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The humid air of the convenience store hung heavy, a thick, almost tangible blanket that carried the familiar scents of instant ramen, cheap coffee, and industrial cleaning supplies. I leaned against a metal shelf, the blue-green vest of my uniform clinging to my skin like a second, itchy layer. The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead seemed louder than usual, echoing against the linoleum floor.
"Sorry for calling you out so suddenly."
Mr. Park, the store owner, stood in front of me. His permanent frown lines were deep, carved into his face by years of worry and the bitterness of cheap coffee. He looked more worn than usual, his shoulders sagging as if carrying the weight of the worldāor at least, the weight of an understaffed convenience store.
"That kid Lee Bido isn't coming to work and you can't reach her either, right?" His voice was rough, the edges of frustration and exhaustion cutting through the quiet of the store. He searched my face, a desperate plea shining in his tired eyes. "Do you know anything?"
I shook my head, my jaw tightening. "No."
"HA~~ DAMN, SHE'S GIVING ME A HEADACHEā¦" He rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling a sound that was more frustration than air.
Then, almost abruptly, he clapped a rough hand onto my shoulder, a gesture awkward in its attempt at reassurance. "Still, Wonho, you saved me today. I'll get going, so please take over for me, okay~"
I simply nodded, my thoughts elsewhere, watching as he hurried out of the store. Gu Wonho. That was me. The dependable one. The one who always showed up, always covered shifts, always solved problems for everyone else.
Once the door clicked shut behind him, a quiet settled over the store. The only sounds were the low hum of the refrigerators and the faint ticking of the wall clock. I pulled my phone from my pocket, the screen reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights above. My thumb hovered over a familiar contact, hesitating for a fraction of a second before tapping to send a message.
Almost instantly, my phone vibrated sharply, the intensity sending a low, mechanical shudder through my palm: BUZZā
My eyes narrowed as the device rattled slightly, the vibration echoing like a pulse of unease in the otherwise quiet store.
Miles away, the same buzzing sound carried across a stretch of coarse, sandy beach.
ģ°ģ°ģ ā
A pink-cased phone lay half-buried in the sand, the vibrations causing small rings of grains to leap around it. The sun was beginning its slow descent, casting long shadows over the sand dunes, yet the ocean beyond shimmered under the pale, indifferent sky.
ģ°ģ°ģ ā
The screen lit up, displaying a callāthe name confirming the sender: GU WONHO.
The phone rang, and rang, and rang.
ģ°ģ°ģ ā
Finally, a message appeared on the screen, terse and demanding rather than gentle: GU WONHO [WHERE ARE YOU? I NEED TO TALK TO YOU.]
The notification vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. The call remained unanswered. The message unread. A small CLICK from the phone's internal mechanism was the only sound it made, swallowed almost immediately by the whisper of the ocean wind.
Beyond the dune, where the phone rested, the ocean stretched into infinity, pale and indifferent. At the very edge of the shoreline, two figures sat close together. Their silhouettes were dark against the silver sheen of the water, one arm draped casually around the other. They were oblivious to the sand-dusted phone, to the frantic calls, to the quiet panic of a shift left unattended.
They were in their own world. And Lee Bido was not coming back to work.
---mean whileĀ ā¦ Bidoā¦
On the way home, neither of us spoke. The February wind, having dried the surface of my clothes, now bit sharply through the damp fabric, and the cold seemed to seep into every bone. We had returned from the edge of danger, yet the silence between us was profoundādense, almost suffocating.
The air throbbed with unasked questions and unsaid answers. We weren't close enough to fill the empty spaces with meaningless chatter; to speak would have been to break the fragile equilibrium of the moment. So we walked in silence, shoulders brushing lightly, a small comfort against the cold that made every step feel like a challenge. The only sounds were the hollow echo of our footsteps and the low rush of blood in my ears.
Finally, he broke the silence, his voice low and cautious.
"How did you even know to come this far?"
My heart hammered suddenly, irregularly, against my ribs. His glasses caught the pale streetlights, reflecting a gaze I couldn't quite decipher. Words faltered on my tongue; the panic, the inexplicable pull that had driven me to search for him, refused to be tamed.
He shifted the question, his eyes still forward, unreadable. "Why did you go into the ocean?"
