It started like a trickle.
Not a wave. Not a crash. Just the faintest flicker behind Ji-ho's eyes as he poured steamed milk into a paper cup. The hiss of the milk frother, the soft clang of ceramic mugs, the background shuffle of customers chatting and shoes squeaking on tile—it all drowned out the quiet murmur in his brain. For a fleeting second, he thought it was just fatigue. A restless night. The sharp ache behind his eyes. Maybe he was just cold. Maybe he'd over-caffeinated again.
But then the flicker became a flash.
A sharp burst of something—not pain, not sound, but memory. Or what might have been one.
His hand twitched. Milk spilled down the side.
"Jiho-ssi, Gwaenchanhaseyo? (Ji-ho, are you okay?)" his coworker asked gently, already reaching for napkins.
Ji-ho nodded too fast, too eager. "Yeah. Yeah, just... zoning out." He wiped the cup with a cloth, avoiding her gaze.
But the room was spinning.
The floor wasn't stable beneath him. The walls seemed too close. The air too sharp. His fingers gripped the counter, anchoring himself to something real. The espresso machine hissed again beside him, but he wasn't hearing it anymore. The world had been muted.
His mind was loud—filled with static, like a broken frequency. Pulsing. Screeching. Whispering.
A voice. Low. Familiar.
His voice?
No.
"Soomin-ah. Get in the car. Palli! (Quick!)."
He froze.
His stomach dropped. The name echoed inside him like a siren. He didn't recognise it. But it felt like it belonged to him.
Then came the light—sharp, clinical. Flashing in his skull. A door slamming shut. Loud footsteps. The shuffling of paper. Someone crying. Someone humming. A smell—like antiseptic and plastic.
He shook his head hard, as if he could knock the visions out. Like water from his ears.
"Bathroom," he muttered, brushing past his coworker without waiting for her reply.
The hallway to the backroom felt endless.
The migraine crashed into him like a wave of hot metal. Blinding. Sharp. Like claws tearing through the back of his skull. His breath caught. He stumbled into the bathroom, slammed the door behind him, and gripped the sink so hard it felt like he might break the porcelain.
His reflection stared back at him, flickering under the fluorescent light. Pale. Sweating. Wide-eyed. He didn't recognise the face. For a terrifying moment, he wasn't sure it was his.
And then—
For a second, it glitched.
The mirror blinked. Or maybe his brain did.
A child stared back. Dark-haired. Small. Confused.
And then it was gone.
He gasped and splashed water on his face. Again. Again. Again.
Not now. Not now. Not now.
He pressed both palms against the mirror, trying to ground himself. The cold seeped into his skin.
But his body was trembling. Not from cold. Not from fear.
From something deeper.
From the weight of something trying to surface.
He slid down to the tiled floor of the stall, curling in on himself, breath shallow. Knees to chest. Head against the wall. The hum of the building seemed far away.
Room. Voices. Papers. Wrists being grabbed. A car door slamming. A metal tray. White walls. Humming.
They flashed like a broken projector.
One after the other.
He dug his nails into his thighs. Hard. Just to remind himself he was still here.
Then he stood. Slowly. Mechanically.
He washed his hands. Twice. Didn't look up at the mirror this time.
When he emerged, the café had not changed. People still laughed. Spoons still clinked. The world had moved on.
His manager gave him a curious look. "Gwaenchanh-seumnikka, jeongmal? (You sure you're alright?)"
He nodded. Smiled. Said something like, "Yeah, just needed a breather."
But the tremor in his hand didn't stop.
And the worst part?
He wasn't scared anymore.
He was curious.
Curious why the name Soo-min made him feel like someone had carved a hole into his chest. Curious why the humming felt like home. Curious why a part of him wanted to keep digging.
Even if it hurt.
Even if it broke him.
Even if it meant nothing would ever be the same again.
The knock came at 9:42 AM.
Seo Yoon hadn't heard a knock on her door in weeks. Maybe months. Time had become strange—warped into a haze of sleepless nights and quiet, trembling mornings. She hadn't left her apartment since the bakery. Since Ji-ho. Since she'd screamed like a woman being pulled into the bottom of the sea.
Her job had called twice. Then emailed. Then sent a formal notice of special leave. Not a termination. Not yet. They said they understood. Said she had been one of their most consistent workers. Said she just needed time. But how could time help when her mind was not linear? When one minute she was brushing her teeth, and the next, she was eight years old and bleeding from the ears, though there was no blood?
She barely ate. Slept with the TV on because the silence made her nauseous. Cartoons. News reruns. Static. Anything. She couldn't bear to hear her thoughts.
