The months between his arrest and the final trial moved like winter, slow, gray, unforgiving. From the moment Seon-woo was taken to the police station, he shut the world out. He refused visitors. He refused phone calls. He refused to look at anyone who reminded him of his former life, including Ha-yoon.
The officers would call out, "You have someone here to see you."
He would stare at the wall and answer quietly, "I don't."
And the guard would walk away.
Word spread quickly around town, that he hadn't allowed his mother, Ha-yoon, or even Hae-min to meet him. Some people gossiped, others sympathized. But Ha-yoon? She simply waited. And waited.
Sometimes in front of the detention center, under harsh fluorescent lights, she stood with a small lunchbox, something warm he used to love and the guard would come out to tell her the same thing:
"He said he doesn't want visitors."
Her hands would tighten around the metal lid until her knuckles turned white.
"Oh… okay. Thank you."
She would bow, turn away, and walk home with steps that grew quieter every day.
Her parents worried. They placed bowls of soup in front of her door. They invited friends over to cheer her up. They suggested traveling, cooking, even temple visits. Nothing worked.
She barely left her room. She barely slept.
Every night, she replayed that moment, the last moment he looked at her before everything fell apart.
_________________
The Day of the Final Trial
Rain fell softly that morning, the kind of rain that makes the sky look bruised. People filled the courtroom, neighbors, teachers, curious strangers who came because tragedy always pulls a crowd.
Seon-woo entered in handcuffs, escorted by officers. He looked thinner, his hair unevenly cut, his gaze hollow. When he glanced around the room, his eyes brushed past everyone, until they found her.
Ha-yoon froze.
He didn't smile. He didn't frown. But his eyes trembled, as if seeing her cracked something open inside him.
The judge took his seat. Papers rustled. The air tightened.
"This is the final trial for the case of parricide by excessive force," the judge announced. His voice held no malice, only the heavy neutrality of someone who has seen too many lives break in the same wooden room.
The prosecutor spoke first, detailing the night, the fight between Seon-woo's parents, the push, the fall, the accidental death.
"The defendant acted with excessive force," the prosecutor concluded. "Even if his intentions were to protect his mother, the result is clear."
His lawyer followed, exhausted from months of trying to defend a boy who refused to defend himself.
"Your Honor," she said softly, "the defendant was a minor at the time. He acted in fear. He acted to protect his mother. There was no premeditation. This was not murder, it was a tragic accident."
The judge listened patiently.
When it was Seon-woo's turn to speak, he simply shook his head.
"I have nothing to say."
The judge let out a long breath. Everyone could feel the verdict forming in the silence.
"Lee Seon-woo," he began, "the court finds you guilty of excessive force leading to parricide. You are sentenced to six years in juvenile detention and rehabilitative custody. This sentence reflects both the seriousness of the act and the circumstances surrounding it."
His gavel struck.
The sound echoed through Ha-yoon's ribs like thunder.
She broke.
Not quietly. Not politely. Not with the soft tears of someone used to holding everything in.
Her scream tore out of her chest, raw, helpless, the kind of sound that shakes even strangers.
"No… no, no, please...Seon-woo… Seon-woo!"
People turned. The officers stiffened. Her knees buckled, and Hae-min rushed to her, grabbing her shoulders, holding her up.
Her whole body trembled against him.
"Ha-yoon, hey.....hey, breathe. Please breathe," Hae-min whispered, voice cracking. "It's going to be okay. He's going to be okay."
But she shook her head violently.
"No, he won't. You saw him, he's alone. He won't talk to me. He won't talk to anyone."
She pressed her forehead to Hae-min's chest and sobbed as if years were spilling out at once.
When the officers pulled Seon-woo toward the exit, she looked up.
And for the first time since his arrest, he looked back.
A moment stretched between them, thin, fragile, aching.
He didn't smile. He didn't cry. But his eyes softened, almost apologetic.
As if saying:
I didn't mean to disappear. I just didn't know how to stay.
Then he lowered his head, stepped into the police van, and the door shut.
The Weeks After
At home, Ha-yoon became a quiet shadow. She barely ate. She barely spoke. The world outside her room continued turning, neighborhood kids playing, street vendors yelling, buses grinding along the road, but she felt distant from all of it.
She kept replaying the verdict, the look he gave her, the way the officers pushed him into the van. She replayed the night of the accident too, every rumour, every whispered conversation in the neighborhood.
Her parents tried everything.
"Ha-yoon, come eat."
"Let's take a walk."
"You don't have to be alone."
But she felt like she was sitting at the bottom of a well, and their voices were echoes from far away.
Hae-min's Visit
One afternoon, Hae-min came by. He spoke to her parents in low tones by the doorway.
"She hardly eats," her mother said, wiping her eyes. "She hardly even sleeps."
Hae-min nodded, three times, slowly. The muscles in his jaw tightened, he had always been the one who tried to stay strong, but it was getting harder.
"I'll talk to her," he said.
Her parents stepped aside.
He walked to her room, but he didn't knock. Instead, he sat down on the floor outside her door, legs stretched, back resting against the wall. He stayed there a moment before speaking.
"Ha-yoon."
No answer.
He let out a soft exhale.
"You know, I visited him too. He refused to see me."
Silence.
"I don't think it's because he hates you. Or us. I think he's scared that if he sees the people he cares about, he'll break."
Inside the room, something shifted, maybe the sound of fabric as she moved, maybe just a breath.
"You two…" Hae-min continued gently, "you've been connected since we were kids. Even if he tries to cut you out, it won't work. That's not how bonds work."
He rested his head back against the wall.
"I'm worried about you," he admitted. "Every day."
Still no response.
But then, a soft sound. A quiet sniff. Another.
"Ha-yoon," he said more softly, "open the door. Just for a minute. I'll sit here. I won't force you to talk."
For a long time, there was nothing.
Then.....
The door opened.
Not wide. Just enough for him to see her eyes red, puffy, lost.
He didn't enter.
He didn't hug her.
He simply stayed there, sitting on the floor, looking up at her like she was someone who deserved patience, not pressure.
Her voice was barely a whisper.
"Why won't he see me?"
Hae-min swallowed.
"Because he thinks he's protecting you from himself."
Her tears fell silently.
"I don't want protection," she cried softly. "I just want him to not feel alone."
Hae-min nodded.
"Then don't give up."
She shook her head. "It hurts."
"I know," he said, voice breaking. "But you're stronger than you think."
For the first time in weeks, she let herself cry openly, in front of someone. Not alone in the dark.
And Hae-min stayed there the whole time, listening to every tear fall, grounding her with nothing but presence.
Outside, the world kept moving.
Inside, something small and fragile was learning how to breathe again.