Why? A simple word, impossibly heavy. How could I distill the chaos of fear, the surge of adrenaline, the unspoken need to reach him into an answer that wouldn't betray my exhaustionāor my heart? I wanted to say anything, to explain, but the cold made my words brittle.
We reached the entrance to my apartment building, a plain brick structure, its familiarity offering no comfort tonight. The small clink of the key in the lock sounded deafening in the quiet street.
He glanced at me, the softest shift of expression passing over his face, almost imperceptible. "So I couldn't answer your call back then, Bido."
I nodded stiffly, my tongue already rehearsing the excuse. "...I set my phone to Do Not Disturb during lectures."
A small lie, flimsy and transparent, protecting me from the reality of the surge, the panic, the moment of fear and closeness we had just survived. We were home. Safe. And yet, despite the shared brush with danger, we remained strangers, haunted by the same edge of the sea and the silence that followed.
---
I was cold. Unbearably cold. The memory of the February wind gnawing through our soaked clothes lingered, sharp and intrusive, even after they'd dried during the long walk home. Each step on the uneven pavement had been a muted drumbeat of discomfort, but also of purpose. We walked up the street to my building, two figures enveloped in a heavy, suffocating silence.
On the way home, not a single word passed between us. We weren't close enough for the idle conversations that usually fill quiet spaces with ease. The world felt suspended, the air charged with an unfamiliar tension. We had returned from the edge of death, yet there was no exhilaration, no reliefāonly the quiet, awkward thrum of emotions we both refused to acknowledge. Perhaps it was too cold, and shivering kept us close; perhaps it was something more, something neither of us wanted to name.
He finally broke the silence. His voice was low, tentative, almost careful.
"How did you even know to come this far?"
I couldn't answer. How could I explain the crumpled piece of paper still in my pocketāa business card from S Universityāthat had served as a single, irrational beacon guiding my desperate steps? Because at that momentā¦ I had dialed the wrong number. I had called Gu Wonho, not the person on the card. I just stood there, speechless, caught between fear, relief, and the cold.
He pressed further, his gaze unwavering despite the uncertainty in his voice.
"Why did you go into the ocean?"
We stopped at the entrance of my apartment building, a plain, brick structure that felt simultaneously comforting and alien in the aftermath of the night's events. The only sound was the key sliding into the lock with a sharp, metallic clink (ģ² ģ»„), echoing through the quiet street.
He looked at me then, glasses catching the pale light of the streetlamp, obscuring the full intensity of his gaze.
"So I couldn't answer your call back then, Bido."
I finally found my voice, offering the small, rehearsed lie I had prepared for exactly this moment.
"ā¦I set my phone to Do Not Disturb during lectures," I murmured, eyes cast downward.
He nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly. Then, in a gesture that surprised me, his voice softened. Gentle, yet firm.
"ā¦It doesn'tā¦ really matter. We don't need to make excuses to each other. No need to feel obligated, or to feel resentment toward each other."
His words were a dismissal, a careful drawing of boundaries after a moment of shared intensity that neither of us fully understood.
I pushed the door open. The small creak of the latch (ė¼ģµ) punctuated the quiet.
"Come in," I murmured.
"Then, excuse me," he replied, stepping inside with careful, deliberate movements.
Inside the small entryway, the contrast between our shoes struck me. His formal leather pair were polished and orderly; my damp, casual sneakers rested haphazardly beside them. He removed his glasses and set them carefully atop a neatly wrapped package. Though we were finally indoors, the tension from the street seemed to have followed us, lingering in the corners of the compact apartment.
The kitchen came into view, familiar and unremarkable: a kettle on a small burner, a stack of mugs, and the faint scent of leftover coffee. A sense of solitude clung to the space. I waited for the next word, but silence claimed the room again.
I kicked off my damp sneakers, feeling the cold of the pavement finally replaced by the stale warmth of my apartment. He had followed me inside, and the silence that had shadowed us all the way home seemed to grow heavier, denser, pressing in from all sides.
We had walked side by side on the quiet residential street, returning from the edge of death. Our emotions were strange, unspoken, hidden beneath layers of shivering and distance. Meaningless conversation was impossible; the February wind still bit through our clothing in memory, unbearably cold, even now.
He asked again, his voice low, tinged with something I couldn't quite name.
"How did you even know to come this far?"
And then:
"Why did you go into the ocean?"
I offered the rehearsed lie about my phone. "ā¦I set my phone to Do Not Disturb during lectures."
