faint trace of cedar and old parchment, a scent that had once been familiar to Jang Kiho, though now it felt distant—like a memory blurred by time.

  He sat stiffly in the high-backed chair, his posture upright, but his fingers twitched slightly over the arms of the seat. His gaze shifted—never quite meeting anyone’s eyes, tracing the delicate embroidery of the rug beneath the table, the intricate carvings on the wooden paneling, the faint reflection of himself in the gss of a nearby cabinet. Anything but the piercing stare of the man sitting across from him.

  Mi-rae, sitting to his left, had just finished speaking. Her voice had been gentle, carrying a kind of warmth that was both comforting and foreign to the cold walls of the mansion. She had detailed Kiho’s progress in the hospital, how he had begun to interact with others just like any normal person. She spoke with quiet admiration, careful not to step over any boundaries, her words chosen with precision.

  “He interacts with others just like anyone else,” Mi-rae began, her voice soft but steady. “He’s thoughtful, kind… I wouldn’t have known if I hadn’t seen it for myself. He carries himself like someone who has simply been away for a long time, not like someone who belongs in a hospital.”

  Chairman Choi remained silent. His expression was unreadable, like a stone statue, his sharp eyes locked onto a spot beyond her. He didn’t react to her words, nor did he acknowledge them. Instead, his fingers lightly tapped against the armrest of his chair.

  Mi-rae hesitated before continuing. “I never intended to learn the truth about him. It wasn’t my pce. But somehow… it led to this. I want you to know that I won’t speak of this to anyone.”

  Chairman Choi finally moved, shifting his gaze toward Mr. Jang. A mere gnce, yet it was enough. Mr. Jang cleared his throat, nodding subtly before turning to Mi-rae.

  “Thank you for everything you’ve done, Nurse Oh,” Mr. Jang said gently. “If you don’t mind, may I ask you to leave us for now? I’ll take care of things from here.”

  Mi-rae nodded in understanding, slowly rising from her seat. Before leaving, she stole one st gnce at Kiho. He sat quietly, his hands resting on his p, his expression bnk but his eyes heavy with something she couldn’t quite decipher. The room, the stillness, the weight of the moment—it all felt so fragile, as if one wrong word could shatter everything.

  As she stepped outside, the crisp air met her skin, grounding her back to reality.

  Outside, Seon-gyeom remained in the car. He had not moved since she stepped into the mansion. His fingers drummed impatiently against the steering wheel, his jaw tight. He checked his watch—ten minutes had passed. He sighed, gripping the wheel tighter. Another five minutes. He tapped his foot against the car mat. Another five minutes. The tension in his chest grew unbearable. Just when he was about to step out and go to the entrance himself, the rge doors of the mansion finally opened. Mi-rae stepped out. He exhaled in relief and quickly got out, meeting her halfway. His eyes searched hers, looking for any sign of distress. But she only smiled—a small, weary smile.

  Seon-gyeom wordlessly reached for the car door, opening it for her. As she slipped inside, he followed and buckled himself in before asking, “How did it go?”

  Mi-rae looked ahead, exhaling softly. “I hope it will be good.”

  He studied her expression before nodding, his gaze gentle yet reassuring. As he opened the passenger door for her, Mi-rae met his eyes and offered a small, grateful smile. “Thank you,” she murmured softly before slipping inside.

  Without another word, Seon-gyeom shut the door and rounded the car. As they drove away, the grand estate stood tall and silent behind them, fading into the distance, the Choi mansion growing smaller in the rearview mirror.

  Inside, Chairman Choi remained in his seat, his gaze fixed on Kiho. The room was filled with an unsettling silence, the kind that carried an invisible weight. The scent of the tea had gone cold in the porcein cups before them.

  For the first time since he arrived, Chairman Choi’s voice broke the silence. “Would you like something else to drink? Perhaps something to eat?”

  His voice was measured, composed. He lifted a hand, summoning Madam Yoon, the housekeeper. Before she could even ask, Kiho finally spoke, his voice low but steady.

