The rain fell in sheets, a relentless pounding against the windows of Ji-hoon's apartment. The sound was deafening, yet somehow it couldn't drown out the chaos in his mind. He sat in his darkened living room, staring at the cracked screen of his phone. A message flashed on the screen: Seol-ah will meet you in an hour.
He hadn't heard from her in months, not since that night—the night that changed everything. The night his mother died. He had tried to bury it, tried to drown out the memories that gnawed at him, but it had always lingered like an echo in his mind, the memory of her voice, her touch, and the way she had been taken from him. And now, Seol-ah was the only one who could fill in the pieces he'd been missing, the pieces of a past he couldn't fully remember but knew he needed to confront.
He stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. His mind raced, the storm outside mirroring the turmoil inside him. Every step felt heavy as he moved toward the door, each breath shallow as though something was closing in on him. But he had to go. He had no choice. Seol-ah was his only lead, the only one who could tell him the truth, no matter how much it hurt.
The elevator ride down was long and suffocating. Each floor that passed felt like a countdown, a reminder that the meeting with Seol-ah was inevitable. Ji-hoon wasn't ready. He knew that. But the truth had always been a sharp-edged knife, something he had no choice but to grab. Every moment he had spent in denial was over now. There was no escaping it.
As the elevator doors opened, Ji-hoon stepped out into the quiet lobby, the buzz of city life muted by the weight of the storm outside. The rain pelted the windows of the building, but inside, everything felt too still. Too quiet.
He crossed the lobby without a word to the receptionist, heading straight for the door that led to the parking lot. There, waiting for him by a sleek black car, was Seol-ah. She was dressed in black, as always, her face hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat. He could barely see her eyes, but he knew she was watching him. Watching him with the same cold detachment she had worn since the day they met.
Seol-ah's eyes flicked toward him as he approached. She didn't speak at first, but the tension between them was palpable. She had always been like that—unpredictable, calm in the face of chaos, and yet, there was something in her gaze that betrayed her. She knew more than she was letting on. He had always known that, deep down.
"You're late," she said flatly, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
Ji-hoon didn't respond. He didn't have the energy to argue with her. Instead, he just nodded and climbed into the car. The rain had started to slow, but it still clung to the windows, blurring the view as the car drove through the streets.
The journey was silent, each passing moment heavy with unspoken words. Ji-hoon's mind raced, his thoughts flickering between his mother's death, the pieces of his past that still eluded him, and the terrible reality of what he had learned about Siwan. About how Siwan had been involved. How his mother had paid the price for him.
The truth burned in his chest, a constant reminder of what he had lost. And yet, the more he learned, the more he understood the sacrifices she had made. She had tried to protect him, even in death. And now, all he had left were these broken fragments of memory, pieces scattered across time, each one leading him closer to the truth.
Seol-ah's voice interrupted his thoughts. "You don't look surprised. Did you already know?"
Ji-hoon didn't answer right away. He just stared out the window, watching the rain fall in sheets. The city had become a blur, everything a hazy mix of lights and shadows.
"Did you know what happened?" he finally asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Seol-ah didn't answer immediately. For a moment, it seemed as though she was deciding whether or not to speak. When she did, her words were slow, deliberate. "You think you know everything? You think you know what happened that night?"
"I know Siwan was involved. I know my mother died to protect me. But there's something I'm missing," Ji-hoon said, his voice tight with frustration. "There's more to this, isn't there?"
Seol-ah's gaze shifted toward him, and for the first time, there was a flicker of something in her eyes. Regret, maybe. Or fear. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the same coldness that had always marked her.
"The night your mother died was no accident," she said softly. "But it wasn't Siwan who killed her."
Ji-hoon's breath caught in his throat. He had always believed it was Siwan. He had always thought the man's betrayal was the source of all his pain. But now, Seol-ah was telling him something different. Something he wasn't sure he could handle.
"Then who?" he asked, his voice shaky.
Seol-ah sighed, her fingers tracing the edge of the seat. She didn't answer immediately, as if weighing the consequences of speaking the truth. Finally, she looked at him, her expression unreadable.
"It was never Siwan who killed her," she repeated. "It was someone else. Someone even closer to you than you realize."