The truth was far messier. At that moment, I had dialed the wrong number. I had been staring at a crumpled business card for a professor from S University, letting panic guide my fingers.
As I turned from the door, my heart still thumping from the fear I was struggling to suppress, he began to shrug off his wet jacket. The sight of his water-stained white shirt, the loosened black tie, and the soaked fabric clinging to his strong build made my breath hitch involuntarily.
I turned quickly toward my small, familiar room, pulling my own damp turtleneck over my head. The cold air rushed over my skin in sharp, shocking bursts. Behind me, I heard the soft rustle of his clothes, and a strange, prickling awareness ran across my back.
A gasp caught in my throat.
On the pale skin of my shoulder and upper arm, the angry, reddish-purple welts were unmistakable (ģė¦æā). They were the bruises left by his frantic, crushing grip when he had dragged me from the churning water.
The light in the room seemed to shift as his gaze fell on them. His hand moved instinctively toward me, tentative, cautious. The gentle contactāa light touch on my bruised armāwas almost unbearable.
His composure, his careful, measured distance, shattered.
He whispered my name, voice tight, raw.
"BIDO, Iā¦"
And in that moment, Mr. Shin's restraintāpolite, measured, calmāvanished. Those eyes that rarely met mine, the formal tone he always used when speaking to me, were gone. His sweat-damp hair clung to his forehead; his glasses fogged slightly. The raw, panicked terror etched across his face was unlike anything I had seen.
"LEE BIDO!"
He grabbed my arm again, more forceful this timeābut it was fear, not anger, that drove him. He pulled me toward him, trembling.
"WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOINGā¦!!!"
His terror was not of the ocean, not of the cold, but of me.
Absolutely! Here's a carefully expanded version of your passage, enhancing the internal emotions, physical sensations, and tension between Bido and Mr. Shin, up to the point you indicated:
On the way home, we didn't say a single word. The residential street stretched quietly before us, the dim streetlights casting long shadows that merged with the dampness of our soaked clothes. The February wind cut through every layer, searing cold against our skin. We had returned from the edge of death, and yet neither of us spoke of it. The strange surge of emotionsāfear, relief, panic, something unnameableāremained carefully hidden, suppressed behind shivering shoulders and hesitant steps. We weren't close enough for meaningless conversation. Noāit was just too cold to risk vulnerability, so we stayed silent, shivering side by side.
He broke the silence first, his voice low and serious, carrying a weight that pressed down on my chest.
"HOW DID YOU EVEN KNOW TO COME THIS FAR?"
The question cut through the cold, and before I could respond, he added, almost as if testing the limits of my courage,
"WHY DID YOU GO INTO THE OCEAN?"
By the time we reached the door of my building, the questions hung in the air, sharp as icicles. And then he spoke again, this time about the call I hadn't answered.
"SO I COULDN'T ANSWER YOUR CALL BACK THEN, BIDO."
I offered the rehearsed lie I had prepared, watching the key slide quietly into the lock with a metallic ģ² ģ»„.
"ā¦I SET MY PHONE TO DO NOT DISTURB DURING LECTURES," I murmured, eyes downcast.
The truth, however, was far more tangled. Because at that momentā¦ I had dialed the wrong number. My fingers had hovered over the screen, staring at the crumpled business card from S University in my hand, thinking of the woman sitting by the ocean.
He gave me a long, steady look, his expression grave, almost unreadable.
"ā¦IT DOESN'Tā¦ REALLY MATTER. WE DON'T NEED TO MAKE EXCUSES TO EACH OTHER. NO NEED TO FEEL OBLIGATED, OR TO FEEL RESENTMENT TOWARD EACH OTHER."
His words felt like a line drawn, firm and finalāa boundary after the raw, unspoken intimacy of the ocean.
"COME IN," I murmured, pushing the door open slightly.
"ā¦THEN, EXCUSE ME," he replied, stepping across the threshold.
Inside, our contrasting footwear made an odd juxtaposition: his wet leather shoes neat and formal, my damp sneakers sloppy and crooked. He removed his glasses and placed them beside a neatly wrapped package on the entry shelf. Beyond, the small, familiar kitchen appeared: a kettle on the burner, a single mug, a quiet scene of my solitary life.
