There is no screaming. No desperate cries for help. No rattling of chains or pounding of fists against locked doors.

The missing do not fight.

They do not resist.

Because they do not know they are missing.

They are quiet.

Because they have forgotten they were ever someone else.

The house is warm. Comfortable, even. The scent of freshly cooked rice lingers in the air, clinging to the wooden beams, seeping into the very walls. The curtains are drawn, blocking out the world beyond. Soft light spills across the floors, gliding over the furniture. The home is meticulously clean, lived in but not cluttered. It is a place that breathes familiarity, security.

A woman sits by the window, brushing her hair. Long, dark strands, still thick despite the passage of time. Each stroke of the comb is slow, methodical. A habit formed long ago, one that doesn't feel learned but instead ingrained.

She hums as she brushes, the tune soft, lilting.

Kkogkkog sumeora, meolikarag boila.

She does not know where she learned the song.

She does not know why it lingers on her tongue, why it feels natural in her mouth.

The comb pauses for a moment as she stares at her reflection in the glass.

There is something there.

A thought, fleeting. A name? A whisper of a name?

She frowns, tilting her head, watching as the light catches the edge of the mirror, distorting her face just slightly.

And then—

It is gone.

Her face is the same. The same one she has always had. The same one she has woken up to every morning for years.

Hasn't it?

The uncertainty lasts only a second before her expression smooths again. The hesitation fades. The thought, whatever it was, slips into the depths of her mind, swallowed by something larger, something deeper.

She sets the comb down and rises, smoothing out the fabric of her dress. She has things to do. A home to tend to. A life to live.

She does not think about the name she no longer remembers.

She does not think about how long she has been here.

She does not think at all.

"Jihwan-ah, eat slower. You're going to choke."

The voice is warm, patient. A mother's voice.

The boy—young man, really, but still with the roundness of youth—pauses, lowering his spoon. He swallows, blinking up at the woman across from him. She smiles at him, setting another dish on the table, hands moving with the gentle precision of someone who has done this a thousand times before.

"I made your favorite today."

He smiles back. "Eomma, gomawo-yo." (Thank you, Mom/Mum)

The words come easily. Naturally.

They always have.

He picks up his spoon again, shoveling another bite of food into his mouth.

He does not remember ever eating anything else.

He does not remember ever living anywhere else.

There are gaps, of course. Moments where he tries to recall the past. Where flashes of something unfamiliar flicker in the corners of his mind.

A university?

A girlfriend?

A life that wasn't this?

But then his mother hums, softly, as she moves around the kitchen. The same song she always sings.

Kkogkkog sumeora, meoli karag boila.

And just like that, the questions slip away.

They do not matter.

They never did.

He was lost once.

But his mother saved him.

Didn't she?

The little girl sits cross-legged on the floor, clutching a worn-out stuffed rabbit. The fur is matted, one of the ears barely hanging on by a thread.

She doesn't know where she got it.

She just knows it's hers.

A woman kneels beside her, brushing stray strands of hair from her face.

"Are you happy, Minseo?" she asks gently.

The girl nods, gripping the rabbit tighter.

The woman smiles. "Good."

The girl opens her mouth. Then closes it. A hesitation.

Something about her name feels… strange.

Wrong.

Like she's heard another one before.

But that's silly.

She is Minseo.

She has always been Minseo.

Hasn't she?

She glances at the woman beside her, studying her face.

Something flickers in her small chest.

Fear?

No. That's wrong.

She isn't afraid.

She loves her mother.

She loves her home.

She loves the family that saved her.

Doesn't she?

Her grip loosens on the rabbit.

Just a little.

The couple moves through the home, silent as shadows, their presence lingering in every corner.

Their voices are gentle. Their smiles are warm.

They do not shout. They do not raise their hands in anger.

And yet—

Their presence is suffocating.

Like the walls themselves bend under their will.

Min-jae sits in his chair, sipping his tea. "Yeobo, did you finish tidying up?"

Hye-won hums, setting a freshly folded blanket over the back of the couch. "Of course. Everything is exactly as it should be."

A pause.

She glances toward the closed door at the end of the hall.

Min-jae follows her gaze.

"It's been a while, hasn't it?"

Hye-won's fingers tighten slightly on the fabric in her hands. Then—she exhales, her smile unwavering.

"It has."

There is no need to elaborate.

They both understand.

Some of them forget too quickly.

Some of them do not forget fast enough.

The ones who forget are easy.

The ones who remember…

Min-jae sighs, setting his cup down with a quiet clink.

"They always take the longest to break."

There are others.

Some young. Some old.

Some who have been here for decades.

Some who only arrived a year ago.

Some who believe they were saved.

Some who still resist, still hold onto fragments of a past they do not remember.

Some who have already let go.

None of them scream.

None of them fight.

Because there is no fight left in them.

Only blank faces.

Only names that do not belong to them.

Only the lull of a song that plays in the back of their minds.

Kkogkkog sumeora, meoli karag boila.

Sleep, little one, hide away.

I might see your hair.

The faces that fade.

The voices that quiet.

The people who were never supposed to exist at all.