The city of Gwangju had always been a quiet one—at least on the surface. Nestled between rolling hills and winding rivers, it was a pce where the scent of fresh bread drifted from family-owned bakeries each morning, where children’s ughter echoed through the narrow alleyways, and where elders gathered at street corners, exchanging stories from their youth. The marketpce was always bustling, a vibrant hub of color and chatter, with vendors calling out daily specials and bartering in good-natured banter. The streets were clean, the people courteous, and life moved at an unhurried, steady rhythm.

  It was the kind of pce where neighbors still left their doors unlocked, where the local policeman knew every resident by name, and where crime was nothing more than the occasional bicycle theft or a scuffle between schoolboys.

  Until the morning everything changed.

  It started with a body.

  The fisherman had set out before dawn, as he always did, his small boat slicing through the gss-like surface of the ke. A thick mist curled around the edges of the water, rising like silent phantoms as the first fingers of sunlight reached across the sky. The only sound was the rhythmic creak of oars and the occasional spsh of fish breaking the stillness.

  But when he cast his net, expecting the familiar weight of his catch, something far heavier resisted beneath the water’s surface. His pulse quickened as he strained against the unseen burden, his hands trembling with the effort. Then, slowly, something pale and bloated surfaced through the fog.

  A face.

  The fisherman recoiled, a strangled gasp escaping his lips. The lifeless eyes stared up at the dawn sky, unseeing, vacant. The lips, tinged an unnatural blue, were slightly parted, as if the man had been caught mid-breath before life was stolen from him. Waterlogged flesh sagged over bone, the skin marred by dark bruises and deep ligature marks that circled his wrists. His clothes, soaked and torn, clung to his stiff form like a shroud.

  Jung Ho-jin.

  A husband. A father. A man who had walked these very streets just days ago, exchanging nods with shopkeepers, ughing with his children. Now, he was nothing more than a lifeless weight in the fisherman’s trembling hands.

  Deep bruises marred his arms, dark imprints left by hands that had restrained him in his final moments. Ligature marks circled his wrists, the angry red welts telling a silent story of captivity. His mouth had been stuffed with damp cloth, his lips cracked from what looked like hours—maybe days—of suffering.

  The radio crackled as the fisherman called for help, his voice breaking under the weight of what he had just uncovered. By the time the authorities arrived, the mist had begun to retreat, revealing the ke’s surface as eerily undisturbed—as if it had never given up its secret.

  Before the town could make sense of his murder, another body was found.

  Kilometers away, in another ke—one that had once been a quiet retreat for lovers and weary travelers—the bloated form of Kim Soo-ah surfaced. A tourist, taking an early morning walk, had been the first to see her. The figure had floated just near the reeds, tangled in the vegetation, her long dark hair fanned out around her like ink bleeding into water.

  Unlike her husband, she bore fewer wounds. No rope burns marred her wrists, no bruises discolored her skin. But the expression on her face—frozen in absolute terror—told a story more chilling than any visible injury. Her lips were parted, as if she had been caught mid-scream, yet no sound had ever come. Her fingers curled inward, rigid, as though she had been grasping at something that had long since slipped away.

  The town was in shock. Two bodies, two kes, two parents ripped from their children.

  The city of Gwangju, once so peaceful, was now gripped by fear.

  A husband and wife, taken and discarded like debris. Their children, a ten-year-old girl and an eight-year-old boy, missing without a trace.

  Then, just when the town feared the worst, the boy was found.

  It was nearly midnight when a convenience store owner, preparing to close up for the night, noticed a small figure standing outside his shop. At first, he assumed it was a lost child, someone who had wandered too far from home. But as he stepped closer, he saw the boy did not move.

  His clothes were dirty, smeared with streaks of mud. His bare feet were scraped and raw. His hands, clenched into fists at his sides, were ice-cold to the touch.

  And his eyes—wide and hollow—held nothing.

  Not fear. Not sadness. Not recognition when the store owner gently shook his shoulder, asking him where he had come from.

  When the police arrived, they tried everything to get him to speak.

  Where had he been?

  Had he seen what happened to his parents?

  Where was his sister?

  “What’s your name?”

  No response.