I moved into the room, starting to peel off my soaked turtleneck. The cool air of the apartment brushed against my damp skin, sending shivers up my spine. Behind me, I heard the rustle of his jacket being removed. His white shirt clung to his chest, wet, and the black tie hung loose and dripping.
As I pulled my shirt over my head, my breath caught. On my shoulder and upper arm, the angry, reddish-purple welts stood out sharply against my pale skin (ģė¦æā). The bruises were proofāharsh, raw proofāof the frantic, crushing grip of the man who had dragged me from the water. The marks of his desperation, the violent tenderness of his hands pulling me out of death.
He saw them.
His usual careful gestures, the eyes that rarely met mine, the polite, measured speech he used when treating me like a childāall of that vanished. In its place was raw terror, etched across his sweat-damp face.
"BIDO, Iā¦" His voice was tight, trembling. His hand reached out, warm despite the cold, touching the bruises with hesitant gentleness.
And then it broke.
He shouted my name, voice thick with panic:
"LEE BIDO! WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOINGā¦!!!"
He grabbed my arm with a rough, panicked grip (ź¾¹ā), pulling me toward him. The gesture was frantic, unrefined, but it was fear, not anger, that drove him. At that moment, Mr. Shin was angry at meānot for what I had done, but because of the danger I had placed myself in.
I stared at him, tears welling, unsteady, as his terror washed over me. My sister's words echoed in my mind, soft but insistent:
"HE ONLY EVER TRIED TO PROTECT WHAT WAS PRECIOUS TO HIMā¦"
I looked down at the bruises, the remnants of his desperate attempt to save me, and the hot tears finally fell, wetting the glasses I now wore (ėė).
I wanted to believe the words:
"BECAUSE MR. SHIN IS ALWAYS A GOOD PERSON."
But the weight of pain and guilt pressed too hard. I thought, my voice catching in my throat:
"SO THE REASON I'M HURTING NOWā¦ IS BECAUSE I'M THE BAD PERSON TRYING TO TAKE AWAY SOMETHING PRECIOUS TO HIMā¦"
Well, sisā¦ I wasn't so sure. If he was truly a good person, I shouldn't have nearly died today.
"ā¦AND I SHOULDN'T HAVE LIVED EITHER," I thought, the raw terror in Mr. Shin's face confirming my darkest fear. He had shouted, grabbed me, the careful composure and polite tone completely gone. At that moment, MR. SHIN WAS ANGRY AT ME.
The bruises on my arm, physical proof of his desperate struggle to pull me out of death, made the tears flow harder.
My sister's words replayed in my mind:
"HE ONLY EVER TRIED TO PROTECT WHAT WAS PRECIOUS TO HIMā¦"
If that was true, then I realized, trembling:
"SO THE REASON I'M HURTING NOWā¦ IS BECAUSE I'M THE BAD PERSON TRYING TO TAKE AWAY SOMETHING PRECIOUS TO HIMā¦"
But a bitter core of resentment lingered:
"Well, sis, I'm not so sure. If he was really a good person, I shouldn't have died."
I finally pulled away from his fierce grip, fixing my gaze on his sweat-damp, panicked face. I had to knowā
The man at the ocean, who had saved me, was he a devil, an angel, or justā¦ a human?
I drew a shaky breath, the residual cold from my wet clothes making me shiver. Turning toward the closet door, I offered him the small comfort of privacy:
"THERE ARE SOME OF MY DAD'S CLOTHES IN THE DRAWER, SO TAKE ANYTHING AND CHANGE," I said, my voice hoarse.
He stood silently, red-rimmed eyes wide behind his glasses. The only adults who had come to my house before were debt collectors. He was the first who had come for me, and it had been to save me.
I lifted my gaze, desperation and inquiry mingling:
"WHY DID YOU COME ALL THE WAY HERE, SIR?"
The question wasn't just about the beach; it was about the boundaries he had crossed, the risks he had taken for someone like me.
Then, a sudden, almost cruel impulse took hold. I needed to see him lose control completely, to see the rigidity of his composure shatter. My voice dropped to a whisper, almost drowned by the heavy silence of the room:
"DID YOU KNOW TODAY IS MY BIRTHDAY?"
"DID YOU KNOW TODAY IS MY BIRTHDAY?"
The words barely rose above a whisper, but they cut through the suffocating silence of the room like a shard of glass. The question hung in the air, delicate yet cruel, fragile yet impossible to ignore.
