The sky was the color of steel when Eun-woo stepped into the Kang estate.
He was greeted by silence, the kind that didn't feel empty, but watched. The kind that made you straighten your spine without knowing why.
President Kang waited in his study, the curtains drawn, the air thick with the scent of aged whiskey and polished wood. He didn't rise when Eun-woo entered. Just gestured to the chair across from him.
No words were exchanged. Not at first.
The conversation that followed was quiet, clipped, and to anyone listening, entirely unremarkable. But Eun-woo left the room with his jaw tight and his hands clenched in his coat pockets.
He didn't say what they discussed.
He never would.
_____________
Later that evening, President Kang stood before the fireplace, a glass in hand, the flames casting long shadows across the room.
"He refused," he said flatly, to no one in particular. "The marriage was arranged. The girl's family was powerful, discreet. It would've secured everything."
He took a slow sip, eyes narrowing.
"But he said no. Said he'd rather burn the whole house down than marry someone who wasn't her."
He turned, voice low, almost amused.
"Said Areum was the only one who ever looked at him without asking for anything. That she understood him without needing to understand everything. That when he was with her, the noise stopped."
He scoffed softly.
"Poetic. Foolish. Dangerous."
He tossed the rest of the drink into the fire.
Across the city, Areum's phone buzzed.
"Come home," her mother said, voice warm. "I made that soup you like. The one with the ginger and too much garlic."
Areum smiled, the kind of smile that softened the edges of a hard day.
When she arrived, the apartment smelled like childhood. Her mother wore an apron dusted with flour, her hair pinned back in a way that made her look younger.
They ate together at the small kitchen table, knees bumping under the wood, laughter spilling between bites.
"Are you sleeping enough?" her mother asked.
"Trying."
"Still taking those long walks at night?"
Areum nodded.
Her mother reached across the table, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"You look like him when you're quiet," she said gently. "Your brother."
Areum didn't reply. Just reached for another spoonful of soup.
Some silences were sacred.
__________
Elsewhere, in a cramped office filled with old case files and the hum of a flickering desk lamp, Detective Choi leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on the board in front of him.
Two photos. Two names.
Han Ji-woo. Kang Soo-min.
Both ruled suicides.
Both connected to the Kang family.
He tapped his pen against the desk, slow and rhythmic.
He'd been told to let it go. That there was nothing left to find.
But something didn't sit right.
Too many sealed files. Too many missing statements. Too many people who suddenly stopped talking.
He opened a drawer and pulled out a folder he wasn't supposed to have.
Inside: a blurry security photo. A timestamp. A name scribbled in the margin.
He circled it.
Then he picked up the phone.
"Yeah," he said. "I need everything you've got on the Kang family. Start with the son."
______________
That night, Joon-ha sat alone in his apartment, the lights off, the city glowing faintly through the windows.
He stared at his phone, thumb hovering over Areum's name.
He didn't call.
Instead, he opened his notebook and wrote a single line:
'She's the only place I don't feel like a ghost.'
Then he closed it, leaned back, and let the silence hold him.
Somewhere across the city, Areum stood on her balcony, the wind tugging at her sleeves.
She didn't know what was coming.
But she could feel it.
___________
Detective Choi stood outside the faded apartment complex, the evening wind tugging at his coat like a warning. The building looked forgotten, chipped paint, rusted mailboxes, a silence that felt rehearsed.
He checked the name again. The man who had witnessed Han Ji-woo's final moments. The one whose statement had been quietly buried.
Apartment 3B.
He knocked.
No answer.
The landlord, a tired woman with a cigarette tucked behind her ear, leaned against the stairwell railing.
"He moved out the day after the statement," she said, barely glancing up. "Didn't leave a forwarding address. Said he was going abroad."
Choi frowned. "Where?"
She shrugged. "Didn't say. Just packed up and vanished. Like someone paid him to forget."
He stared at the door, the peeling paint, the silence behind it.
Too clean. Too fast.
Someone had made sure the witness disappeared.
He scribbled a note in his pad, circled the date, and underlined it twice.
Then he walked away, the weight of the case pressing harder against his spine.
____________
That night, in the quiet hush of Joon-ha's penthouse, the city lights spilled across the marble floor like liquid gold.
Areum sat curled on the couch, a book open in her lap, though she hadn't turned a page in over an hour.
Joon-ha lay beside her, his head resting gently on her shoulder, breath slow, eyes closed.
She didn't move.
His weight was warm, grounding. His presence, fragile.
Outside, the wind whispered against the windows, but inside, everything was still.
She looked down at him, the way his lashes trembled, the way his fingers curled slightly as if holding onto something in sleep.
She reached for the blanket and draped it over them both.
He murmured something in his sleep, a name maybe, or a note from a song unfinished.
She didn't ask.
She just stayed.
Because sometimes, love wasn't about answers.
It was about being the place someone could rest.