The hall pulsed with noise.
Light, camera flashes, fans calling his name, all of it bled together into one overwhelming blur.
Kang Joon-ha sat behind the long signing table, pen poised above glossy album covers. Every face in the crowd was bright, smiling, full of love he could no longer absorb.
He forced a smile, the kind he'd perfected long ago.
"Thank you for coming," he said to a girl trembling in front of him.
She clutched her album like it was something sacred. "You saved me," she said, voice breaking. "Your music kept me alive."
For the first time that day, his eyes softened.
"Then it was worth it," he said quietly, signing her copy.
The words tasted bittersweet.
He wondered if his music would keep him alive, even for just one more year.
But as the event dragged on, the edges of the room began to shimmer.
The lights blurred.
His hand trembled, first slightly, then violently enough that he dropped his pen.
He leaned forward, trying to steady his breath. The smile never fully left his face. Years of public life had trained him to wear it like armor.
A staff member leaned close. "Are you okay, sir?"
He nodded once, jaw tightening. "Bathroom," he muttered, standing quickly.
The hallway behind the stage was quieter, dimly lit, lined with posters of his younger self. He leaned against the wall, fingers pressing hard into the cold surface as his vision swayed.
A sound escaped him, not a groan, not quite a cry, more like a man remembering what it means to fall.
His manager, Min Joon, found him moments later.
"Hyung—"
"I'm fine," Joon-ha cut in, voice raw.
But Min Joon could see the truth, the pale lips, the trembling hands, the sweat at his temples.
Without another word, he helped him into a chair, his silence full of the things neither of them could say.
Hours later, the sterile smell of the hospital filled his lungs again.
Dr. Park, the same physician who'd been quietly monitoring his condition, flipped through his charts.
The silence between them stretched thin.
"You've been pushing yourself again," the doctor finally said. His voice was calm, but the words carried weight. "This… isn't helping."
Joon-ha stared at the floor.
"I can't stop now," he said simply. "Not yet."
Dr. Park sighed. "You need rest, proper treatment, and less stress. If this continues…" He stopped himself. "Let's just say we're past the stage of warnings."
Joon-ha's jaw clenched. "How long?"
The doctor hesitated. "That depends on—"
"Just give me time," Joon-ha interrupted, eyes darkening. "That's all I need."
They exchanged a long, heavy look, two men bound by a truth that could destroy more than either dared to admit.
As he left the room, he caught his reflection in the glass door, a pale stranger staring back.
His chest ached with something deeper than pain.
He whispered to the reflection,
"I promised I'd live for her… now I just need to remember how."
______________
The cemetery was still when Areum arrived.
Mist hung low over the grass, curling like quiet breath.
She knelt before her brother's grave, wiping the marble clean with slow, deliberate care.
"Oppa," she murmured, her voice almost lost in the wind. "You weren't the type to give up. So why did you?"
Her hands tightened on the damp cloth. "Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you stay?"
She waited for tears, but none came. They never did anymore.
From her coat pocket, she pulled out a small bouquet of sunflowers, his favorite and placed them gently beside the stone.
That's when she saw it.
A folded note, tucked discreetly behind the grave marker.
Her name wasn't on it, but she felt, somehow, that it was meant for her.
She unfolded it carefully. The words were printed, not handwritten:
'Some things are not what they seem. Don't stop looking.'
Her pulse quickened. She looked around, the cemetery was empty, only the sound of distant bells echoing in the air.
"Who…?" she whispered, clutching the paper tightly.
A breeze rose, sharp and sudden, lifting her hair as if even the air carried secrets.
___________
Later that evening, she arrived at the studio for another session.
Joon-ha was already there, calm, poised, pretending to be fine.
His smile was softer tonight, but something in his posture gave him away: the subtle stiffness, the small tremor in his hand when he adjusted his mic.
She noticed. Of course she did.
When the shoot ended, rain began to patter softly outside, as if Seoul itself refused to stop mourning.
He held the umbrella above her as they stepped outside.
"You'll catch a cold," he said, voice low.
She looked up at him, his face half-lit by the streetlights, half-hidden by shadow.
"You look pale," she murmured. "Are you okay?"
He smiled faintly, almost tenderly. "Just tired. Always tired."
They stood there for a heartbeat too long, rain whispering around them, silence speaking all the things they couldn't.
When they finally parted, she walked home under the umbrella he'd given her.
The note in her pocket felt like a heartbeat against her leg, steady, insistent, alive.
Meanwhile, back in his apartment, Joon-ha sat at his desk.
The glow of his laptop illuminated his face, pale, determined, trembling.
From: Dr. R. Aoki, Tokyo University Medical Center
Subject: Experimental Program
"We'll review your records in confidence. There may be an experimental option. Results uncertain. Travel arrangements can be discreet."
He exhaled shakily. His chest felt tight again, a dull ache spreading through him.
He whispered into the quiet room,
"Just one year. That's all I need."
Outside, thunder rumbled over the city, low, distant, like the echo of something ending.
_____________
In different corners of the same city, two hearts prayed for time,
one to uncover the past,
the other to escape it.
Neither knew that both prayers would collide.
___________
Epilogue
Areum's POV
The winter air bit at her cheeks as she stood outside the art gallery.
People moved around her, laughter, chatter, the murmur of Seoul's nightlife but she heard none of it.
The gallery window glowed softly with warm light.
Inside, a large canvas hung at the center, The Dawn I Lost (Rebirth).
Her signature. Her art.
And next to it, framed lyrics handwritten in ink, smudged in places as if by trembling hands:
'Even if the sky forgets the dawn,
I'll remember for it.'
Her breath caught.
She looked down at the small envelope in her hand, sealed with his initials. She hadn't opened it, not yet. She wasn't sure she could.
A reporter passed by, whispering to another,
"Can you believe it's been a year since the incident? They never found—"
The rest of the sentence faded beneath the hum of traffic.
Areum turned away from the window, clutching the envelope tighter.
Snow began to fall, soft, slow, endless.
She whispered,
"You promised one year. So where are you now?"
The snow landed on her lashes, melting like tears that finally remembered how to fall.
And somewhere, perhaps in another city, perhaps nowhere at all,
a piano played a familiar melody, fading into the cold.
To be continued…