Mr. Shin froze. The raw terror on his face hadn't left; it was still there, vivid and unguarded. Only moments ago, he had been transformed from the polite, careful adult who always treated me like a child into a panicked, shouting man, frantic over the bruises his own grip had left on me.
I had asked him why he had come all this way. The thought that the only adults who had ever come to this house were debt collectors made his presence unbearableāand miraculous. He had been a rescuer, a human being who had crossed a line, and yetā¦ I needed to know the truth. Could I trust it without shattering?
He exhaled slowly, struggling to regain the composure I had stripped away. His white shirt and trousersāmy father's clothesāhung loosely on his strong frame, a plain uniform that belied the chaos in his expression.
"If I have to define itā¦ I'm the one who owes you," he finally said, his voice low, controlled, but thick with the kind of pain that weighed heavier than anger.
"BECAUSE YOU CHEATED WITH MY SISTER AND DUMPED HER? AND SHE DIED OF IT?" I shot back, the bitterness coating every word, suffocating me in its own weight.
His hand clenched into a fist. He didn't look at me, but the subtle tension in his posture betrayed how much my words had cut. The invisible knot tying us togetherāthe connection, the debt, the horror of shared lossāwas undeniable.
He finally raised his eyes to meet mine, pale and strained.
"BIDAN alwaysā¦ talked to me about you."
"DON'T USE MY SISTER AS AN EXCUSE!!" I yelled, the sound tearing through the room, my fist slamming against the door frame. ģ¾ ! He flinched, yet held his ground, unmoving in the storm of my fury.
My desperation surged into raw, pure rage, fueled by grief and the lingering chill of the ocean.
"WE'RE NOTHING TO EACH OTHER. SO STOP CARING, OKAY?"
The fight left me gasping. I collapsed against the door, my body shaking, the air leaving my lungs in ragged bursts. I looked up at his silhouette, framed in the dim light, and let the words I had held inside spill fully:
"At the sea earlier, you should've just left me there to dieā¦ WHY DID YOU DRAG ME OUTā¦!! I DON'T HAVE THE STRENGTH TO KEEP LIVING ANYMOREā¦ NO FAMILY HERE, NO FRIENDS, NO SISTER WHO SAID WE'D MOVE TO SEOUL TOGETHERā¦ NONE OF THEM EXIST ANYMOREā¦!!!"
My voice cracked into a raw, ragged scream, the anguish spilling out unchecked.
"WHO ARE YOU TO SAVE ME JUST TO FORCE ME TO KEEP LIVING IN THIS HELL!! YOU DEVIL BASTARD!!!"
I had given him the worst of my pain, the most damning condemnation I could muster. The weight of my grief and anger hung in the room, suffocating and inescapable. I held my breath, bracing for his response.
I was still collapsed against the door, the echoes of my scream lingering in the corners of the quiet apartment. I had called him a devil, a bastard, demanded answers, and unloaded the full weight of my despair:
"I DON'T HAVE THE STRENGTH TO KEEP LIVING ANYMOREā¦ NO FAMILY HERE, NO FRIENDS, NO SISTER WHO SAID WE'D MOVE TO SEOUL TOGETHERā¦ NONE OF THEM EXIST ANYMOREā¦!!!"
He stood before me, steady and silent, dressed in my father's clothes. One hand rested on the door frame, the wedding band on his finger catching the dim light. He had absorbed the full force of my grief and rage without flinching.
Finally, he spoke. The words were quiet, heavier than any formality he had ever used, stripped of his usual careful politeness.
"ā¦I'M SORRY."
I stared at him, stunned. He had apologizedānot for what I had done, but for saving me.
He lowered his gaze for a moment, a deep regret etched into every line of his face.
"BUT DYING COMPLETELYā¦ IS WORSE THAN STAYING ALIVE SOMEHOW."
Then he met my eyes again, steady and intense.
"YOU MIGHT BECOME A REASON FOR SOMEONE ELSE TO LIVE."
My breath caught. His words carried layers of meaning: my sister, the debt he bore, the unbearable void she had left behind, and the fragile thread of hope he seemed to place in me.
He paused. The intensity softened, replaced by a strange, quiet smile.
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BIDO."
The words brought a flood of unexpected memories: my father laughing, arm around me, saying: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO OUR BIDOā!! DAD IS THE BEST >:
I could only stare at him, eyes wide. He reached for a paper bag I hadn't noticed earlier, resting beside his removed glasses.