Ji-hoon's mind whirled. His heart raced. The room seemed to close in on him, the walls pressing against his chest.
"Who?" he demanded, his voice breaking. "Who the hell are you talking about?"
Seol-ah didn't flinch. She was calm, too calm for his liking.
"It was your father."
The words hit him like a physical blow. His father. The man he had never known, the man who had been nothing more than a name in his mother's diaries. The man whose existence had always been a mystery. And now, Seol-ah was telling him that his father had been the one to orchestrate his mother's death. The realization made his stomach churn, his entire body trembling with a mixture of shock, anger, and disbelief.
"No," Ji-hoon whispered, his voice barely audible. "No, it can't be. My father…"
"He was the one who betrayed her," Seol-ah continued, her tone flat. "He didn't want her to have you. Not because of love. Not because he cared. But because you were a threat to his empire."
Ji-hoon's mind reeled. He could barely process her words, the weight of them pressing down on him like a vice.
"This… this isn't possible," he said, shaking his head. "You're lying. You have to be lying."
But Seol-ah's expression remained unchanged. "It's the truth, Ji-hoon. Your mother tried to protect you. She knew the danger, and she did everything she could to keep you safe. But your father—he wanted control. He wanted power. And you were just another obstacle in his way."
Ji-hoon's hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white. The anger was rising within him, fierce and uncontrollable. He had known that his life had been shaped by tragedy, but to learn that the very man who had been a ghost in his life was the cause of his mother's death—it was too much to bear.
But as much as he wanted to scream, to shout at Seol-ah for her role in this revelation, something inside him snapped. The pain was overwhelming. He felt as though he were drowning, as if his entire world was slipping away from him.
"I'm sorry," Seol-ah whispered, her voice softer now. "But you needed to know. You needed to understand what really happened."
Ji-hoon closed his eyes, tears spilling down his cheeks. He had spent so long searching for the truth, searching for answers, but now that he had them, it felt like too much. It felt like the weight of the world was crushing him.
"I didn't want to know," he muttered, his voice thick with emotion. "I didn't want to know any of this."
Seol-ah didn't say anything. She didn't need to. There was nothing more to say. The truth had been laid bare, and now Ji-hoon was left with the pieces—fragments of a shattered past, pieces of a memory that would never be whole again.
The car slowed to a stop, the soft hiss of the rain the only sound as they waited in silence.
"Get out," Seol-ah said, her voice as cold as ever. "You're not going to find peace in the past, Ji-hoon. The only way forward is to let go."
But Ji-hoon didn't respond. He couldn't. There was no more forward. Not anymore.
He stepped out of the car, the rain soaking through his clothes, the tears mixing with the raindrops on his face. He didn't know where to go. Didn't know what to do. All he knew was that the past was a chain wrapped around his neck, and it was strangling him.
Seol-ah's car drove away, leaving him standing alone in the storm, the broken pieces of his life scattered at his feet.
And for the first time, Ji-hoon didn't know if he could ever put them back together.
The rain didn't stop, and neither did the memories. They clung to Ji-hoon like the damp air, wrapping themselves around him, pulling him deeper into the dark corners of his mind where the truth had been buried. The weight of Seol-ah's revelation—his father's betrayal—pressed against his chest, threatening to crush him. Every breath felt like a battle.
He stood in the middle of the street, his soaked clothes clinging to his skin, but it wasn't the cold that shook him. It was the fact that his entire world had been a lie. His father, a man he had never known, had been the architect of his mother's death. And now, as Ji-hoon stood there, he felt utterly, helplessly alone.
His fingers curled into fists at his sides, the sting of the rain against his face barely registering. He had always been blind, but this revelation made him feel more blind than ever. He had spent his entire life piecing together fragments of a life he couldn't remember. But now, the pieces were no longer enough. They didn't add up. And he couldn't escape the suffocating reality of the past that had haunted him for so long.
He turned his head toward the sound of a distant car passing by, the vibrations in the pavement under his feet telling him it was moving quickly. But it was a sound that was as familiar to him as his own heartbeat. He knew the streets. He knew the rhythm of the world around him, even if he couldn't see it. But now, all of it felt like a cruel joke.