So when the knock came, she flinched.
Not because it startled her.
But because a part of her had started believing the world had forgotten she existed.
She opened the door slowly, hand trembling on the knob.
And there, standing in the corridor of her apartment building, was a girl. Slightly taller. Sharper features. Dressed neatly but plainly—just enough makeup to say I'm here for a reason, not enough to threaten.
She was crying.
The moment their eyes met, the girl gasped, as if seeing a ghost.
"Eun-ji?"
Seo Yoon blinked.
The name hit her like ice water.
"Is it... is it really you?"
The girl stepped forward, cautiously, as if afraid Seo Yoon might vanish. Her voice cracked. "Saesange! I—I thought I was going crazy. I thought I was seeing things. But it's you."
Seo Yoon couldn't speak.
Her lips moved. No sound came out. The hallway spun.
"I've been looking for you," the girl whispered. "For so long."
Seo Yoon stepped back, just slightly, gripping the side of the door. Her fingers white-knuckled. "Nuguseyo...(Who are you)?"
The girl's tears came harder now. Real. Or convincing enough to feel real.
"I'm Min-ji."
Seo Yoon's throat closed. Her legs threatened to buckle.
"Your sister."
She should have slammed the door. Should have asked for ID. Called someone. Screamed. But she didn't. She couldn't. Her body was still, except for the shaking.
"I knew you weren't dead," the girl whispered, voice trembling. "I knew it. I knew they lied to us."
Seo Yoon shook her head slowly, trying to breathe. "No... this isn't..."
The girl stepped forward again, eyes wide, desperate. "Your birthday. It's June 7th. Blood type O. You hate milk but love chocolate-flavoured things. You had a teddy bear when you were little named Dalkong. You cried when he died and made me bury him in a shoebox under the apricot tree in Halmeoni's garden."
Seo Yoon's eyes filled with tears.
Her legs gave out.
She slid down the doorframe, gasping for breath like she'd been punched. Her hands clawed at her own chest, trying to calm the ache that bloomed too fast, too violently.
"I—I don't remember you," Seo Yoon sobbed. "I don't... I don't know if any of this is true."
"That's okay," the girl said gently, crouching down, wiping her tears. "It's not your fault. They made you forget. But I remember for both of us."
Seo Yoon whimpered, pressing her face to her knees. "How did you find me?"
The girl smiled through her tears. "A miracle. I kept looking. People said it was hopeless. They said I was insane. But I knew you were alive. I felt it. I—I prayed, every day. Wrote letters to you, even when I didn't know where to send them."
Seo Yoon looked up, face crumpled. "I don't know who I am anymore."
"You're my sister," she said firmly. "I found you Eunji-yah, that's all that matters."
Seo Yoon stared at her, dazed. "Why now?"
"Because the world is cruel," the girl whispered. "And maybe... maybe I couldn't find you until you were ready to be found."
Something in Seo Yoon's chest cracked open.
Hope.
Not the soft, gentle kind.
The dangerous kind. The kind that hurts when it's ripped away.
She didn't know why she believed her.
But she did.
Because when you've spent your whole life feeling like a ghost, even a lie that says you're real sounds like salvation.
And that's how they get you.
She let herself be helped to her feet. Let the girl brush her hair back gently. Let her say "Let's go home."
And Seo Yoon didn't ask what that meant.
She just nodded.
Because being loved—being claimed—felt better than being nothing at all.
She looked just enough like her.
That was the worst part.
Not perfectly. Not obviously. Just enough to confuse memory into obedience. Just enough to make pain whisper, "Maybe."
Seo Yoon sat in the passenger seat of a car she didn't recognise, holding her breath like it might keep the world from breaking again. Her nails dug into her palm. She didn't remember leaving the flat. Didn't remember changing her clothes. Didn't remember agreeing to any of this. But there she was. With her. With the girl who called herself Min-ji.
The girl who knew.
Everything.
The little things. The in-between things. The kind of details you couldn't Google. The kind that were embedded into blood, into marrow, into childhood.
They stopped at a roadside café—quiet, tucked behind trees—and sat at a window booth. The fake Min-ji ordered for them both. Seo Yoon didn't say a word. Her throat was sore. Her hands were shaking.
"You always hated public places," the girl said gently, stirring her tea. "You used to grip my sleeve whenever we walked through a crowd."
Seo Yoon's eyes darted up. Her lips parted. No sound came out.
"I used to tease you for it," she continued, smiling faintly. "Until one day you cried so hard Halmeoni had to carry you home. I never teased you after that."
