Time didn't heal her in a straight line. It never does. It was messy and slow, like learning to walk again after falling from a height you never expected. But little by little, tiny breaths, tiny steps, Ha-yoon began opening her world again.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just… slowly.
At first, she only came out of her room to drink water. Then to sit in the living room while her mother cooked, though she didn't talk. Weeks later, she started stepping outside again, taking quiet walks around the block with her headphones on. She said nothing the first few times. But walking became a kind of breathing, something she did without thinking, something that helped her remember that the world still existed beyond the courthouse doors.
Her second year of college began before she realized it. One morning, she came down to the kitchen wearing her backpack, hair tied simply, eyes still tired but determined. Her parents froze, then smiled, small but relieved.
"I'll go," she said quietly.
"I'm ready."
And she meant it. Or at least she wanted it to be true.
Campus felt different. People stared sometimes, whispers trailing behind her like shadows. Everyone had heard what happened. Everyone remembered the news reports. But Ha-yoon kept her gaze steady and walked, step by careful step, as if pushing through invisible wind.
The one person who stood beside her without hesitation was Hae-min.
He never treated her like she was fragile, but he also never pretended nothing had happened. He gave her space when she needed it. He showed up when silence felt heavy. Their friendship deepened in a way neither of them expected. It wasn't sudden, it wasn't romantic, it was simply two people learning how to be human again, side by side.
Some afternoons, they sat by the han river with canned drinks, watching the water move slowly, the same way their lives were learning to move.
"You don't have to be okay all the time," Hae-min told her once, tossing a pebble into the water.
"I'm not," she replied.
He smiled softly. "Good. That means you're still here."
And somehow, that helped.
Across the city, another Kind of storm
While Ha-yoon was trying to rebuild her life, the other side of the city was falling apart.
Yeonhwa Street, the small district where Seon-woo grew up, was being swallowed by a redevelopment project. Government notices were plastered on walls. Meetings were held. Promises were made, then taken back, then made again in new words that meant the same thing: Move. Leave. Start over someplace else.
Families who had lived there for generations were suddenly being told their homes would be demolished. Shops that were once noisy with kids running in and out now had "eviction" stickers on their windows. The air was thick with fear disguised as frustration, and frustration disguised as resilience.
In the middle of all that chaos lived Seon-woo's mother and his little sister, fourteen now, though she still slept with the small stuffed rabbit he bought her on her seventh birthday.
Every night, the two of them sat at the kitchen table with a small calendar between them. The days were marked in red.
"Only...."
She counted carefully, lips moving.
"Only one thousand and hundreds left," the little girl said with a grin too hopeful for her age.
Her mother nodded, but her smile trembled.
"Mm. He'll be back soon."
She said it as if the words themselves were a lifeline she had to hold on to tightly, or else the world would slip through her fingers. She worked two jobs, sometimes three, doing anything to keep food on the table and save money for when Seon-woo would be released. But exhaustion clung to her shoulders like a permanent coat.
Still, every night ended the same way: they counted days, they whispered prayers, they imagined his return.
"Do you think he's eating enough?"
"Yes."
"Do you think he misses us?"
"…Of course."
"Do you think he'll still like the same cartoons?"
Her mother paused, then laughed softly.
"People change," she said. "But not always the important parts."
And the little girl nodded as if she understood, though she didn't, not yet.
________________
Back at school, life pressed on. Assignments, deadlines, group projects, midterms, they didn't stop just because her heart was still healing. To keep herself afloat financially and emotionally, she threw herself into part-time work.
Morning shifts at a café.
Evening shifts at a library.
Weekend shifts in a bakery.
Her schedule looked like puzzle pieces forced to fit together. Some days, she barely had time to eat between work and classes. Some nights, she came home past midnight, hands smelling of bread and sanitizer, body aching, eyes burning.
But she refused to complain.
Work gave her something to hold onto, something she could control, something that made her feel like she was building a future of her own, however shaky it was.
There were days she wanted to collapse, days she felt herself drowning in stress and guilt. Guilt for Seon-woo. Guilt for his father's death. Guilt for moving forward. Guilt for breathing when he was locked away.
But each time she faltered, Hae-min quietly stepped in.
Dropping off vitamin drinks. Carrying her backpack when her shoulder hurt. Walking her home when she worked late. Leaving silly notes in her notebook:
Eat real food today.
Don't forget you're human.
Your handwriting is improving (barely).
His presence didn't fix her life, but it made it less lonely.
__________________
While Ha-yoon studied and worked and tried to rebuild herself, Hae-min had his own dream inching closer.
Ever since they were teenagers, he'd talked about joining the K League. He would practice late at night after cram school, juggling the ball under streetlamps, sweat dripping down his temples. He trained even on the days Ha-yoon was too sad to join him. He trained on the days Seon-woo disappeared into himself. He trained because football was the one thing that made sense to him.
Finally, during second year, the news came:
He was accepted.
First as a trainee, then officially into a team.
He cried. His coach cried. Even his father, who rarely expressed emotion, clapped him on the back with shaky hands.
When Hae-min told Ha-yoon, she blinked twice, surprised, then genuinely smiled, the brightest she had in a long time.
"You did it," she said softly.
He shrugged, trying to hide how emotional he felt. "Took me long enough."
"I'm proud of you."
He froze at her words, swallowing.
"Thank you," he whispered. And he meant it.
For the first time in a long while, the future didn't feel like a threat. It felt like something that might, just might, hold new beginnings.
Despite everything,
The rebuilding.
The part-time jobs.
The friendships strengthening and shifting.
The new dreams beginning.
A single thread tied all of them together,
Seon-woo.
His absence hung in every quiet moment. His memory lived in the spaces between conversations. His name never left their hearts, even if the world avoided saying it aloud.
But days were still being crossed off a calendar somewhere.
And time slow, curved, unpredictable, was carrying all of them toward the moment when he would return.
And when he did, none of their lives would be the same.