The Choi Family: A Legacy of Wealth and Expectation

  The Choi family had amassed their fortune through generations, dominating the trading industry with an iron grip. Lyn’s father, Jisung Choi, was the sole heir to this empire, and after inheriting the business, he ensured that their name remained at the top. A shrewd businessman, he was known for his cold precision and unmatched intellect, a man who commanded respect wherever he went. However, despite his success, his marriage had been one of convenience rather than love.

  Lyn’s mother, Haeun Choi, served as the general manager of one of the company’s key branches in Seongnam. She had entered into an arranged marriage with Jisung, a union orchestrated by their families to strengthen business ties. Over time, Haeun had genuinely fallen in love with her husband, often telling Lyn stories of how she admired his determination and strength. Yet, Lyn had always sensed that her father did not feel the same. He rarely spoke of her mother, and his expressions remained unreadable when Lyn would ask, “Do you love Mom?” Instead of answering, he would pat her head or change the subject.

  Despite this, Jisung doted on Lyn. She never doubted her father’s love for her, but she wished he would see her mother the way Haeun saw him.

  Lyn’s childhood was painted in moments of warmth and solitude, woven together by the gentle affection of her mother and the distant but undeniable presence of her father. Nights were always her favorite, when the world outside the grand Choi estate quieted, and she could curl beneath her bnkets, listening to her father’s voice as he read to her.

  “Are you ready for our story, little one?” Jisung Choi would ask, his voice a deep, even timbre that resonated through her small bedroom.

  Lyn would nod eagerly, tugging the covers up to her chin as she nestled deeper into her pillows. Her father would adjust the mp beside her bed, its golden glow casting soft shadows on the walls. Then, with his usual composed elegance, he would begin reading.

  Most nights, it was cssical literature—tales of noble warriors, cunning merchants, or rulers who built empires with their wit and will. But Lyn’s favorite stories were the ones he told from memory—recollections of his own childhood, the lessons he had learned growing up in the Choi family’s shadow.

  “Do you know what my father used to tell me?” Jisung asked one evening, closing the book in his p. Lyn shook her head, eager to hear more.

  “He used to say that people who hesitate lose everything,” he murmured. “That in life, you must never falter when making decisions. If you do, someone else will make them for you.”

  Lyn frowned, digesting the words in her own way. “But… what if you don’t know what the right decision is?”

  Jisung chuckled, brushing her hair from her face. “Then you choose anyway, and make it the right one.”

  Lyn pondered this as sleep pulled at her, his words lingering in the space between dreams and reality. No matter how much she admired her father, she wondered why those lessons never seemed to apply to his feelings for her mother.

  Her days, however, belonged to her mother.

  Haeun Choi had a different kind of strength, one that spoke through melodies rather than words. She had a quiet grace about her, a warmth that Lyn adored. The grand piano in the sunlit music room was where they spent their best moments together.

  Haeun’s fingers danced effortlessly over the keys, filling the space with soft, wistful notes as Lyn sat beside her, her small hands mimicking the movements.

  “Music is like a story, Lyn,” her mother would say, adjusting her daughter’s fingers gently. “Every note is a word, and together, they tell something no one else can say.”

  One evening, as the amber light of the setting sun filtered through the tall windows, Lyn watched her mother py a song she had never heard before. It was delicate, filled with longing, each note carrying an unspoken emotion.

  “What’s that one, Mom?” Lyn asked, resting her chin in her hands as she listened.

  Haeun smiled, though there was a sadness in her eyes. “A song I wrote a long time ago. For your father.”

  Lyn’s heart swelled. “It’s beautiful.”

  Her mother ughed softly, brushing a hand through Lyn’s hair. “Thank you, sweetheart. I made it hoping he’d understand how I felt.”

  “Did he?”

  A pause. A flicker of something unreadable passed over Haeun’s face before she answered, “I think… he understood in his own way.”

