There are nights when I dream like this. I walk through a park overflowing with blossoms, and behind me, a tall man follows at an even pace. The landscape steals my breath—intoxicated by the fragrance of flowers, I collapse into the grass and stare up at the cloudless sky. A butterfly drifts down and settles on the bridge of my nose, and the moment I lift my hand to touch it, it scatters like dust and vanishes. The clear sky turns grimy and dark, thunder tears across it, and rain falls so hard I'm terrified I'll be swallowed whole. I jerk upright.
"Did you have a bad dream?" my mother asks, her voice tender.
Even with the nightmare still clinging to me, I force a bright smile as though it's nothing.
"It was nothing," I say.
Curled into my mother's arms, I breathe her in, catching the warm scent of freshly cooked rice clinging faintly to her fingertips. Her heat makes my eyelids heavy—then I open them again, because there it is: the butterfly from the dream, the very same one.
I reach out, again and again, begging for just one more span of distance, and when it stays out of reach, I slip from my mother's embrace and run to where it hovers. My fingertips graze the edge of a wing—only a brush—before it darts away and disappears from sight.
A hollow sadness wells up in me, because what refuses to be caught no matter how desperately I try feels exactly like my hope itself. I turn back, meaning to call her—"Mom..."—and the world around me abruptly drains into darkness.
"Mom!" I scream, waking for real.
The room is dark, and the damp warmth of dawn still lingers in the air.
Breathing out white fog, I pick my way carefully down the steep lane of the hillside neighborhood. It has been two months since my father died—an alcoholic who drank himself into ruin and left behind nothing but debts. I didn't even know something like a legal inheritance disclaimer existed; that's how poor and uneducated I was, with nothing beyond the bare minimum the state mandated.
When I think of my mother, who vanished without a trace, and my father, who is gone, all that comes out of me are sighs and tears. For three months, I stayed shut inside, more isolated than someone living alone in the mountains, as if I could simply disappear into the walls of this narrow, crumbling room. In a house where dying alone wouldn't even be strange, once I ran out of strength to blame anyone at all, my stomach finally spoke—loudly.
Hungry, I step outside for the first time in two months.
I drift beyond the hillside neighborhood into the bustling market where people surge past each other. The world runs smoothly without me, as if nothing has changed. At a fruit stand, a small television catches my eye with the day's headline.
"This afternoon, His Majesty the King and His Royal Highness the Crown Prince attended the 'Kingdom Future Strategy Conference' held at the National Hall," the anchor says.
The broadcast cuts to black ceremonial vehicles lined up in formation, then to a storm of camera flashes—until the Crown Prince, Gowon, steps out of the car. A perfectly tailored navy suit, a steady expression, and a restrained smile as he lifts a hand in greeting: the polished face of Korea's royal house. The cameras follow his face in unison.
Captions race along the bottom—Crown Prince Attends Economic Innovation Meeting—and Netizens: "That Crown Prince aura is unreal."
The anchor continues, calm and precise: "Today's agenda is known to have been proposed directly by the Crown Prince. With the King and Crown Prince appearing together frequently at official events, analysts say succession lines within the royal family are now taking clearer shape."
The fruit seller clicks his tongue like he's talking about neighbors down the street. "That family—tall, good-looking, every last one of them."
For the first time in a long while, I hear news from the outside world. Currently, 21st-century South Korea operates as a constitutional monarchy. To maintain stability amid chaotic international situations, the royal system was preserved. What had once been merely a symbolic institution, the royal family gradually took on more political roles as politicians engaged in meaningless formalities and factions bickered over trivial matters. Now they wielded significant power.
But it has nothing to do with me. Whether they capture the nation's hearts on the screen, whether they inspire devotion or indulge in greed, I still have to walk my own road.
"Miss—are you buying something or not?" the man says, watching me.
Without thinking, I pick up a single apple.
"This, please," I manage, my voice rough from disuse.
Back home, the iron gate groans as I push it open. The temperature inside is no different from outside. I twist the stove knob again and again, but the flame won't catch, and when my eyes land on the overdue gas and electricity bills, my hands go still.
In the corner sits a large gift box I have kept hidden away. Inside lies a thick white cashmere coat, along with a handwritten card that reads, "Sunmi—may you be able to protect your warmth."
I don't want to wear it—not yet—but I pull it on anyway, the gift from the man I call the "Tall Man."
When I turned seventeen, my mother fled the house because she couldn't endure my father's violence any longer. That was when it started—mysterious gifts appearing at our door with a card signed "Dior Sunmi," proof they were meant for me. I opened them without hesitation: novels, hats, dresses… When I was starving, he even left food packages. I never knew who he was.
Without realizing it, I began waiting for his gifts, longing for them. A few times my father discovered them, beat me until my mouth split, accused me of selling myself, and handed everything over to his girlfriend. But this one box I managed to hide, guarding it like a secret. The small hope and expectation for tomorrow that this person gave me—I called him the Tall Man.
I wipe an apple and take a bite, then flip through a newspaper in my other hand. Tomorrow, I absolutely had to find work. I had to earn money to survive. The Tall Man's gifts had become less frequent. I couldn't rely on him forever.