"AND HERE, A GIFT." He handed me a small, wrapped box. "THE WRAPPING PAPER IS ALL WET, BUTā¦ I'M NOT SURE IF YOU'LL LIKE IT."
I touched it, the wet paper cool and slightly torn under my fingers.
"Perfumeā¦" I murmured, recognizing the shape of the box.
I looked back at him, my expression hardening. A surge of bitter defiance rose up, clashing with the sudden kindness he had offered.
"ā¦DO I LOOK LIKE SOMEONE WHO CAN CALMLY PUT ON PERFUME RIGHT NOW?"
The answer was no. The anger, the grief, the bruisesāthey were all too raw. I was standing on the wreckage of my life, soaked, freezing, and he was offering me a luxury I neither wanted nor deserved.
"ā¦!! I'Mā" I began, but the fight had finally drained me. My voice faltered.
I clutched the wet gift tightly, tears spent, left with nothing but the undeniable, overwhelming truth: I was still alive.
I clutched the wet package, the cold seeping through the torn wrapping paper. My fingers pressed into the smooth, damp box, the sensation grounding me, yet doing little to soothe the storm inside.
"ā¦DO I LOOK LIKE SOMEONE WHO CAN CALMLY PUT ON PERFUME RIGHT NOW?" I challenged him, my voice brittle, ragged, and hollow at the edges. The rage, grief, and exhaustion had drained me of any ability to finish my protest.
Mr. Shin didn't shout back. He didn't even speak. He simply watched me. His gaze, quiet and measured, had shifted from the raw panic of moments before to something heavierāweariness, like a man who had run across the edges of fear and guilt and found himself staring into the void. There were no platitudes, no comforting words, no apologies rehearsed or improvised.
Instead, he slowly turned his attention to the small kitchen area, moving as if the mundane could anchor us both.
"I'M GOING TO MAKE SOME RAMYUN," he announced flatly, almost mechanically. "I'M HUNGRY."
The abrupt shift was jarring. After the whirlwind of my breakdown, my accusations, my screams, it was almost absurdāa man, calm again, seeking refuge in the simplest form of survival. He's hungryā¦ The thought rolled through me, ridiculous and grounding at once, making my head spin with disbelief.
He pulled out the kettle, setting it carefully on the small burner. As he worked, I studied his profile in the dim light: his glasses back on, slightly fogged, hiding his eyes; the plain white shirt of my father hanging loosely on his frame. His movements were slow, deliberate, almost ritualistic. He was trying, perhaps unconsciously, to normalize the atmosphere, to fill the cavernous emotional void with the mundane, soothing scent of boiling water and instant noodles.
My gaze drifted downward, landing on the floor where my phone had slipped from my hand. Its screen was dark, silent, unblinking.
I should have been at the convenience store right now, covering for Lee Bido. The name flashed in my mind again, along with the vivid memory of her frantic figure on the sand, the ocean stretching endlessly behind her. GU WONHO [WHERE ARE YOU? I NEED TO TALK TO YOU.]
The thought of my shift, of Mr. Park's inevitable frustration and irritated scowl, brought a dull ache to my temples. My hand moved almost on its own, reaching for the phone.
The instant my fingers closed around it, a wave of profound weariness washed over me. I stared at the dark screen, at the missed call from my former co-worker, Gu Wonho.
And the truth pressed down on me, cold and inexorable. I am not Bido. I am Wonho.
The reality of the name felt like a heavy, cold shroud draping over my shoulders. I was the one whose call had gone unanswered on that windswept beach. I was the one who had seen herāBidoāthere, tracing the memory of her sister in the relentless, salt-scented waves.
I looked back at the man quietly making ramen in my kitchen. The same man whose hands had left bruises on me while saving my life, who had confessed the debt he owed to my sister Bidan, and yet, despite everything, here he was, wishing me a happy birthday. His presence was a paradox: a bridge between past guilt, present care, and an uncertain future.
And yetā¦ there was still one question left. One question I hadn't asked about the moment I had found her by the sea, about the moment before he had pulled us both from the current.
I opened my mouth to speak, the words catching in my throat, unfinished, trembling between fear and curiosity. The question hovered, unspoken, fragile as glass. About the card, about the beach, about the truth of what he had been doing that day.
šš šš ššššššššš....