  Lyn bit her lip, staring at the ivory keys. She had always admired the way her mother loved so openly, so completely, despite knowing it wasn’t fully returned.

  One day, Lyn thought, she wanted to write a song like that, too—not for someone she longed to reach, but for someone who would listen with their whole heart. Someone who would hear the music and py it back for her.

  Unlike her father, she wanted to love differently.

  The song lingered between them, filling the silent spaces with a melody that Lyn would never forget.

  The Yoon Family: Shadows of the Past

  Unlike Lyn, Yna Yoon had no luxurious legacy to inherit. She barely remembered her parents—only faint, blurry images of a tragic accident when she was barely two years old. What she did know was that she had been in that car crash with them, the lone survivor. She had asked her grandmother, Mi Sook Yoon, about it before, but her grandmother always changed the subject or simply said, “Some things are better forgotten, child.”

  After the accident, Yna had been raised by her grandparents, the only family she had left. Her grandfather had worked tirelessly as a fisherman to provide for them, but when he passed away, their already modest life grew even smaller. It was just her and her grandmother now, but Yna never felt lonely. Her grandmother was her whole world, teaching her the ways of life with gentle patience and steady hands.

  Mi Sook Yoon was a strong woman, her back slightly hunched from years of bor but her hands still capable, still steady. She would sit Yna down in front of a small mirror every morning and comb through her long dark hair with practiced ease.

  “You should learn to do this yourself,” Misook would say, her voice a mix of love and practicality. “I won’t always be here to do it for you.”

  Yna would nod, though she never liked the thought of her grandmother not being there. She tried her best to imitate the way her grandmother braided her hair, though her fingers often fumbled, and the strands would come undone too easily. Misook would simply chuckle, gently guiding her hands. “Patience, child. Everything good takes time.”

  Beyond caring for her hair, Misook taught Yna everything she needed to know about keeping a home. They would do the dishes together in the tiny kitchen, the warm water soothing against their hands as they scrubbed each pte with care.

  “You can tell a lot about a person by how they keep their home,” Misook mused one evening as she rinsed a bowl. “A clean space brings a clear mind.”

  Yna smiled as she wiped a pte dry. “Then why does the neighbor’s house always look so messy? Mrs. Lee always seems happy.”

  Her grandmother chuckled. “Some people find happiness in chaos, I suppose. But for us, order will do.”

  Laundry days were filled with the fresh scent of soap and the rhythmic sound of clothes being wrung out. Yna loved sitting beside her grandmother as they folded the warm clothes straight from the line. They would chat about simple things—the weather, the neighbor’s mischievous cat, what they would eat for dinner.

  One day, as they folded her grandfather’s old shirts, Yna hesitated before speaking. “Grandma… what were my parents like?”

  Misook’s hands stilled for just a moment before she continued folding. Her face remained calm, but there was something distant in her eyes. “Some things are better forgotten, child.”

  Yna didn’t press further. She knew that look—the one her grandmother had whenever the past threatened to resurface. So, she let it go, letting the quiet between them settle like dust in the afternoon light.

  Despite their simple life, Yna never felt alone. That changed when she met Aky Park.

  It was a summer afternoon when Yna first met the boy who would become one of her closest friends. She had been sitting outside their small home, watching the sky darken with the promise of rain, when she heard the sound of wheels against gravel. She turned to see a boy riding a small red bicycle, his legs pumping furiously as he tried to go faster.

  He skidded to a stop right in front of her, grinning widely. “Hey! I haven’t seen you around before. What’s your name?”

  Yna hesitated. She wasn’t used to people talking to her so easily. “…Yna.”

  “I’m Aky! Do you wanna ride my bike?”

  She blinked at him, unsure. “I don’t know how.”

  Aky didn’t seem bothered by this. He simply hopped off and held the handlebars out to her. “I can teach you!”

  She hesitated again, but something about his enthusiasm made it hard to say no. She got on the bike cautiously, her small hands gripping the handlebars tightly. Aky held the back of the seat, steadying her.