  “Are you hurt?”

  The boy blinked, his gaze shifting slightly but unfocused.

  “Where is your sister?”

  Not a single word left his lips.

  Not a single sound.

  He simply stood there, lost in whatever horrors had stolen his voice.

  The police brought the boy to the station, but he remained silent. He sat on the chair in the observation room, knees drawn to his chest, staring bnkly at the walls. Occasionally, his fingers twitched, as if trying to grasp something unseen.

  Detective Kang Ji-ho sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “We need a psychiatrist. Someone who specializes in trauma. He’s the only witness we have.”

  Chief Inspector Park nodded. “Social services will take him, but until we know more, we need him safe.” He looked through the one-way gss. “And we need to find his sister. Fast.”

  “Do we have anything belonging to her?” another detective asked.

  “Not much,” one of the forensic officers admitted. “Her school bag was found near an alley on the other side of town. A single shoe in the woods a few miles from here. It’s like someone scattered her belongings on purpose.”

  A chilling silence settled over them.

  Where was she?

  Was she still alive?

  Or was she just another secret waiting to be unearthed?

  The Lost Boy

  The small clinic was nestled in a quiet corner of the city, far from the chaos of the police station, far from the murmurs of reporters who wanted to pick apart the horror of the case. It wasn’t much—an old building with peeling white paint, a modest waiting room with creaky wooden chairs, the faint scent of chamomile tea and antiseptic lingering in the air. The kind of pce meant to feel safe, to soften the edges of trauma.

  Dr. Yoon Min Seo’s office was no different. A single mp cast a warm, golden glow against the pale blue walls, where framed paintings of soft ndscapes—rolling hills, serene rivers, fields of quiet flowers—were meant to evoke peace. A small bookshelf stood in the corner, filled with picture books and therapy guides, their spines worn from years of use. A plush armchair sat beside a window that overlooked a tiny courtyard, where raindrops now drummed gently against the gss.

  The boy sat across from her, his small frame nearly swallowed by the oversized chair. His clothes were clean now, the mud and grime washed away, but his skin was still pale, almost sickly under the fluorescent lights. His bare feet, once caked in dirt, were now cd in soft white socks that social services had provided, yet he curled his toes against the fabric, as if bracing himself for something unseen.

  His dark eyes were vacant, unfocused, lost in a pce far beyond the walls of this room. He did not fidget, did not shift, did not move like an ordinary child might. He only sat, silent and still, as though the very act of existing took too much effort.

  Dr. Yoon Min Seo sat across from him, her expression calm despite the gnawing unease in her chest. She had seen many children like him—silent victims of tragedies they could not name. But there was something different about Woo-bin. Something in the way he held himself, as if speaking would unravel him completely.

  Dr. Min-seo watched him carefully. She could see it happening—the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers twitched like he was preparing to run. His mind was spiraling, sinking deeper into whatever memory had pulled him under. She leaned forward slightly, her tone even and reassuring. “Woo-bin, can you hear me?”

  No response. His gaze flickered briefly, but he remained trapped in his panic, breathing too quickly, too shallow.

  Min-seo’s voice remained steady. “Your name is Jung Woo-bin. Can you nod if you understand?”

  Nothing.

  His pupils were blown wide, his body locked in pce. His tiny shoulders trembled with every strained breath. She softened her approach, careful not to startle him further. “Woo-bin, I want you to focus on my voice, okay? You’re safe here. No one can hurt you.”

  Still, nothing. Min-seo gnced at his clenched fists. If he didn’t slow his breathing soon, he would hyperventite. She reached for a stack of white paper and a small box of crayons, sliding them gently across the table. The sound was quiet but deliberate—enough to break through the rising storm in his mind.

  “You don’t have to speak,” she said. “You can draw.”

  There was a pause. A long, torturous second where she thought he wouldn’t react.

  Then, slowly, his fingers uncurled from his shirt. Hesitant. Delicate. He reached out, his hand shaking as it hovered over the box before finally grasping a crayon.

  Bck.

