Seo Yoon steps outside, the morning air crisp against her skin. The world around her moves with routine indifference—horns blaring, commuters brushing past one another, coffee cups clutched in half-asleep hands. The city is awake, but it feels distant. Muffled. Like she’s watching it through a pane of glass.

Her fingers tighten around the strap of her bag as she walks. The night lingers in her bones, unwelcome and cold. She tells herself it was just a dream. A strange, lingering dream. But the discomfort clings to her, curling at the edges of her thoughts like a shadow she can’t shake.

She tries to push it away. Stick to routine. Routine is safe.

Coffee. Work. Home. Sleep. Repeat.

As long as she follows the pattern, nothing can seep through the cracks.

But then, she sees him.

A man stands at the street corner, just beyond the entrance to the subway. He holds a sign high above his head, the cardboard bent and weathered from exposure. His clothes are slightly disheveled, his dark hair damp from the misty air. But it’s his hands that catch her attention first.

They’re shaking.

Not from the cold, but from something deeper.

Seo Yoon’s steps falter, but she doesn’t stop. She shouldn’t stop.

People pass him without a glance. A few look, hesitate for half a second, then turn away. No one wants to engage. No one wants to acknowledge him.

But Seo Yoon does.

She doesn’t know why.

Maybe it’s the way he stands—rigid yet exhausted, as if he’s been holding that sign for years and can’t put it down. Maybe it’s the way his shoulders droop just slightly, as if the weight of what he carries is too much for one man alone.

Or maybe—maybe it’s the words on the sign itself.

MY SON DID NOT RUN AWAY. MY SON WAS TAKEN.

The grip on her bag tightens.

Her gaze drops to the photograph taped beneath the words. A boy, young, his expression frozen in time.

Jung Soo-min.

Missing for nineteen years.

Seo Yoon swallows hard.

She doesn’t know this child.

But the sight of his face makes something in her chest tighten. A dull, pressing ache. A pressure at the back of her skull, like the ghost of a memory trying to claw its way forward.

A dream? A thought? A fragment of something she doesn’t understand?

She forces herself to look away.

Don’t get involved. Keep walking.

A whisper inside her urges her forward, urges her to disappear into the faceless crowd. To pretend she saw nothing.

But she doesn’t move.

Her feet remain planted to the ground, her breath uneven.

Her eyes lift—hesitant, uncertain—meeting the man’s gaze for the first time.

And for a moment, it feels like he is searching for her.

A shiver crawls up her spine. The thought is absurd.

But the weight in his stare unsettles her.

Like he knows something she doesn’t.

She turns abruptly, heart hammering. Distance. She needs distance.

Her steps quicken, weaving into the crowd. She needs to get away from him, away from that sign, away from the feeling gnawing at her insides.

She tells herself it’s not her problem.

She tells herself she will forget.

But as she blends into the moving bodies, the world around her shifts.

The sounds of the city dull—the chatter of commuters, the hum of car engines, the distant melody of a street musician’s guitar—all of it fades.

In its place—

A song.

Faint at first. Soft.

Familiar.

“Kkogkkog sumeora, meolikarag bolla.”

Seo Yoon’s breath stutters.

It’s not in her head. It’s real. Someone is singing.

She stops. Turns sharply, scanning the sea of people.

No one reacts.

No one even looks up.

The voice is small. Childlike.

But then—

Another voice joins in.

This one is different.

Lower. Rougher. Wrong.

A whisper, close—too close.

“Hide well…”

Seo Yoon’s skin prickles.

“I might see your hair.”

A shudder rips through her body.

She whirls around.

Nothing.

The crowd moves as normal, bodies brushing past her, strangers locked in their own little worlds.

No one is there.

But across the street—

Jung Hyun-seok is still watching her.

And his expression says—

he knows.

A Watchful Eye

The woman sets down her tea with careful precision.

Steam curls from the porcelain cup, delicate, fleeting.

She watches the man from her window—the same man who stands there every day, shouting into the void.

Jung Hyun-seok.

Her lips press into a thin line.

“Pathetic,” she murmurs.

From across the room, the man scoffs. He leans against the doorway, arms crossed, gaze flickering toward the scene outside.

“He won’t stop,” he says.

The woman hums, tracing the rim of her cup. “Then we’ll make him.”

The man smirks, rolling his shoulders as he turns.

There’s work to do.

A Child Sings

A child sways slightly, feet tapping softly against the wooden floor.

Her voice is gentle, rhythmic, sweet.

She sings.

“Kkogkkog sumeora, meolikarag bolla.”

A man kneels before her, expression unreadable.

He listens. Watches.

The woman approaches, resting a hand on the girl’s head, smoothing down her hair.

A moment passes.

Then—

“Sing it again.”

The girl obeys.

The man smiles.

“Good girl.”