  “Okay, just push with your feet! I won’t let you fall.”

  She tried, wobbling awkwardly. Aky ughed but never let go. He kept talking, telling her about his family, his house, the snacks his mom made. Yna barely had to say a word—he carried the conversation all on his own.

  That was how it started. Aky and his family welcomed Yna and her grandmother with open arms, bringing warmth into their lives in a way they hadn’t felt in years.

  For the first time in a long time, Yna felt like she belonged.

  The Park Family: A Heart for Others

  Aky Park had always been known for his boundless energy and open heart, traits he had inherited from his mother, Somin Park, a social worker with an unwavering dedication to helping those in need. His father, Hyunwoo Park, was a hardworking employee in a trading company—nothing as grand as the Choi family's empire, but enough to keep their family afloat. They weren’t wealthy, but they were happy. Aky knew that, even as a child. His parents gave him everything he needed, not in riches, but in love, warmth, and unwavering support.

  His mother was the type to always bring home stray animals, feed hungry strangers, and lend a hand to anyone struggling. His father, though quieter, was just as generous, often fixing broken furniture for neighbors or lending tools without a second thought. They were well-known in the city, not for their status, but for their kindness, and Aky admired them more than anyone.

  Though mischievous, Aky never disrespected his parents. He loved to push boundaries, testing just how fast he could ride his bike, sneaking extra snacks before dinner, or staying up te to listen to the grown-ups talk. But at the end of the day, when his mother called his name with a stern look, he would always lower his head and mutter, “Yes, Mom,” before obediently following her orders. His father would ugh, ruffling his hair, “You're a handful, but you have a good heart, Aky.”

  One day, Aky met Yna and her grandmother, and everything changed. His mother had brought them home after learning about their struggles, offering them a pce to stay in the basement. It wasn’t much, but it was warm, safe, and full of love. Yna was shy, barely speaking a word. But that didn’t deter Aky. He followed her around, asking endless questions, trying to get her to py with him.

  “Do you know how to ride a bike?” he asked her one afternoon, circling her on his small, worn-out bicycle.

  She shook her head.

  “Well, I can teach you! But first, you have to talk to me!” he grinned, trying to coax a smile out of her.

  Yna only blinked at him, unsure of how to respond.

  From that day on, Aky made it his mission to be her friend. Whenever Yna was left alone at home while her grandmother worked, he would ask his mother to cook extra food. Then, he would sneak down to the basement, knocking gently before pushing the pte into her hands.

  “Eat up! My mom says you have to!” he decred, plopping down beside her.

  Yna stared at the food, then at Aky. “Your mom said that?”

  “Well...” Aky scratched his cheek. “Not really. But she would say that if she knew! So it's basically the same thing.”

  Yna let out a small, barely audible giggle. Aky beamed.

  As the summer vacation comes to a close, they started going to the same school. Aky had trouble sitting still in css, easily distracted and bored by the lessons. But Yna, sharp and disciplined, made sure he stayed on track.

  “Aky, focus,” she would sigh, helping him with his homework.

  “But it's boring!” he groaned, slumping against the desk.

  “If you finish this, I'll let you copy my notes next time.”

  His eyes lit up. “Deal!”

  In return, Aky always carried Yna's bag and made sure they rode home together, his small bicycle barely big enough to hold them both. “Hold on tight!” he would call as they wobbled down the road, ughing all the way home.

  A World Divided by Walls

  The ringing of morning bells signaled the start of another school day, yet in two vastly different parts of the city, three children navigated their worlds in stark contrast.

  In the heart of the city, where gss buildings reflected the golden sunrise, Lyn adjusted the cuffs of her neatly pressed uniform as she stepped out of a sleek bck car. Daehan International Academy loomed before her—an architectural marvel with towering gates, polished marble floors, and a courtyard adorned with fountains that shimmered under the morning light. Students, dressed in tailored bzers and immacute skirts or scks, walked in clusters, discussing grades, internships, and weekend pns that involved luxury and prestige.