  The crayon rattled softly as he pressed it against the paper. His first strokes were faint, almost hesitant, but soon they became jagged. Harsh. The pressure of his grip tightened, his small fingers going white at the tips. Min-seo kept her breathing steady as she watched. She had seen this before—children who couldn’t express their trauma through words but poured it out in silent images instead.

  A ke.

  Dark, endless water.

  A shadow.

  Tall, stretching across the surface, its form indistinct but menacing.

  Then—

  A hand reaching out from the darkness.

  Min-seo’s throat tightened. The fingers were sharp, cw-like, stretching desperately toward the surface. Toward escape.

  Her voice remained gentle, but a thin thread of unease wove through her words. “Woo-bin…” She exhaled slowly, trying to keep her own emotions in check. “Is this something you saw?”

  The crayon stilled.

  Woo-bin’s small shoulders gave a barely noticeable tremble. His fingers gripped the bck crayon tighter—so tight it nearly snapped in his hand. His breathing was still uneven, his eyes still distant, but then—

  For the first time, his lips parted. A breathy whisper. So soft, so fragile, that Min-seo almost thought she had imagined it.

  “She’s still there.”

  A chill swept through the room. Min-seo felt a slow, sinking dread creep into her chest.

  The sister. The missing girl wasn’t gone.

  Not yet.

  But if they didn’t find her soon…

  She would be.

  Detective Minho’s Assignment

  Detective Minho Kang had spent the st ten years chasing ghosts—criminals lurking in the dark corners of the city, the echoes of unsolved cases, and the haunting specter of his own past. Gwangju, the pce he once called home, had long been buried in the recesses of his mind, locked away like a story left unfinished. But fate had a cruel way of reopening wounds, and now, he found himself standing on the precipice of his past, staring into the abyss he had spent years avoiding.

  Minho’s path to becoming a detective wasn’t an easy one. Raised by his aunt in Seoul, he buried himself in his studies, excelling in criminology and forensic science. While other teenagers enjoyed their youth, Minho spent sleepless nights in libraries, studying case files and forensic reports, trying to understand the patterns behind unsolved crimes. He pushed himself beyond limits, finishing top of his css in police academy.

  Unlike many of his peers who joined the force for stability or honor, Minho was fueled by something deeper—an unyielding obsession with justice. He started as a rookie officer in Seoul, his sharp instincts and unwavering dedication catching the attention of his superiors. He had a way of seeing things others overlooked, noticing patterns hidden beneath yers of deception. Soon, he was transferred to the Major Crimes Unit, where his real test began.

  Minho quickly built a reputation for solving complex cases. His first major case involved a serial arsonist who targeted abandoned buildings, leaving behind cryptic symbols. While others saw randomness, Minho saw a method—a twisted connection to old folklore. His insight led to the capture of the culprit, earning him his first commendation.

  Then came the case of the “Silent Witness,” where a young woman had gone missing, leaving behind only a single voicemail recording filled with indistinct murmurs. While others dismissed it as useless, Minho worked tirelessly, analyzing sound patterns and background noise, which eventually led them to an underground hideout where the victim was found alive. His ability to pick apart details and reconstruct events from the smallest clues made him stand out.

  Over the years, he cracked kidnapping rings, exposed corrupt officials, and even took down a notorious crime syndicate that had eluded the police for years. His name became well known among the force, respected by allies and feared by criminals. Yet, despite the recognition, Minho never let his success cloud his purpose—his drive always stemmed from that fateful day when his family was taken from him.

  A month after the first body surfaced, the case was assigned to Detective Minho Kang. He had seen his fair share of horrific crimes, but something about this case felt different. The boy’s silence disturbed him. It reminded him of something—something he couldn’t quite pce.

  Minho spent nights going through reports, trying to piece together a connection. The parents had no debts, no history of abuse, no recent conflicts. Their only crime was being in the wrong pce at the wrong time.

  Then, the case took a darker turn.

  Minho had not always been a detective. Once, he had been a boy with a loving family, two younger siblings who looked up to him, and parents who worked hard to give them a good life. They had lived in Gwangju, in a modest home filled with ughter and warmth. But then came the tragedy—the night everything was taken from him.