Seo Yoon clutched the edge of the table.
"How do you know that?" she whispered.
The girl didn't answer. Just smiled, sad and warm.
"I missed you," she said softly. "Every single day Eunji-yah."
Seo Yoon closed her eyes.
She didn't believe it.
But she needed to.
And that was worse.
"Do you..." Seo Yoon's voice was hoarse. "Do you remember our song?"
The girl tilted her head. "Which one?"
Seo Yoon looked down at her lap. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "The one we used to sing at night. Before bed."
There was a pause. Barely a beat.
Then the girl began to hum.
Perfectly.
The exact pitch. The exact breath. The exact rhythm of two little girls who once believed monsters couldn't reach them if they kept singing.
Seo Yoon's chest caved in.
She started crying.
Quietly. Hopelessly.
Because that song wasn't on TV. It wasn't on the internet. It wasn't recorded anywhere.
And somehow, she knew it was learned. Rehearsed. Memorised.
But it still felt real.
And that was the weapon.
Trauma didn't make her weaker. It made her desperate.
And desperation blurred the line between danger and safety.
They left the café. The sky had gone grey.
Seo Yoon didn't ask where they were going. She didn't ask who was driving. The woman in the front didn't say a word. She just drove. Like a chauffeur. Like a ghost. Like this had happened before.
The girl beside her held her hand in the backseat. Thumb stroking gently over her knuckles.
"You're safe now, we're going home" she whispered.
Seo Yoon didn't answer.
She just looked out the window.
And told herself this:
If it's not real, then at least I get to pretend.
If only for a little longer.
If only until the next time she screams.
If only until she forgets how to leave.
Because the truth wasn't as terrifying as the lie.
The lie was comforting.
The lie sang lullabies.
The lie said, You were never missing. You were always mine.
And Seo Yoon believed her.
Because no one else had.
They walked hand in hand.
The sun had begun to dip, casting the street in a soft, amber glow. The world around them was muted. Softer. Blurred at the edges like an old painting. Seo Yoon barely felt the pavement under her feet. Each step felt dreamlike—surreal in its slowness.
The girl—Min-ji, she called herself—held her hand tightly. Not too tight. Just firm enough to say: I'm here. I won't let go.
Seo Yoon didn't ask where they were going.
She didn't ask why the streets looked unfamiliar. Why they'd passed the turn to where she thought her real childhood house had once stood. She didn't ask why they kept walking.
She didn't even notice the black van parked just ahead.
Her mind was too full.
Too quiet.
Too desperate.
Too trusting.
In her head, a single thought repeated itself like a mantra: If this is a lie, let me believe it anyway if not I'll run.
They arrived at a house. Not large. Not grand. Just... quiet. Too quiet. The windows were drawn. The door opened before they even knocked.
Inside, the Couple waited.
A woman with hair tied too tightly. A man with soft hands and the kind of calm that felt wrong.
They ushered her in like they'd been expecting her all along.
She sat at the dining table. Min-ji disappeared down the hall without a word.
The Couple smiled. Polite. Controlled. Too composed.
That was the first shift.
Seo Yoon looked around the space. No photographs. No welcome signs. No trace of her.
And then the thoughts came.
They've sat together at the dining table.
They don't even look like me in the slightest. Shouldn't there be some small resemblance?
Did I just hear another child?
They're not emotional. If they're my parents... wouldn't they be emotional right now? Shouldn't they be crying? Running toward me? Screaming my name like they've waited their whole lives to say it again?
Even if my memories are coming back slowly shouldn't I at least remember Halmeoni?
Her breath caught.
Wait... that girl. She said I don't like milk. But I drink coffee. I've always drunk coffee. I don't even hate milk.
And even if she was my sister... if your sibling's gone missing and doesn't remember anything, isn't it common sense to speak carefully? Formally? Slowly? But she kept calling me 'Eun-ji-yah'....
Wait.
Why are we here? In this place? My home should've been around the corner. If they were so distraught, if they'd been waiting all this time... why would they move so far away?
If that girl really was Min-ji... why did she leave me alone with these two strangers the second we stepped inside?
Her chest tightened.
And I never had a teddy bear at home. My Min-ji always played with me. We didn't have many dolls or toys. The only teddy bear I ever had...
Dalkong.
It wasn't at home.
It was Willow.
The only place she'd ever seen Dalkong was in that other life.
Not this one.
Her breathing slowed.
Her eyes flicked to the Couple.
They were smiling.
Still.
Too still.
But she didn't scream.
Not this time.
She returned. She's back. They said softly.
Seoyoon-ah, jal jina-sseoyo?