  Lyn moved through the pristine halls with effortless grace, nodding politely to familiar faces but never truly stopping for conversation. Every step was calcuted, every action a reflection of the expectations pced upon her. Here, mistakes were not an option, and friendships were often as fragile as they were strategic.

  Across the city, beyond the towering buildings and manicured wns, Aky slung his bag over his shoulder and raced through the bustling streets toward his school. Unlike Lyn’s world of perfection, his was filled with the sounds of honking cars, shop owners calling out their morning deals, and the distant chatter of students crammed into convenience stores for a quick breakfast. His school was far from pristine—walls lined with graffiti, desks etched with years of boredom and rebellion, and a courtyard where students lingered long after the bell rang, reluctant to step inside.

  Aky thrived in this world of unpredictability. Rules existed, sure, but bending them was part of the fun. Here, friendships weren’t formed out of obligation or status; they were built in the moments of shared mischief, in whispered jokes behind teachers’ backs, and in the reckless ughter that echoed through the halls despite the weight of reality pressing down on them.

  And then there was Yna—thrown into an unfamiliar life, trying to piece together a future from the fragments of her past. After everything that had happened, she had moved to Gwangju to live with her grandmother, trading the fast-paced cities she once knew for quiet streets and the weight of responsibility far beyond her years. Unlike Lyn, whose life was mapped out with expectations and privilege, and unlike Aky, who thrived in the rhythm of ordinary school life, Yna existed somewhere in between—bancing hardship and hope, struggling to find her pce. It was Aky’s mother who had extended a helping hand, seeing something in Yna beyond her circumstances. She had learned of Yna’s dedication to her studies, her sharp mind hidden beneath the exhaustion of making ends meet, and offered to help enroll her in school. That was how Yna ended up at the same school as Aky—not out of convenience, but out of kindness.

  Still, even with a fresh start, she often felt like an outsider. The students here had known each other for years, their friendships woven together by shared memories she wasn’t part of. No matter how friendly they were, there was always a quiet space between her and them, a distance she wasn’t sure she’d ever close.

  But Aky made it easier. He never treated her like she didn’t belong. He pulled her into conversations effortlessly, teased her like she had always been there, and in his own casual way, reminded her that maybe she wasn’t as alone as she thought.

  And for now, that was enough.

  Three children, three different worlds—each separated by invisible walls built by privilege, circumstance, and time.

  And yet, beyond those walls, fate had already begun to weave their stories together that summer.

  Daehan International Academy

  Daehan International Academy stood tall like a monument of prestige. The gates, adorned with intricate golden designs, towered over the students who walked past, their neatly pressed uniforms reflecting wealth and discipline. Beyond the gates, a grand courtyard stretched out, lined with carefully trimmed hedges and an eborate marble fountain in the center, where a sculpted swan rested atop a cascading stream of water. The air carried the faint notes of a perfectly tuned violin escaping from one of the grand music halls, a reminder of the academy’s commitment to excellence in both academics and the arts.

  Lyn Choi moved through the halls of this elite institution with an effortless grace, her posture always straight, her every step calcuted. She wore the signature navy-blue bzer with the school’s golden emblem embroidered on the chest, a pristine white shirt tucked into her pleated skirt, and a perfectly knotted silk ribbon around her colr. Her long, dark hair was always neatly combed, not a strand out of pce, a silent testament to her family’s expectations of perfection.

  The students of Daehan International Academy were not just children—they were future leaders, heirs of powerful conglomerates, politicians, and schors. Social interactions were not based on genuine friendship but on unspoken hierarchies. Conversations revolved around whose family owned the biggest corporation, whose parents held the most influence, and which student would secure a pce in an Ivy League university.