  He had been in Seoul when it happened. A schorship had taken him away from home, away from the city where his family remained. When the news reached him, the world had turned cold. A house fire, they said. An accident, they cimed. But Minho knew better. There were too many inconsistencies, too many whispers that hinted at something sinister. Yet, nothing was ever proven. His family's case had been closed as an unfortunate tragedy, another mystery buried under bureaucracy.

  Minho had changed his name after that. He wanted no ties to Gwangju, no one to recognize him as the boy who had lost everything. He had sworn to return one day, not for nostalgia, but for justice. Becoming a detective had not been a career choice—it had been a necessity. He hunted criminals in the shadows, determined that no other family would suffer the way his had. But his own ghosts never let him go.

  A Forgotten Case Resurface

  A husband and wife, brutally murdered.

  Their bodies surfaced in different kes, miles apart, as if the killer wanted to sever all traces of the life they had built together. The water had swallowed their st breaths, concealed their suffering, and only now had it decided to return them—bloated, broken, lifeless.

  Their son, barely eight years old, found wandering the streets. Barefoot. Silent. His clothes smeared with dirt, his hands trembling from the cold—or was it fear? He could not answer. His lips parted, but no words came.

  A missing daughter. A sister who, for all anyone knew, had been swallowed by the same darkness that had stolen her parents.

  The crime scene reports stacked high on Minho’s desk, the bck ink of official statements searing into his mind like an omen. The details—the precise brutality, the eerie silence of the only surviving child—felt disturbingly familiar. Too much like what had happened to his own family twenty years ago.

  Minho had spent years burying his past beneath duty, beneath justice, beneath the belief that moving forward meant not looking back. But when the case nded on his desk, demanding his return to Gwangju, something cold gripped his chest.

  It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t grief.

  It was inevitability.

  He didn’t want to go back. Not like this. Not when the ghosts of his past still lingered in the streets he once called home. But duty called. Justice demanded it.

  And so, with a heavy heart, Minho drove through the familiar roads of Gwangju, his mind a battlefield of memories he had long fought to forget.

  But the case took an unexpected turn.

  The deeper he dug, the more he uncovered—traces of something much older, something that should have remained buried. The reports from twenty years ago resurfaced, yellowed with age but still hauntingly relevant. It was a case long forgotten, dismissed as an unsolved tragedy:

  Three children.

  Three lost souls.

  Found standing near the riverbank, their small frames rigid with fear. Their faces bnk. Their voices stolen.

  Lyn Choi.Aky Park.Yna Yoon.Minho’s fingers tightened around the old report, his pulse quickening. These weren’t just names on a page. These were people he knew—people who had grown into successful adults, their pasts locked away behind polished careers and new identities.

  Choi Lyn, now a business director. Ruthless in the corporate world, her name carried weight. A woman of logic, precision, and control.

  Park Aky, a neuroscientist. A man dedicated to understanding the mind—perhaps because his own had been fractured once.

  Yoon Yna now Lee Yna, a novelist and illustrator. A woman who crafted stories—maybe to rewrite the one she had lived.

  They had no ties to the recent murders. No reason to be involved. And yet, their past whispered otherwise.

  Minho’s breath came slow, measured, but his chest felt tight.

  They had lived through something unspeakable. Something that had stripped them of their voices and left them to navigate a world that had moved on without them.

  And now, after twenty years, it was happening again.

  Minho leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his face. He knew what needed to be done, but the weight of it pressed down on him.

  He had to call them back.

  Because whatever had happened that night, whatever horror they had buried in the depths of their memories—

  It was resurfacing.

  And this time, Minho was ready to face it.

  Even if it meant uncovering the truth behind his own family’s murder.

  A Return to the Past

  His transfer had been abrupt, his captain citing a high-profile murder case that required his expertise. Minho was one of Seoul’s finest detectives, known for his relentless pursuit of truth and his uncanny ability to find patterns others overlooked. But this case... this case wasn’t just another case.

  Gwangju had once been home—a pce filled with the ughter of his younger siblings, the warmth of his mother’s cooking, and the steady presence of his father. Two younger siblings, a boy and a girl, innocent and full of dreams. His parents, hardworking and loving, had given them a comfortable life. They weren’t wealthy, but they were happy. At least, they had been—until the night that shattered everything.