  “I’m good. I was given breakfast before we arrived.”

  Madam Yoon stole a gnce at Kiho, her eyes soft with quiet recognition, a faint, knowing smile gracing her lips. She lingered, as if wanting to say something, but held back. The warmth in her expression was unmistakable, a silent acknowledgment of the years lost between them.

  Sensing the moment stretching, Mr. Jang spoke gently, his tone polite yet firm. “Madam Yoon, if you don’t mind, could you give us some privacy?”

  Her smile lingered a second longer before she gave a small, understanding nod. Without another word, she turned and quietly stepped out, leaving them alone once more in the heavy silence of the room.

  The silence stretched between them, heavy and unyielding, filling the vast room like an unseen presence. Chairman Choi watched Kiho closely, his gaze steady, unreadable. The younger man sat stiffly, his posture composed, yet there was an undeniable restlessness in the way his fingers twitched slightly against his sleeve, in the subtle tightening of his jaw.

  His eyes never settled. They moved constantly—skimming over the intricate patterns of the carpet, tracing the carved edges of the furniture, flickering toward the windows where the curtains swayed with the morning breeze. Anywhere but at the man sitting across from him.

  Chairman Choi took in every detail, the way Kiho’s breath remained measured, the way his presence felt both present and distant at the same time.

  Was he merely avoiding his gaze, or was he searching for something? A memory? A familiar anchor in this pce that had once been his home?

  The weight of the moment lingered, stretching unbearably, until at st, Chairman Choi exhaled—a slow, quiet breath. His voice, when he spoke, was softer than expected, yet ced with an honesty he did not attempt to mask.

  “I truly don’t know what to say in this situation.”

  There was no accusation, no judgment in his tone. Only quiet sincerity, a rare admission from a man who always had something to say.

  The silence that followed was deafening, until a sudden sound from upstairs broke through the stillness.

  Kiho’s head lifted slightly at the sound of soft footsteps on the upper floor. From where they sat in the living room, the second-floor hallway was visible through the gss barrier lining the balcony. A young girl, dressed in an elegant yet simple white dress, stepped out of a room, rubbing her sleepy eyes. She looked no older than eight or nine. Her dark hair cascaded down in soft waves, her expression drowsy yet curious. She hadn’t noticed the guests at first. But then, as though sensing something, she stilled.

  Her eyes met Kiho’s.

  For a brief moment, time seemed to pause. The girl blinked, tilting her head slightly as if trying to pce him. Then, breaking the stillness, she spoke.

  She blinked, confused by the unfamiliar face. Then, shifting her gaze to Chairman Choi, she spoke. “Oh, is that you Grandpa, you’re here?”

  Chairman Choi’s expression eased, the stern lines of his face softening ever so slightly. A rare warmth threaded through his voice as he looked up at the young girl. “Lyn, it’s still early,” he said gently. “Go back and rest, hmm?”

  A nanny appeared by her side, her touch light as she took the girl’s hand. “Come now, young miss,” she coaxed with a warm smile. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

  Lyn lingered for a moment, her rge, dark eyes flickering toward Kiho. There was curiosity in her gaze—innocent, searching—as if trying to pce him in a story she had yet to hear.

  Kiho remained still, uncertain of what to make of the moment.

  Then, without a word, Lyn let the nanny guide her away. Her small footsteps echoed softly down the hallway, disappearing behind the closing door. Yet, even as silence returned, something unfamiliar settled in Kiho’s chest—an odd, lingering feeling he couldn’t quite name.

  Chairman Choi turned back to him, his expression returning to its unreadable state. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees.

  “So,” he finally said. “What do you want to do now?”

  The question hung in the air like an unanswered prayer. Kiho lowered his gaze, his fingers tightening around the fabric of his pants. The weight of twenty-five years pressed down on him, pulling at every fragmented memory, every lost moment. He had spent so long trapped in a life that wasn’t his. Now, sitting here in the very house he once called home, the answer should have been simple.

  But it wasn’t.

  And so, the silence remained.

  END OF CHAPTER 15