The sea whispered against the shore, soft and steady, like it had been waiting for them. The beach villa stood behind them, quiet and sun-warmed, its windows catching the light like memories waiting to be made.
Areum ran barefoot across the sand, laughter spilling from her lips as Joon-ha chased her, breathless and smiling. The wind tangled her hair, the hem of her dress fluttering like a ribbon behind her.
"Come back here!" he called, voice light, eyes brighter than they had been in weeks.
"No!" she shouted, turning just in time to dodge him. Her feet kicked up a shimmer of sand, sunlight scattering like broken glass.
He caught her just before she reached the water, his arms wrapping around her from behind. She shrieked, then laughed, her head falling back against his shoulder.
"You're ridiculous," she said, breathless.
"You're twenty-four," he murmured against her ear. "I'm allowed."
She turned in his arms, eyes wide and shining. "You remembered."
"I didn't just remember," he said, pulling a small velvet pouch from his pocket. "I prepared."
Inside the villa, sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains, painting the room in soft gold. On the table stood twenty-four neatly wrapped boxes, each labeled with a number and a small handwritten note.
"Twenty-four gifts," he said. "One for every year. One for every time I couldn't be there."
She stared, stunned. "Joon-ha…"
He smiled soft, a little tired, like a candle trying not to flicker. "Open them slowly. They're not just things. They're pieces of me."
Areum didn't cry. Not yet. But her fingers trembled as she reached for the first box. Inside was a sketch, a sunflower drawn in delicate pencil strokes.
"The first thing I ever drew for you," he said quietly. "I kept it. It reminded me that even the smallest things can face the sun."
Her lip quivered. "You remembered this?"
"I remember everything about you," he whispered. "That's the problem."
By the window, the sea gleamed like a living thing. He stood behind her, watching her open each box, a pressed flower from their first trip, a page from his sketchbook, a seashell painted in gold leaf, a tiny music box that played the tune she once hummed absentmindedly in his car.
"You remembered that song?" she asked, voice trembling.
He smiled faintly. "How could I forget? That was the first time I realized silence could sound like comfort."
Sometimes, when she laughed, he forgot that he was dying.
Maybe that was the cruelest part, how easily hope disguised itself as her voice.
_________________
At the Kang mansion, the world moved differently.
The air smelled of polished marble, not salt. Every word was measured. Every smile rehearsed.
Kim Ara stepped into her new room, suitcase in hand, expression unreadable. Her arrival had been announced with formality, her engagement to Joon-ha presented as tradition, duty, survival.
She unpacked slowly, placing a framed photo of her family on the desk, a stack of legal books beside it. The staff greeted her politely, eyes lowered, tone careful. But she could feel it, the tension beneath their civility, the way they watched her like she was part of an arrangement they didn't dare name.
The mansion felt less like a home and more like a beautifully decorated cage.
By morning, the internet burned with speculation.
Photos of Areum and Joon-ha, running on the beach, laughing, holding each other had been taken by a passing tourist. Within hours, they flooded social media.
#JoonHaMysteryGirl
#BeachVillaRomance
#WhoIsShe
Her face was blurred in some, clear in others. Her name wasn't confirmed, but people guessed, dissected, hunted. The online world turned their private peace into spectacle.
Joon-ha's manager scrolled through the headlines, jaw tight. "We need to control this. Now."
Joon-ha didn't respond. He was watching Areum sleep, her head resting on the arm of the couch, one of the gift boxes unopened in her lap.
"She's not a scandal," he said finally. "She's the only real thing I have left."
The manager didn't argue. He just made the calls.
______________
In a quiet café, Detective Choi met with a woman whose face was hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat and oversized sunglasses. The rain outside tapped gently on the windowpane, as if listening.
She stirred her coffee, slow and deliberate.
"Did you find anything?" Choi asked.
She shook her head. "Not yet. The files were scrubbed clean. Even the backups are gone."
He leaned back, frustration clouding his voice. "Someone's covering their tracks too well."
"They always do," she said. "But they missed something. I just don't know what yet."
Choi studied her. "You used to work for them, didn't you?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she slid a flash drive across the table. "Encrypted. You'll need someone with access to crack it."
He pocketed it. "I have someone."
She stood, adjusting her coat. "Then hurry. Because if they find out what you're really looking for…"
She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to.
Back at the villa, Areum sat on the porch wrapped in a blanket, watching the waves dissolve into the horizon. The air was cool, the scent of salt and driftwood clinging to everything.
Joon-ha joined her, handing her a cup of tea. The steam curled like ghosts between them.
"Did you like the gifts?" he asked softly.
She nodded. "They were perfect. Especially the one with the sunflower sketch."
He smiled faintly. "That was the first thing I ever drew for you. I thought if I drew enough light, I might start believing in it."
"Why did you do all this?" she asked. Her voice trembled like a secret.
He hesitated.
"Because I don't know how many birthdays I'll be here for."
Her breath caught. "What do you mean?"
He looked away, out at the water. "Nothing. Just… I wanted this one to be special."
She reached for his hand. "It is."
They sat in silence, the kind that doesn't demand, doesn't explain. The kind that simply holds.
That night, he couldn't sleep.
He sat by the piano, candles flickering around him, the faint sound of the waves creeping in through the open window. His laptop screen glowed, medical reports, test results, prognosis summaries.
All said the same thing.
Inoperable. Unresponsive. Terminal.
He stared at the words until they blurred.
He picked up his phone, thumb hovering over her name.
He wanted to tell her everything about the illness, the fear, the nights he stayed awake counting the breaths left in him. He wanted to tell her that he'd loved her since the first time she smiled at him, that he'd watched her cry and wanted to hold every tear.
But he didn't.
He couldn't.
Instead, he typed:
' Are you awake?'
Her reply came seconds later:
' Always.'
He smiled through tears that didn't fall. Then whispered to the empty room:
"I love you, I'm sorry."
His voice cracked on the second word,
as if love and apology were made from the same ache.
The tide rose higher, carrying their laughter with it,
a sound the sea would keep long after they were gone.