  Minho had already been in high school when it happened. A car accident, they said. A tragic, unexpected loss. But even then, he knew something wasn’t right.

  For years, the memory haunted him—a fragmented nightmare that felt too real. He remembered being woken up in the middle of the night by his mother’s terrified screams. The sound of crashing. The smell of blood. And then… darkness.

  When he woke up, everything was gone. His parents’ bodies were found in a wrecked car submerged in a ke, and his younger siblings had been discovered inside the closet of their home—suffocated to death. But Minho had no memory of any of that. His mind only allowed him glimpses of that night, distorted images he could never make sense of.

  After the incident, his aunt had taken him to Seoul, away from the whispers, away from the past. He was pced into counseling, where the psychiatrist assured him, it had all been a dream. The mind pys tricks on those in grief, they had told him. What he thought he heard, what he thought he saw—it wasn’t real. It was just trauma manifesting as nightmares.

  For years, he forced himself to believe it. He buried the memories deep, convincing himself that his family’s deaths were a cruel accident, that there was nothing more to uncover. But five years ago, the truth shattered that fragile illusion.

  He found it himself.

  A case hidden from the world, buried beneath falsified reports and quieted investigations. The official statement had called it an accident, a misfortune written off without question. But the evidence was there—altered, suppressed, maniputed to fit a narrative that had never been true.

  It had been no accident.

  His parents had been murdered. Their bodies weren’t just found in a ke by chance. And his siblings… they hadn’t simply hidden in the closet. They had been forced there, left to suffocate. Someone had done this to them. Someone had taken them away from him.

  And for the first time since that night, Minho no longer tried to forget. He needed to remember. Because buried within the nightmares he had been told weren’t real, the truth was waiting.

  For years, he had pushed the memories away, burying himself in his work, chasing criminals, solving cases. But now, a new case had forced him to confront the past.

  Detective Minho Kang never thought he would set foot in Gwangju again. The city held nothing for him but memories—some so distant they felt like someone else's life, others so painful they had left scars deep in his soul. Yet, twenty years ter, fate had drawn him back, tethering him to a case that felt disturbingly familiar.

  The Chilling Simirities

  The case Minho had been assigned involved the Jung family—a murdered couple and two missing children. Jung Ho-jin and Kim Soo-ah, parents to a ten-year-old girl and an eight-year-old boy, had been found in separate kes, their bodies bruised and lifeless.

  A shiver ran down Minho’s spine as he studied the reports. The details... they didn’t make sense.

  No signs of forced entry at their home.No known enemies.A missing child, just like his case.The simirities were too much to ignore. Twenty years ago, another family had met the same fate. The memories cwed at his mind as he compared the reports side by side.

  Two decades earlier, the same horror had unfolded. A man had cast his fishing net into the still waters of Gwangju’s ke, only to reel in the lifeless body of a missing father. His skin, pale and bloated. His lips, tinged blue. Bruises wrapping around his wrists like shackles from whatever nightmare had held him captive in his final hours.

  Hours ter, miles apart, his wife was found. She had washed up against the banks of a different ke, tangled in reeds, her fingers curled inward as if she had been reaching for something—or someone—who was no longer there.

  Their case had baffled the authorities. They had scoured the crime scenes, searching for evidence, for any sign of what had happened inside the victims' home. But they had found nothing. No forced entry. No signs of a struggle. Just a home left eerily untouched, the scent of dinner still clinging to the air, their belongings unmoved, as though the couple had simply vanished into the night, only to resurface as corpses. Nothing to indicate why a seemingly ordinary couple had been brutally murdered and disposed of in such a calcuted manner. The neighborhood had been quiet, undisturbed, just as it was now. Friends and family had been interviewed, but there had been no leads, no debts, no grudges.

  And yet, the most disturbing discovery had been inside the family home.

  Two children. A boy and a girl, no older than three, found huddled together in the bedroom closet. Their tiny hands clutching a bag of candies, their faces peaceful, as if they had simply fallen asleep. But there was no breath left in them. No life. They had suffocated in the darkness, waiting for parents who would never come back.

  Minho exhaled slowly, gripping the files in his hands. He had read every detail before, but seeing it again, side by side with the Jung case, sent a chill through his bones.