The night has grown dark. I spread several blankets on the cold floor, relying on the moonlight shining through the window. Me, wrapped in a white cashmere coat that doesn't match the surroundings at all, I curl into a fetal position and lie down. The cold seeping through the cracks stings the tip of my nose. Perhaps I won't survive the cold tonight. I breathe warmth into my frozen hands, but it does nothing. I fall asleep clutching the cashmere coat the Tall Man gave me as if it were my last lifeline.
May I be able to protect my warmth.
Knock. Knock.
At someone's knock, I open my eyes. Since my eyes are open, I must have survived another night.
"Is anyone there?"
A hoarse woman's voice rings out, followed by another knock. I walk toward the front door, holding my frozen cheeks. There's only one reason someone would knock on my door—a gift from the Tall Man!
I open the door to find not a delivery person, but a woman I've never seen before. A long coat extends to her feet, a small purple wool hat sits on her head, and she wears leather gloves decorated with rabbit fur. Seeing that the house is as cold as outside, she blows warm breath from her mouth.
"Are you Sunmi?"
Her mouth is so frozen that her pronunciation slurs. Seeing her nose running, I feel more pity than caution, so I let her inside.
Fortunately, I have chamomile tea the Tall Man sent me, so I serve it to her.
"Thank you," she says.
Why has she come to our house? To this shabby shack clinging to the foot of a mountain at the far end of the neighborhood?
"But what brings you all the way here?"
"Oh, I'm sorry for introducing myself so late. I'm Jo Misook, the Royal Personnel Director. I oversee all personnel operations for the entire royal family, including palace duties."
The Royal Personnel Director? Why would such a high-ranking person come to see me? I can't shake the suspicion that I might be lured into something and disappear without a trace.
"Haha. Your eyes are full of suspicion. That's understandable. Direct visits like mine are extremely rare," she says with an easy smile.
She hands me a business card embossed with gold foil. It confirms her introduction, and on the back, the royal seal is embossed.
"What I'm saying is that you've been recommended to work at our royal family."
"What? … That can't be right. I've never received or submitted a recommendation."
The woman pulls something out again and unfolds it. It bears the royal seal clearly printed on it, contains information about the recommendation, and even has my name, address, and date of birth.
"Since you don't have a phone, I had no choice but to find you in person. When someone is recommended, I have to meet them directly and conduct an interview."
"So… are you interviewing me right now?"
"Ah, think of the interview as merely a formality."
"But who recommended me?"
At my question, the woman smiles mysteriously. After finishing a cup of chamomile tea—the only source of warmth in this cold room—she speaks.
"Where did you get that coat?"
Her eyes seem to suggest: That expensive coat looks completely out of place on you. She speaks with business-like courtesy but with unmistakably condescending undertones.
"Oh, this? I received it as a gift."
"It looks good on you. I was just asking," she says, the flattery hollow and transparent.
Since I have no expectations of people anyway, I brush it off.
"The person who recommended you preferred not to reveal their identity. But what does that matter? Everyone knows how desperate people are to get in here. It's not easy without connections or qualifications, but you're blessed, Sunmi."
"…"
"Anyway, you won't enter the palace right away. You'll go through about three months of probation and enter around spring next year."
Without having decided anything yet, she speaks as if I'll obviously go in and lists the curriculum repeatedly.
After she leaves, I read the card from the Tall Man again.
"May you be able to protect your warmth."
As I set down the card, my gaze shifts to the recommendation letter beside it.
Is it you? As always, if this gift I've been waiting for is what you've sent, I gratefully accept it.
That's how I endured the harsh winter with the pure white coat the Tall Man had given me.
During the three-month probation period, I worked more conscientiously than anyone else. On the bus ride home one evening, a television screen shows the Crown Prince and the King sitting side by side in a meeting. The King quietly explains while pointing at documents with his pen, and Crown Prince Gowon nods seriously beside him.
The image of House Koh commands over 80% support from the people. Crown Prince Gowon, in particular, has garnered admiration for his activism and distinctive behavior—unprecedented for the royal family—captivating people across gender and age groups.
"Crown Prince Gowon's face is insane today too. Really sexy," a female student behind me whispers.
"I want to enter the palace. Actually, I want to marry the Crown Prince," her friend sighs.
"Why would the Crown Prince accept someone like you?"
"The Crown Prince works so hard for the socially disadvantaged. He wouldn't speak rudely like you. Even though his outward appearance is that of a cold, handsome man, his heart is warm."
"You never know. That's all for broadcast."
"I believe. Crown Prince Gowon is mine."
"Hey, I didn't say I dislike him either."
The conversation between the female students is cute and makes me envious. My gaze remains fixed on the screen showing Crown Prince Gowon.
He is handsome. Whether his actions are genuine or not doesn't matter to me. He's from a different world than mine anyway. I wouldn't have any reason to see him in the palace.
But cruel fate had other plans.
The moment I enter the palace, I discover one of the royal family's secrets.
And when I find myself in his private study, Crown Prince Gowon looks down at me, his jawline gradually hardening. Though he doesn't move an inch, the air around him distinctly trembles. His black eyes narrow dangerously, and a killing intent flashes as clearly as a Doberman sensing a threat.
"What are you doing here?" he asks, his voice low and deadly.