He didn't know what to do next. The thought of confronting his father, the man who had orchestrated his mother's murder, filled him with a rage so intense he could barely breathe. But how could he confront a ghost? A man who had never been part of his life. How could he even begin to understand what it meant to be betrayed by the very person who should have protected him?
His mind spun, his thoughts a blur of rage, confusion, and pain. He felt the familiar pull of the piano—a constant in his life—and for the first time in days, he longed to touch the keys. Maybe, just maybe, the music would help him make sense of everything. Maybe it would drown out the thoughts that were suffocating him.
He turned away from the street and walked toward his apartment, each step slow and deliberate, but the anger in him burned like fire. His hands were shaking, and the sound of his footsteps seemed to echo in his ears, deafening him. He wasn't sure how much longer he could carry the weight of the truth.
The elevator ride back up to his apartment felt endless. His fingers clenched the railing as the elevator jerked its way upward. He felt disoriented, like the world had tilted on its axis, and he was struggling to keep his balance.
When the elevator doors opened, he stumbled out into the hallway. The apartment felt empty. Cold. He could sense the stillness, like the entire building had been holding its breath.
He fumbled for the keys in his pocket, the metal cool against his fingers as he unlocked the door. The familiar scent of his apartment—dust, stale air, the faint smell of pine from his cleaning supplies—hit him. But even the comfort of his own space couldn't calm the storm raging inside him.
He walked toward the living room, but the moment he passed the piano, his body seemed to move on its own. His hands found the keys, and he sat down, his fingers brushing against the familiar, smooth surface. The piano was always there for him, a silent companion that never judged, never lied.
But tonight, it felt different.
His fingers hovered over the keys for a moment, the silence between them stretching long enough to become unbearable. Then, he played. A single note. One that seemed to echo through the room, cutting through the tension in his chest. He closed his eyes as he played, his fingers moving of their own accord, the melody flowing out of him like a release. But even as the music filled the room, it couldn't drown out the thoughts in his mind. It couldn't erase the burning anger that consumed him.
His mother's face appeared in his mind, her image as vivid as if she were standing before him. He saw her smile, the warmth in her eyes. The way she had always been there, steady and protective. And then, the image shifted, replaced by the cold, lifeless look of her in the hospital bed. The pain was like a physical blow, and for a moment, Ji-hoon stopped playing, his hands trembling over the keys.
But he couldn't stop now.
His fingers moved again, faster this time, the music tumbling out of him in jagged bursts, as if the piano was the only thing that could channel the overwhelming emotions inside him. The melody shifted, growing darker, more frantic, a reflection of the chaos inside him. He could hear the pounding of his own heart, matching the rhythm of the music, and for a brief, fleeting moment, he felt in control. He wasn't blind. He wasn't weak. He wasn't helpless.
But then the memory came again, the image of his mother, and with it came the overwhelming sense of loss. The note he played became dissonant, a sharp, painful sound that echoed through the apartment. His hands fell from the keys, and he gripped the edges of the piano bench, his body shaking as the anger and sorrow collided inside him.
He wanted to scream. To break everything in sight. But instead, all he could do was sit there, surrounded by the remnants of a past that refused to let go. His fingers dug into the wood of the piano, the sharp edges of the keys pressing into his palms as he breathed through the pain. He could feel it now, a deep, searing rage that pushed him to the edge of control.
He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor, and staggered back from the piano. The room seemed to close in on him, the walls shrinking as if the very space was rejecting him. His breath was shallow, his chest tight with emotion, and for the first time in a long while, Ji-hoon didn't know what to do with himself. He was lost.
He stumbled to the window, his hands reaching for the edge, and he stood there, staring out into the night. The rain had stopped, but the world still felt heavy. It was as if the weight of everything he had learned—the betrayal, the pain, the loss—was pressing against him, threatening to swallow him whole.
He took a deep breath, his blind eyes staring into the dark void beyond the window. He didn't know what to do next. He didn't know how to keep moving forward. But one thing was clear: he would never be the same. The past had torn him apart, and the truth had shattered everything he thought he knew.
And as he stood there, alone in the silence of his apartment, Ji-hoon realized that maybe—just maybe—he wasn't meant to find peace. Maybe the only way forward was to burn the pieces of his past, just like he had burned the place where it all began.
But the fire was coming. And this time, he wouldn't be able to stop it.