  The patterns were undeniable.

  Two bodies. Two kes.

  An untouched home. A missing child.

  And just like before, a child found alive but completely, terrifyingly silent. How had this happened again?

  The boy from the new case—Jung Woo-bin—had been found wandering, mute with shock. Just like Aky Park, Lyn Choi, and Yna Yoon had been found twenty years ago. Three children standing near the banks of a river, silent, unable to speak of what they had witnessed. Now, another boy stood in their pce, his mind locked away from the horrors he had survived.

  Minho swallowed hard. The simirities were undeniable. But there was one crucial difference this time. Twenty years ago, three children had disappeared and been found. This time, there was only one. One missing boy. And one missing girl who had yet to be found.

  The question cwed at his mind, at his very soul. Would they still be able to save her?

  Minho stood motionless outside the abandoned house where the Jung family had once lived. The evening air was damp, carrying the scent of earth and decay, as if the house itself had been left to rot alongside the memories it held. The once neatly trimmed yard was now overgrown, weeds stretching toward the cracked pavement like desperate hands.

  The house looked smaller than he remembered. Or maybe it had always been this size, and it was only the weight of his grief that made it feel suffocating.

  The windows, hollow and dark, stared back at him like empty eyes, devoid of the life they once framed. He could almost hear the echo of ughter that used to spill from those walls—the warmth of his mother calling them in for dinner, the pyful shouting of his younger siblings chasing each other across the hallway.

  But none of that existed anymore.

  The house had died the same night they did.

  Minho clenched his fists, forcing himself to step forward. His shoes crunched against gravel as he approached the door. His fingers hovered over the rusted handle, hesitating.

  If he had been there that night…

  His chest tightened. His mind spiraled.

  If he had been there, he could have saved them.

  His imagination began to build a version of that night—one where he had been home instead of miles away, where he wasn’t helpless, where he could rewrite history.

  The house wasn’t abandoned anymore. It was alive again, filled with warmth, with light. He could see it so clearly. His mother in the kitchen, humming softly as she prepared dinner. His father sitting in the living room, absorbed in his paperwork. His younger siblings sprawled on the floor, bickering over a toy.

  Then—a noise. A crash.

  Minho imagined himself standing at the top of the stairs, his body stiffening at the sound. His father’s sharp voice rang out—a warning, an order.

  "Minho, take them and hide!"

  He saw himself rushing into his siblings' room, scooping them up in his arms, shoving them into the closet. His sister’s small hands gripping his wrist. His brother’s trembling form pressed against him.

  "Stay quiet," he would have whispered. "No matter what, don’t make a sound."

  Heavy footsteps pounded against the wooden floor. Shadows stretched beneath the door.

  Minho imagined holding his breath, his body shielding his siblings from whatever came next. He would have fought. He would have done something—anything.

  But he wasn’t there.

  The reality was colder. The truth was cruel.

  Minho had never been there to protect them. He had never pulled them into a closet, never shielded them from the horror of that night.

  He had been somewhere else, living his life, unaware that his family was being ripped away from him.

  His breathing hitched.

  The vision shattered, but the weight of it remained, crushing him from the inside out.

  Minho staggered back, his legs barely holding him upright. His chest felt like it was caving in, his lungs refusing to pull in enough air. The walls of the house blurred and twisted, the shadows stretching and creeping toward him.

  His ears rang. His vision swam.

  He clutched his head, gasping, his mind screaming at him to breathe—but the air felt too thick, too heavy.

  If he had been there… if he had done something…

  But he hadn’t.

  And now, no matter how many times he tried to rewrite that night in his head, the truth would never change.

  He had lost them.

  And he would never forgive himself for it.

  His fingers traced the outline of an old photo in his pocket—a picture of his family, taken just weeks before they had died. His mother’s gentle smile, his father’s strong stance, his siblings clinging to him as they ughed. A perfect moment, frozen in time. The silence of the night pressed in around him, thick and suffocating. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, and for the first time in years, he whispered a quiet promise to the ghosts of his past.

  “I’ll find out what happened to you. I promise.”

  END OF CHAPTER 1