  Lyn had no friends—not real ones, at least. She was admired for her talents; her ability to py the piano and violin was unmatched, and she moved like poetry in motion when she danced ballet. But admiration was not the same as friendship. The few students who spoke to her only did so because their parents had advised them to maintain a good retionship with the Choi family. Beyond shallow pleasantries and forced conversations, Lyn spent most of her time alone, practicing in the music room, her fingers gliding over piano keys or strings of a violin, letting the music fill the emptiness of her world. Despite her loneliness, she never let it show. She was a Choi, and weakness was not an option.

  It was no surprise when her name was called out during the morning assembly.

  “Lyn Choi,” the principal's voice echoed through the grand hall, “has once again ranked first in the midterm examinations. Congratutions.”

  A polite appuse followed, but the murmurs among students were far more telling.

  “Of course, she aced it again.”“Does she even have to try? She probably has private tutors.”“It doesn’t matter. Even if she weren’t smart, her family would still buy her way to the top.”

  Lyn ignored them. She always did.

  The truth was, school bored her. It was simply another obligation, another way to maintain the Choi family's reputation. She studied because she had to. She complied because it was expected. If she had a choice, she would rather spend her time in the music room, where the weight of expectations momentarily lifted with every note she pyed. Her piano csses were the only part of school she somewhat looked forward to. The grand piano in the practice room was her only real companion. While other students struggled with sheet music, Lyn pyed effortlessly, her fingers gliding over the keys as if they had a will of their own. Even her instructor rarely had anything to correct.

  “You make it look so easy,” he once commented. “It’s almost unfair to the other students.”

  Ballet was no different. While her cssmates stumbled through complicated sequences, Lyn moved with an elegance that made her the star of every performance. She never sought praise, yet it followed her everywhere.

  And yet, despite the admiration, Lyn was alone.

  Even in the school café, where students clustered around tables, chatting and ughing over expensive ttes, no one ever invited her to sit with them. She would walk in, collect her juice—a habit more for routine than necessity—and scan the room out of instinct. The same thing happened every time. The moment her gaze nded on a table, someone would shift uncomfortably, someone else would suddenly become engrossed in their phone.

  So, she stopped trying.

  She would take her orange juice and sit by the window, alone, watching the world move on without her. The canteen was no different. Even though she was given the best meal options, the newest seasonal dishes prepared by the school’s renowned chefs, no one dared to sit beside her. The empty seat at her table remained untouched, as if an invisible barrier kept the others at a distance.

  She knew the reason. It wasn’t just that she was Lyn Choi, daughter of an elite family—it was that she never made an effort to belong.

  But why should she? She had spent years realizing that friendships, especially in her world, were often temporary, convenient, or superficial. She had grown tired of the whispers behind her back, the fake smiles, the pretenses of friendship that shattered the moment she was no longer useful.

  So, she ate in silence, sipping her miso soup as conversations buzzed around her, none of them including her. Maybe she should’ve been used to it by now. But some days, the loneliness weighed heavier than others. At the end of the day, as she walked past the same fountain in the courtyard, she gnced at her reflection in the water. Perfect, pristine, untouchable.

  Yet, beneath it all, a quiet longing remained—for something more than a life dictated by expectations. For something real.

  Haneul Public School

  On the other side of the city, where the roads were uneven, and the buildings bore signs of aging, Haneul Public School stood resilient. It was nothing grand—cracked walls, faded paint, and an aging structure that had seen better days. The hallways carried the scent of old textbooks and the faint aroma of fried street food from the stalls just outside the school gates. The cssrooms were cramped, filled with students from all walks of life, some struggling to keep up with their studies, others working part-time jobs to help their families.

  Aky Park thrived in this chaotic yet lively environment. He had never cared for grades, not because he wasn’t smart, but because academics bored him. He preferred movement, strategy, and action. He was a natural athlete, excelling in every sport the school offered—soccer, basketball, and even track. His grades were abysmal, but when he spoke, his words carried weight. Despite what his report card said, he was logical, always finding the simplest and most effective solutions to problems, making him the one people often turned to in times of trouble.

  He wasn’t just known for his skills in sports but for his personality. He was friends with everyone—the troublemakers, the bookworms, the shy kids in the back of the css. There wasn’t a single student who didn’t know Aky Park. And wherever Aky was, Yna Yoon wasn’t far behind.

  Unlike Aky, Yna excelled in academics. She was quiet and reserved, always keeping to herself unless spoken to. She had an almost magnetic charm, a natural grace that made her noticeable despite her shyness. Many boys admired her from a distance, fascinated by the contrast between her intelligence and her quiet allure. While she was never one to seek attention, it found her anyway. Teachers respected her, cssmates admired her, and yet she only ever seemed comfortable when she was with Aky.

  In css, she sat by the window, always gazing outside, lost in thought, her notebook filled with neat handwriting and doodles of pces she wanted to visit. She loved books, preferring to immerse herself in stories rather than the everyday chaos of school life.

  Aky often joked about how she could charm people without even trying. “You don’t even talk that much, and yet half the boys in our css like you. How does that work?”

  Yna would only shake her head, smiling softly before returning to her notes.

  “Yna got the highest score again!” a student announced as the test results were posted.

  Aky grinned and cpped his hands loudly. “That’s my best friend! I knew you’d do it!”

  Meanwhile, during sports competitions, it was Yna’s turn to cheer. She stood by the sidelines, hands csped, watching Aky race across the soccer field, scoring the winning goal. “You were amazing, Aky!” she said afterward, offering him a small but proud smile.

  “I know,” he replied with a wink. “But it means more hearing it from you.”

  Despite the school’s poor resources, there was an undeniable warmth within its walls. Unlike Daehan International Academy, where retionships were built on power and status, friendships at Haneul Public School were raw and real. Students argued, ughed, and cried together, not because they had to, but because they chose to. And even though their school cked marble floors and grand courtyards, it had something else—genuine connections.

  Though Lyn, Aky, and Yna lived vastly different school lives, a single thread still bound them together.

  Lyn came from a world of polished hallways and whispered expectations, where perfection was not just encouraged but required. Every step she took was measured, every decision scrutinized under the weight of a family name that demanded excellence.

  Aky, on the other hand, lived with a sense of freedom that others envied. His world was loud, fast-moving, and ever-changing. He thrived in chaos, never tied down by rules that didn’t serve him, finding joy in pces others overlooked.

  Yna straddled the line between two worlds—belonging yet feeling dispced. Having never attended a real school due to poverty, she was still relearning what it meant to be part of a cssroom. Surrounded by cssmates who lived entirely different lives, every conversation felt like a reminder of the gap she could never quite bridge.

  And yet, outside their cssrooms, away from the pressures and expectations that dictated their separate lives, they had each other.

  It didn’t matter that Lyn’s world was built on unshakable discipline, that Aky’s was a whirlwind of unpredictability, or that Yna was still searching for where she truly fit in. When they were together, those differences faded. Their friendship wasn’t built on shared backgrounds but on the small moments—the reckless adventures, the te-night talks, the unspoken understanding that in a world constantly trying to mold them, they could just be.

  Twenty years ago, Lyn, Yna, and Aky were everything to each other—best friends who shared a world of their own. But time had changed them, and now, as fate reunited them, they were little more than strangers with a shared past. Yet, the past was not content to stay buried. As long-forgotten memories began to resurface, so did the truths they had unknowingly left behind. The bonds they once held so tightly would be tested, forcing them to confront not only the ghosts of their childhood but the people they had become.

  Even if they didn’t fully understand it yet, it was in these fragile moments—these fleeting echoes of their old friendship—that their truest selves emerged. And perhaps, just perhaps, that would be enough to hold them together when the past finally demanded to be heard.

  END OF CHAPTER 3